Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

To be fair,  Jongseong does not want to be here. 

And yet, he doesn’t even feel anything. Nothing is real nor constant at all — his surroundings blur in and out of focus,  the colors sifting through like an abstract painting as the wind threatens to knock him over on his own two feet. The fabric of his jeans rubs incessantly —  the material rough against his skin, making it sting, yet he doesn’t flinch. 

Nothing is real. He is not grounded at the moment, nor will he ever be — yet he lets it all happen. Jongseong is just a constant sway of movement, bones too fragile to hold himself up — the pearly whites cracked at the seams, threatening to unravel even at the slightest steps. He’s sure if he takes a sudden breath, all of his muscles — everything holding his weight — shall collapse from the sheer weight of it all. 

His hands began to twitch, the undercurrent of want forming in the pits of his stomach as he mindlessly gazes over the multitude of colors. His footing trembles a bit, his breath a struggle to inhale, and his mouth dries up.  He can’t do this.  He whispers to himself, eyes closing — giving himself a moment to get his shit together before he breathes in again. 

It’s been years since his last Games. Years since he stepped into the hell that destroyed him, made him into a monster, and spat him right back out. He was fourteen, then he wasn’t — he was something, then he wasn’t.  Wasn’t that something?

Nothing is real.  He whispers to himself, wrenching his eyes open — feeling the surroundings shift and blur once more as he breathes in once. 

His ears strain with effort — Jongseong’s brain registers that something is being said, yet the words blur with one another, and he just can’t understand anything at all. 

Which was fine. He thinks, eyeing the blur of bright colors in hopes of deciphering the escort’s outfit — Sakura, his brain supplements — her pink hair a horrible contrast against District 7’s usual browns.  It was loud, bright, and it hurt even to look at her — but Jongseong knew that once this was all over, she was going to remove all of the Decelis-approved colors and she could finally breathe. He would be happy for her, but then he wouldn’t be — because he would be too damn busy to breathe and get himself together enough so whoever his new set of tributes are wouldn’t choose to die the moment they— 

“Hong Eunchae!”

The world stills, the world sharpening in its focus once more so Jongseong could just take a startled breath.  District 7’s newest female tribute — he knows her.  The cold truth began to ring in his ears, eyes widening in both shock and agony. Eunchae was one of the kids who used to play over the old lumber factory near Victor’s Village. She was the only one who could actually go near his house, despite his…  well… er, lack of a sunny personality. He would always see her smile at him, eyes bright and shiny and oh, this is going to hurt, isn’t it?

Her eyes aren’t shining now. Jongseong woefully thinks, as he sees her release a strangled breath. The people around her whisper uselessly,  words dripping with the absolute unfairness yet there was still hope that spoke from the slightest smiles they began to wear.  

How is she going to survive this?

She’s seventeen, first of all — and she just started working, for fuck’s sake. She could barely hold an axe, so how the hell is he going even to teach her how to wield it to kill?

Every instinct in him screams — the nerves in his body yelling in his brain, the primal urge developed by his survival telling him the same thing. She’s going to die. It yells at him, pulling him harder by the seams, tearing his barely knitted heart apart.  Logistically, he knows that she has no chance to survive because no seventeen-year-old should shoulder the weight of the blade that struck down people — no seventeen-year-old should know the feeling of having the blood of many on their hands while struggling to survive. 

No one could get rid of it. 

Jongseong couldn’t even do it even if he tried.

I am so sorry.  He whispers, watching the girl slowly trek up the stage with her shoulders back and her eyes withholding tears.  It was evident that this kid was scared shitless, but Jongseong had to hand it to her because most of the tributes who stood here cried the moment they stepped foot onto the stage.  Well, Jongseong didn’t, but that’s different. He was too busy wrenching his hand away from — 

“Lee Heeseung!”

And then suddenly, everything stops.

He almost doubles over in shock —  the air getting punched out of his lungs so quick he actually felt nothing but actual pain. 

Jongseong could feel his heart hardening, turning into ice,  the organ stopping its beating — his blood turning to ice, his nerves frying itself alive.

Another breath. 

His heart breaks instantly. 

Jongseong is aware that there must be cameras that are watching his every movement — he could see the familiar red dot train itself on his figure, but he does not fucking care. His heart is broken, shattered beyond repair. His eyes are wide,  pupils dilated — shock freezing his whole soul and causing him to take a strangled breath.  

No, no, no no no no no. This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening. He must’ve heard wrong. Jongseong thinks, looking around desperately as nails dig in further on his skin.  No.  It can’t be him; it couldn’t.  Not him. Not when he’s already standing here, holding up the burden, all toxic and ugly. Not him, when he did everything to make sure it wasn’t.

His eyes struggle to focus — everything blurs and blurs and blurs.  This isn’t real.  This can’t be real. This is unfair. This is so unfair. What was the point of it all, then? He thinks to himself, a whimper escaping his lips as he can feel his feet trembling under the crushing weight of everything of it all. 

Flashes of repressed memories began to overwhelm him — the striking clarity of the past stabbing him in the gut as he strained not to double over from the pain.  

He was fourteen. The air was hot and sticky, the smell of pine making him dizzy while the lack of sleep crawled in his pearly white bones. 

Inhale. 

There was a name being called and it wasn’t his, because his last name didn’t start with an L, but here he was trembling anyway. 

Inhale. 

Struggling not to break in the middle of the other children, hands in his pockets as tears began to flow as he watched his best friend walk away from him for the first time. 

Inhale. 

A decision made instantly, the world crashing down on his shoulders, his mouth forming the words he shouldn’t have said. A death sentence signed, a key turning a lock. 

Acceptance made known, a tipping point he reached.

Inhale.

It was a fourteen-year-old boy hiding his shaking fists in his pockets and ignoring the indignant cries of the elder. It was a resolve falling apart but coming back together again, steely eyes hardening once more as he accepted his fate. 

This is unfair. 

This is unfair because Jongseong accepted it. He threw himself willingly to this, knowing the horrors he would face, all because Lee Heeseung needed to live. Not Jongseong, not anyone else. Heeseung needs to live. 

He needed to live because Jongseong needed him.  He needs to because Heeseung deserves to be separated from the blood, the pain, and the sacrifice. No one ever tells anyone this, not even the Victors themselves admit this, but there is something about standing on this stage that makes you feel like falling down a steady incline — a free fall towards the death celebrated, not a death that has been mourned.

No one ever tells you this, but something in you just dies the moment your name is called. 

Heeseung’s name has already been called twice. Jongseong refuses to let him die a third time.

But nine years later, it's happening again. This time, Jongseong can’t save him. This time, Jongseong could only watch,  feeling nothing but everything at once,  yet knowing that this might as well be the last time he would ever feel at all.

But how can he? There is a seventeen-year-old right in front of him, hands shaking with absolute fear.  Who could blame her? 

There was a loud collective gasp somewhere, an older brother’s cry of fear.   Who could blame them?

Everyone knows who Heeseung is to Jongseong and who Jongseong is to Heeseung. Everyone knows the us that they are and the us they could have been. This was no secret, after all.  Jongseong has already died for Heeseung far too many times for them not to know the truth.

That ugly, realistic, and yet beautiful truth.  Those three words, eight letters, a sentence that he will never get to say. Not now, not ever. Because how could he? 

This was a chance lost,  fleeting through Jongseong’s fingers like grains falling back to the sand. It is fitting in a poetic sense, a desperation that clung towards the darkness Jongseong knows all too well. 

He had always struggled with the concept of time after all — and he had always been too late.

How could he save him at the cost of a life? 

How could he live at the cost of their lives?

How could Jongseong love him, when all Heeseung needs to do now is to survive?

How could Jongseong feel, when it was this love that caused it to happen in the first place?

Heeseung has not been breathing for the past thirty minutes. 

He doubts he ever will. 

“Heeseung.” His brother, Heedo, muttered softly  —his voice the softest he could ever muster, eyes so woefully sad as Heeseung blinks back to existence.  His hands are cradling his cheeks, Heeseung realizes, the sensation so undoubtedly familiar that it almost causes him to break down.

Almost.

“Heedo.” The younger boy finally croaks out, eyes dry yet his voice cracks — feeling more and more like how his heart has been, twisting on itself tighter and tighter until he’s unsure how he could even feel nothing but pain. 

His mother rushes forward afterwards, hands grasping his while her eyes search his face. An exhale next, then her lips began to move.  Heeseung doesn’t understand it at first, content with just looking at his family. 

His mother is small, yet her eyes have never changed its determination ever since. She had rough hands, born from the rough wooden axe she wielded until she couldn’t. She couldn’t now,  because of an old lumber accident that caused her hands to completely tremble when she held something too long. 

This is why, when it happened, Heeseung took upon himself to learn the ways she did and do the things she couldn’t anymore. This was a done deal. She could relax now, since he picked up the slack. Gone are the days that she would force herself to do something so that they could survive. It was Heeseung’s turn now, because Heedo couldn’t, because Heedo is—

A strangled gasp escapes Heeseung as he finally realizes the cold truth. His eyes flicker from his mother to his older brother — the boy he looked up to, the boy who he wanted nothing more to grow up with.  

But he couldn’t. He knows he couldn’t. 

Why?

There is a ring on Heedo’s finger. 

That’s why.

There is a ring on Heedo’s finger, and it wouldn’t matter if they grew old together or not.  Heeseung will not, and Heedo will. That’s their lives now, always and ever will be now.  Whatever Heeseung wanted doesn’t matter anymore, because this will be the last time. 

How could he live after this? 

It doesn’t matter if its nearly his last year in the Reaping, it doesn’t matter if it was his first. For all he knows, this is the last time he would ever touch his family ever again. 

Two names called, a decision made. His throat burns with the effort to stay quiet, yet he does. Heeseung takes the moment to look at Heedo’s eyes and give him a small smile. 

His mother catches it.

“Listen to me, Heeseung. Please.” She begs, making her youngest son glance at her to blink in surprise. She’s falling apart. “Don’t look at us like that, do you hear me? You are coming home. You can win. You can survive.” His mother whispers, speaking the words like she knows — and she does, doesn’t she? 

His best friend survived, and he was fourteen. Jongseong’s first year in the Reaping was his last, because he came in the Games and came out again alive.

(Maybe not alive, but Jongseong did survive. That’s more he could ever asks for). 

Maybe Heeseung could do what Jongseong did. He was supposed to, after all, since it was his name that was called. Maybe he did have what it takes to get out of the Games triumphantly.  Maybe he could see them all again. 

But then again,  Lee Heeseung is twenty-three years old. There is a seventeen year old somewhere around this floor, probably shaking in all the ways she could be shaken, and Heeseung is just expected to what… let her die?

Heedoknows him too well at this point. Older brothers always do, even if you didn’t want him to. Hesitatingly, Heeseung stares at his older brother and sees the realization dawn onto him like an axe piercing through the hardest of wood.

“No.” Heedo whispers, voice trembling in fear and indignation and hurt and agony yet Heeseung doesn’t say a word.

He knows that nothing could help.

So he smiles, teeth shining and a little bit crooked, letting his family see the little light he has left.

Heeseung knows it isn’t enough. It will never be enough, but then again, this is the only thing he could give. 

It’s something, but it will never be enough.

It never was.

Heedo is kneeling.

“Jongseong, please.” Heeseung’s older brother begs — knees on the cold floor, scarred hands grasping the tail of his shirt.  His mother was grasping his hand, tears streaming on her cheeks in sync with how Heedo’s lips quivered with every breath. “Please. I can’t— I can’t lose him. Please.” 

Besides him, Heeseung’s mother took a shaky breath. Her eyes lock with Jongseong’s, and oh, everything hurts. “I have never asked for anything from you, even when you were a small child. I supported you and I will always do, no matter what, but Jongseong—…” The woman’s voice cracks at the end of name, her pain flowing through the crevices to fill the aching ocean of both hurt and regret. 

This is a mother, begging on her knees, a catastrophe in the making.  This is a tragedy blooming, a story reaching its pinnacle only to crash down seamlessly at the end. No mother should watch her youngest fight and bleed for survival, no brother should watch his younger brother do the unspeakable — no family should watch one of their own tear themselves apart.

This is why Jongseong volunteered in the first place. Because Heeseung had a family and Decelis should have never touched them — but they did, so here they are anyway. 

Breaking, because that’s the only thing he could ever do.

Jongseong doesn’t speak. Doesn’t form the words. Cowardice pulls him downward, a chain of regret tightening around his throat while his tongue bleeds the truth his mind could never accept.

You see, it’s been nine years — he had been a mentor for nearly nine years, and yet he never brought someone home.  Did you think that this was the first time a family begged him to save their children? No, it wasn’t — Jongseong could tell you what they said, what they promised him in return, but then it wouldn’t matter anyway.

Their children came home in boxes.

He never saw the families again. 

This is why, even if he wanted to, Jongseong couldn’t say anything. This is why, even if he didn’t want to, he lets the Peacekeepers pull the two away from him without a single protest.

I’m sorry. He whispers to the wind, back resting against the wall as he listened to Heeseung’s quiet voice.  Jongseong knows that Eunchae is at the other side of the hall, he could see her family being escorted out — God, she had siblings — and yet he couldn’t bring himself to move. 

Even if he could hear the cries of the girl he cared about, a sob wrenching out of the boy he loves, he doesn’t move. 

He stays right there, wishing for a life that’ll make him move otherwise. He wishes for a life where he could be alive — but then again, hope was nothing more than a helpless feeling. He doesn’t deserve to live, not right after this.

Jongseong stays there, and wishes — no, hopes — for nothing more than to die.

But he doesn’t.

Chapter Text

Jongseong hasn’t looked at Heeseung once.

It’s driving him mad. 

Well, okay, listen. It's not that Jongseong doesn’t want to — God only knows how much he wants to pull the elder to his chest and never let go — but he can barely even look at Heeseung without his bones sagging under the sheer weight of it all. He knows , alright? He knows more intimately than most that time fades quicker than ever, most especially when there’s no saying if there will be another chance.  Time was something no one could ever have, not really, because it was something that had them. Jongseong could blink now and open his eyes later to see Heeseung already dead. 

He just can’t, okay?

How the hell is he supposed to do this? To look at the boy,  the sole reason why he’s here in the first place — all shattered, tattered, and ugly — the reason why he’s still breathing? How can he look at him and see all the ways he had failed because the point of all of this was to keep him safe ? 

All Jongseong ever wanted was to come home each year to Heeseung — because that boy is warmth personified, that boy is safety embodied, and that boy is the reason why Jongseong is still alive. 

So tell him, how is he supposed to do this? How is he supposed to look at him and convince himself that he has what it takes to keep the sun burning, to keep the stars shining, and to keep Heeseung from dying ?

And it’s not that Heeseung wants to look at him either. Every time Jongseong managed to pull himself together and look at him, the elder boy always had his eyes fixed on Eunchae instead.  It should be an endearing sight to witness, Jongseong thinks. Heeseung had attached himself to the seventeen-year-old girl and practically became her older brother — but with every small smile, with every gentle laugh, and every gentle caress… Heeseung just further cements the idea in Jongseong’s head. The one that was formed immediately when he locked eyes with the elder after the Reaping.  It sinks in his stomach, falling like a pebble down a well — the bitter cold truth.  Jongseong knows Heeseung more than most, and better than the rest. He just knows , alright? He knows the truth unlike no other and… well— 

Jongseong just… 

He just can’t handle it, okay?

It’s just so unfair, he thinks — glancing at the clock on the wall, the train’s engine a constant rumble underneath his feet. His legs are crossed, one over the other, hand holding a glass of whiskey he managed to snag off the mobile bar.  He’s shaking internally, his muscles screaming with effort because his heart is beating far too fast for him to function, yet his face remains impassive. Cold, even, a true Victor in the looks, yet he just can’t breathe he can’t do this he can’t do this he can’t do this — 

There is a shift in the air that makes Jongseong pause, his eyes narrow, and his hands tighten.  It’s the survival instinct after all these years,  always the rope that he clings onto, always the fire in his veins that kept him alive outside of the arena. It is how he holds himself still, his mind quietly yet quickly running through the multiple possibilities with their increasing potentialities until his nose snags on a familiar scent. 

Rosewood and spices.   This makes him exhale — the air rushing out of his lungs as his fingers unclenched.  His back relaxes on the couch now, plush velvet caressing his spine while his eyes linger on her figure.  

Red hair and porcelain skin .  She moves like a wisp of smoke, a graceful wide-eyed beauty, and sits beside him.  A frown is already on her features, and Jongseong just shrugs before she even gets to speak. “Don’t even start.” He mutters, adding a small eye roll as she groans with the same tone that never failed to make him smile. 

“You know why.” He mutters lowly afterwards, smile fading as he swirls the glass of whiskey — the liquid circling itself as she gently places a hand on his arm. Her head leaned against the couch, her red hair splayed across it like a puddle of vibrant blood —  she never said a word but Jongseng knows it just the same.  Of course she knows why — she always did, even if words were never spoken. They’re connected — her hand on his arm, his hand on her thigh, their hearts beating as one.  

It’s always been him and her, and it’s always been them forever , even if… well… even if she’s not really here. 

Her touch snatches him away from his thoughts, a small smile forming on her mouth as she quietly pulls his hand down, making him place the glass on the table for her to envelop his hand with hers. Jongseong’s next breath was a little easier now because her body was on his, and he could feel her weight grounding him a little bit better. 

She’s always been the best at it, he thinks. No one else could easily hold him anymore, especially after returning from the Games. At some point before that, maybe, Jongseong was the kind of person who loved a little too much and wore his heart on his sleeve. Maybe at some point, he was the kind of person who clung a little too hard to his best friend — molding himself in every crack and crevice, filling Heeseung up with the entirety of himself so that they wouldn’t be apart. 

Maybe at some point, he was just a kid. 

But they took that away from him too. 

Her scent quietly fades away, along with her body's warmth and weight. It felt like a little nudge, the remainder of her prompting Jongseong to look up — which led him to see the two tributes walk in from the door. 

Despite him begging himself not to do it, Jongseong immediately catches Heeseung’s eye. The elder boy looked… well, dead. He looked like a corpse,  and his outfit choice didn’t help him either. He’s dressed in all black, for fucks sake. However, that doesn’t stop him from glancing at the collarbone Heeseung flashed his eyes with. Lingering, he looks at the slope of his throat down to the curves of his shoulders — going down down down down dow—

“Sir?” 

Eunchae’s voice quietly breaks him out of his reverie — causing him to look away as quickly as possible while ignoring the shame that began to bubble in his throat. Pull yourself together. “Yes? Sit. I need to talk to you both anyway.” He mutters, glancing at the girl staring back with wide eyes and trembling lips. It reminded him too much of himself — a kid thrown into the thick of it all without knowing what it would mean after.  Blood, gore, the breaking point of it all — how would she even survive that ?

Shaking his head to make the thoughts go away,  Jongseong refocuses on the two of them.  Eunchae sits down first, seated in a way that speaks of her youth. Heeseung sits down beside her, leg crossed and eyes stormy.  Jongseong makes it a point not to look at him.  

“In an hour,  we will be arriving in Decelis.”  He starts, eyes trained on the table in front of them, eyeing the glass of whiskey he wished to devour.  “From there, we would have to separate. There will be a team of guards who will guide you to the Prep Room. From there, there will be teams of three who will separate you both and work on your…” Jongseong trails off, disgust lacing his tone as memories push themselves into his mind without any warning. 

He was fourteen years old when his own prep team pulled him by the wrist and strapped him on the chair.  There were hands everywhere —  he could still feel them up to this day. They called him beautiful, called him scrumptious, and said that they couldn’t wait to eat him alive.  

They were right. 

“... beauty.” He finishes, sighing, and finally gives into the urge to grab the whiskey glass again and pour it in one go. The liquid burns his throat, making his veins sing with the familiarity of the toxic fuel. He slowly blinks, feeling his mind go quiet — eyes clearing, and the ever-familiar scent of rosewood and spices also becomes more fragrant.  God, he needs more of this. 

The brief hum from Heeseung’s lips breaks him out of his stupor, even if it is as lifeless as it is, because it makes Jongseong stare at the elder with a small frown. “You were saying?” He prompts, looking dead into the younger’s eyes without any emotion swirling in them.  Jongseong attempts to read further because he knows Heeseung — he has known Heeseung for years, and maybe he still does now. Look at me. Show me what you’re thinking. Are you scared? Are you angry? 

Look at me. Are you angry at me?

“Yeah.” Jongseong mutters, letting his eyes stay on the elder — letting himself drown in the familiar brown colors of home. “You will then be both dressed and then you will be meeting your stylist next. I am not familiar with who they are since they’re a new hire, so that’s what I will be doing first. Sakura told me they were good, but I’ll be moving to make sure too, and I will also be…” He takes a deep breath for this, the air shaky and turbulent, too shallow for anything other than a brief inhale. “I will also be gathering the sponsorship deals.”

Another harsh breath. 

No no no no no I can't I can't please don't make me do this please I can't Heeseung please help m—

“I can’t promise that it will not hurt because, I swear,  it will . However, I’ll ensure they won’t touch anything private. If you need anything to be left alone, tell me now.” Jongseong mutters, words roughly uttered in a way that made Eunchae flinch. The kid takes a stuttering breath. “I don’t . . . I don’t know. M-.. Maybe my hair? I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know —” She is trembling. It is a sight that punches his lungs. The kid is trying her best to look at him — there is courage in her gaze, yet it is triumphed by fear. Alway s fear.  It reminds him of the early years, of the kids he mentored and failed to protect. 

Heeseung moved quicker than he did, enveloping the younger female in his arms in a protective gesture. It reminded him too much about how he used to be, about how he used to be held. It was Heeseung before it all, the person who had him close every time he used to trip over himself. 

Jongseong once fit perfectly into Heeseung’s arms. 

But that was before — 

“Is that all? Okay. I’ll be in my room.” Jongseong cuts his thoughts off, carefully schooling his expression to one of nonchalance before he pulls himself up. His feet wobble for a bit, but he hides his hands in his pockets and clenches them hard enough to stay grounded. The tributes do not move — Eunchae doesn’t even breathe for a moment, Heeseung stares at the wall — and Jongseong just leaves. 

He knows he shouldn’t. He knows that he needs to stay somehow because they should have someone with them. Someone who knows the ins and outs of the whole thing, someone to hold onto, someone to look up to. 

But that’s the thing, he can’t.

He doubts he ever could.

Jongseong has not looked at him once ever since the whole trip started.

Heeseung doesn’t know what to do. 

He can’t feel anything either. 

Something died in him the moment he left District 7, something died in him the moment the smell of pine and tobacco left his nose. Nothing is real, nothing is present. He is not here — in fact, why not call him a corpse instead?

He’s dead, dying over and over.  He could feel nothing, taste nothing, and even see nothing. He is a corpse, rotting on the plush chair in the fancy room in the fancy train car. Heeseung can’t feel a single thing anymore, but Jongseong isn’t even looking at him, and he’s not even holding him and he just can’t see that Heeseung needs him he needs him he needs him — 

He gets it, okay?

Out of anyone here, Heeseung knows Jongseong the most. He knows the younger like the back of his hand, like the breath in his lungs, and the heart beating in his chest. He knows every part of Jongseong intricately — like how he likes his coffee made, how he likes to sleep with the windows closed, and how he likes to double knot his shoelaces. He knows Jongseong’s favorite color is green, like how the trees back home are, especially in spring. Most especially,  Heeseung knows that Jongseong loves to be held. 

That was before his Games, though. 

Now, he doesn’t think he knows him at all. You see, Jongseong went to the Games and came back, but he was never the same since.  How could he, even? His best friend went in and killed so Heeseung didn’t have to, even if he was younger than him, even if he was the youngest of them all. Oh, how that scared him — Heeseung was scared shitless the moment Jongseong’s Games started. He never even left the town square, his eyes fixated on the screens as he watched his best friend maim and pull the axe in the way that sliced the people open.  He watched as Jongseong’s hands began to shake after his first kill, how his eyes grew dimmer and dimmer until there was nothing, how he laughed and screamed after he plunged his axe into his competitor.  

He was fourteen. He should have been playing with the pinecones. 

Not this, never this. He doesn’t deserve this. 

Maybe he doesn’t know how much it took for Jongseong to come back home, all battered and bloody, but he doesn’t know how Heeseung suffered too. No one knows how guilt had eaten him up alive — how it lived and festered in his chest, snarling and ugly and monstrous,  its teeth a gnarly sight to those who bothered to look. No one knows how he hated himself so much when Jongseong left, when he stood there all alone in the train station — hours after the younger waved goodbye, the bitter taste of guilt and absolute heartbreak lingering on his tongue. 

He chews on it constantly, muzzling over the fact that it should have been him. It should have been him who stood up on the stage, it should have been him who held the axe and held lives dealt in blood and gore. It should have been him who had nightmares every night after coming back — it should have been him who offered everything so that he could come back to his best friend. 

He was fifteen. A year older than him, more experienced in a way he could never be again. Heeseung worked in factories and held axes in a way that Jongseong never did. He knew that the younger only knew how to wield one because Heeseung himself told him to. It was a memory they both shared, even if it ended up in shallow cuts and bruises. They were together, and that was what mattered. 

Breathing the same air,  feeling the same thing. 

Together and forever linked. 

But Decelis got that, too. 

His name was called, and then Jongseong pulled him back. He came back home, and then Heeseung started to hate him. 

Yes, he hates him. Loathes him with all of his being, hates that he’s here, hates that his heart aches whenever he sees him near. Jongseong fought in his name, and Heeseung hated him for it. He never asked for it, he never wanted this. Heeseung didn’t want anything to do with this — and now, because Jongseong survived, he hates it too. He hates the fact that he can hear his nightmares every time he tries to come to his house in Victor’s Village — he hates the fact that Jongseong never answered his knocks or even opened the fucking door. 

He hates that Jongseong didn’t meet him halfway — not like before, not unlike how he would always do. 

But despite of it all, Jongseong is his best friend — and that was the worst part. 

Heeseung hates him, Heeseung loves him, Heeseung loathes him — he hates him so much it kills him to need him now. 

Heeseung needs him so much it hurts because now he’s on the way to the city who never cared for him — or anyone really — because they want a good show .  They want him to fight, to lose himself in the process, and to come out as a Victor. He doesn’t care, not now or ever, because he won’t do it. 

He won’t do anything to survive because he will do whatever it takes to ensure Eunchae does. 

He’s not going to change himself, not for anyone else. 

Fuck that, he doesn’t even want to deal with all of this afterwards.

It doesn’t matter, not anymore, so it shouldn’t hurt to watch Jongseong walk away without a second glance. It shouldn’t matter, so it shouldn’t hurt to see how Jongseong clenches his fist and doesn’t stay with him  — with Heeseung — not holding him tightly, not holding his hand, not being with him despite it all. 

It shouldn’t hurt, but it does. 

He supposes he should be used to it by now.

Chapter Text

Heeseung feels raw.

No kidding, he actually feels literally raw.

Jongseong wasn’t joking that it was going to be painful.  The moment both Heeseung and Eunchae were separated, his prep team tore all of his clothes off — leaving him in boxers — and strapped him to a chair.  From there, he’s been hosed down in three different kinds of liquid creams and moisturizers, and was shaved in every single part of his body except for his actual private part.

I mean, does he really need to have his eyebrow hair plucked? What the hell does a hydrochloric acid base even mean? What the fuck is happening?

He had resisted, had threatened multiple times to bite the heads of all of his prep team’s bodies, but it was when the boy with pale pink skin and brightly colored pink hair tried to cut his locks that Heeseung finally had enough.

A snarl breaks through his mouth— he sinks down his teeth in the soft skin of the boy’s wrist, letting himself feel the skin resist before he lets go. His teeth are all on full display — all gnarly and visceral as he growls lowly. “Try that again, and I’ll slam that pair of scissors so hard in your face your mother wouldn’t even love you after that.” It was a threat he had never made before nor even attempted to do before, but there was something in his voice that made his prep team back off.  Something is brewing in him, Heeseung thinks — all monstrous and dangerous, but he lets it. Lets it boil and simmer, lets the absolute hatred pour over down to the floor.  

Look at me and realize that I don’t want this. I never wanted this.

“But your hair is so messy! ” A girl exclaimed, her aquamarine eyes bright with indignation while her pale blue skin shimmered with fucking scales underneath the fluorescent light.  Fucking hell, is she a fucking fish? 

God. Can they even realize how ridiculous they look? Can they realize how ignorantly different they are from the rest of society? Do they realize that they pronounce their words with a fucking hiss ,  or are their heads so stuck in their asses that they can’t even see that it's basic human decency to ask if he wanted this?

“I don’t care.” He simply replies, narrowing his eyes at them — downwardly glaring at them — before they just give up. The pink-skinned boy sets down the pair of scissors while clutching his wrist, eyes wide in palpable fear. However, the blue-skinned girl remained still — golden fish-like eyes glaring at him. It's really funny how she looked like while doing it, mouth all pouted like a gaping little fish mouth — Heeseung briefly imagines slamming her head to the metal chair and stops immediately after, shame filling his chest before he could ever go any further. 

Sure, he had more than murderous thoughts before. One does not wield an axe and not imagine how it would feel like to ram it straight into the chest of a Peacekeeper — most especially the Peacekeeper who took your best friend away from you, the Peacekeeper who pulled you back from your best friend, even if you cried and begged them not to because you’re not yet done and Jon-

How did he do this, even? 

Twenty-four years old, and Heeseung can’t even do what Jongseong did at fourteen.

Eunchae came next to his thoughts, which made him snarl. Remembering how she trembled underneath his touch and whimpered her request to their mentor, afraid of something and everything that would happen—

He should be stronger than this, he should be bigger than what this is, but God, he needs someone he needs to go home he needs Jon— 

“Just don’t touch me. Whoever my stylist is, I can meet them now.” Heeseung mutters,  tugging against his restraints — feeling like a caged animal more and more by the minute.  “You can’t.”  The pink boy replies, carefully putting his hands up in a placating manner.  He could see the marks he left with his teeth, all red and angry, and Oh, Heeseung wants to bite him. Animal to animal,  monstrous to beast. He wants to sink his teeth into him, pull out his heart, and tear him apart. 

(He wants Jongseong. Heeseung quietly admits to himself, despite all the pain and hatred brewing in his bones. He needs him, has always needed him, and has been needing him for the last nine years.)

“But we’ll call him! Come on, girls. Let’s go.” The boy quickly amended, pulling the unwilling two out of the room without a sound — leaving him alone. They didn’t trust Heeseung that much, seeing that they quickly ran out of the room without letting him out of his restraints.  How annoying, but fine. Whatever. He can stay here, all naked — served on a silver platter for all of the world to see — because isn’t this what the whole thing is all about? Every single tribute, no matter how old or how much they didn’t want it, will be on display for the whole world to see. They’re the banquet of food, all open and bare, for the people who wouldn’t want anything but see them devoured. 

Fruitlessly, without wanting to — his thoughts turn back to Jongseong. He knew him, of course, knew him so well that he could practically live in his bones and see what he’d been through. Heeseung understands better now, seeing that he is currently in this situation — but then again, the familiar fury in his bones reignites as the thought crosses his mind. Heeseung should have been the one who did this first, he thinks — the image of his best friend making his teeth sink further on his lower lip. He shouldn’t have gone through all that because now Jongseong is — 

Jongseong is… 

He’s not himself anymore. 

And who was to blame for that?

The briefest change of air due to the door being unlocked makes him jolt in surprise, his eyes immediately widening at the sight of a man with bright blonde hair and the softest pallor he had ever seen in his entire life entering the room. After further inspection, Heeseung took another breath, and he looked ethereal. There was no trace of the Decelis-approved fashion in his outfit, no extravagant colors or modifications — in fact, there was just the barest trace of golden eyeliner in both of his eyes — and upon further investigation, which is the stylist moving closer — it brings out the color of his blue eyes. 

“Hello.” The stylist offers, his voice low yet tinged with what Heeseung could only think of as honey. “Can I untie you?” He asks, looking at Heeseung with a small smile while keeping his distance from the tribute. Heeseung, admittedly, does not respond — clearly not thinking straight anymore because he keeps looking at his stylist, and his feelings are just a mess. He’s angry then he’s not, he’s scared and he’s not, he’s curious then he’s not and he’s— 

There were cold hands on his wrists now, making the boy twitch uncontrollably. Heeseung let out a snarl, feeling the burn of the metal rub against his already raw skin, lowering his gaze to glare at the stylist, who jumped in surprise. “Sorry— you got a little lost there, um— okay, hi. I’m Kai.” He feebly introduces himself, raising both of his hands apologetically, while he stammers out his next words. “I’m sorry that I touched you without your consent, and I know you don’t trust me that much because who wouldn’t? But I swear I only want to untie you so you could sit down on the couch somewhere there—” A finger points at the back, where Heeseung can’t see. “—and we can have a little chat or two while I get you ready for the Opening Ceremonies. I swear I won’t do anything else, and I’m sorry that the prep team hurt you— Jongseong already-”

Heeseung’s heart skips a beat at the mention of him ,  his lips moving immediately like a Pavlovian response — his name, his own stimuli, the reason for everything— cutting Kai off immediately with a croaked-out “ What ?”  There is a bitter taste in his mouth, a different kind of yearning he had always been used to when it comes to him —  maybe it makes him vulnerable, maybe it makes him weak, and maybe he hates it all… but Kai looks at him and immediately softens, his eyes seeing something Heeseung couldn’t even understand.  “Yeah.” The stylist utters lowly, quietly approaching the tribute while he continues to speak. “Jongseong already talked with my team, and well, me and his talking skills didn’t include any words, but you know— well, despite the… uncustomary ways he used, all he said was to take care of you. So can I take it off, Lee Heeseung?”

A breath. 

What?

Jongseong. Heeseung thinks, his mind racing as the implications of Kai’s words slowly hit his chest. It pulls on his heartstrings, making it taut with the sudden wave of emotion that threatens to overwhelm him. He pushes it down hard, but then the entirety of Jongseong just washes through him.

And then there, a slight nod — Kai immediately released him from the metal rings and helped him to his feet. There is something the stylist is telling him; however, the haze of everything at once just consumed him again. It is a wave of confusion and desperation of a boy who just wants to be held, who just wants to understand. You see, Heeseung hates him, yet he doesn’t — and it's all so tiring to think of how he does and where he doesn’t. 

Repetitive, but isn’t that just his brain? A series of repetitive motions, an endless tirade of what-ifs, and a mixture of desperate anger?

Where do I put my anger? Where do I place it, so it wouldn’t grow and fester against my chest? Where do I put all of my pain and guilt and desperation, so I can let light back into my darkened heart?

Heeseung slips into his mind — lost in the world of familiar hurt. 

He doesn’t come back from it until much, much later. 

Jongseong feels raw. 

He had bore himself naked in front of a stranger in hopes of more support, laid down on beds of silk, and pretended to love the pain it brought him so that they would be happy for it. He had laid there, a bronze beauty for the masses, and it doesn’t matter — it doesn’t matter because it bore a fruit he was so desperate to have. 

Six new sponsorship deals were held carefully to his chest, covered by a folder that he miraculously managed to grab before he was quickly ushered out of the sponsor’s room. He had it all signed, with neat little numbers with a bunch of little zeroes at the end of it. Momentarily, he feels accomplished —  this wasn’t enough, really, despite the funds he had accumulated for the last year. However, this was the start of something, and Jongseong knows how well this could help, especially at the start of the Games. 

What it took to get it though… 

Doesn’t matter. He thinks, as his legs force themselves to move toward the Mentor’s Lounge — a wide expanse full of plush couches and a minibar situated in the middle of it all. He quickly takes a table for himself, taking pity on the rawness of his skin and the bare bruises he knows are evident in his neck. There is a brief wince that escapes his lips once he sits down, but he takes pride in himself with his power to seem undisturbed. Powerful, in a sense, because his expression does not move nor does not crack — a perfect Victor in every way possible. 

But it was not until the mere presence of a familiar scent of cedar and sandalwood made him truly relax. Without looking at the intruder, his hand immediately reaches out — feeling the cool glass filled with what Jongseong knows as a shot of whiskey.  With a pleased grin, he takes it — indulging in the liquid with a simple sip as the couch he’s sitting on takes another weight.

“You look nice.” Park Sunghoon, the Victor of the 52nd Hunger Games and Jongseong’s only friend, mutters — sliding cleanly against the couch so he could stay near him. Not too near that he could feel him, but near enough that he could sense that someone was there.  Jongseong only draws a small chuckle, eyes rolling as he halfheartedly glares at the other boy with a scoff. “You look better.” His eyes carefully focused on the other boy, taking note of his outfit — a silk shirt in the color of autumn leaves.  It was masterfully made so that the material covers his neck, but it still leaves a small space to let his collarbones shine. Small gloves — furlike and soft, cover his hands but must have something that stabilizes his fingers because it wasn’t trembling anymore. 

“How many?” Jongseong carefully asks, noting the way Sunghoon carefully structures his face. It was the same how he did it — impassive features, a simple cock of his eyebrow, and a firm voice.  That was the perfect visage of a true Victor, something honed throughout eight… nine… or even seven years. He recognized it so much that he could see the cracks as easily as he could breathe. 

Sunghoon had a huge mark on the side of his throat, evident only by the barely seen red line tipping on the edge of his silk shirt. Peering closer, Jongseong could also see the barely hidden blue and purple bruise on his cheek — and there was also the most evident of them all, the dark circles underlining his eyes. 

He hasn’t slept. Jongseong deduced — knowing that Sunghoon could see what he was hiding too. He knows that Sunghoon could see his own scars, the red lines on his throat, the bites turning blue underneath the light. Both mentors carefully stared at each other, eyes showing not pity but understanding. There is no line a Mentor would not cross, no boundary that they wouldn’t push because being a Mentor was no different than being a Tribute — because both held lives in their hands. 

This is why Sunghoon only speaks without feeling, without anything and everything at all — because Jongseong knew that he couldn’t do anything about it anyway. It is what it is, and what would change after? It is an endless cycle of nothing .

“Five.” He speaks slowly, his voice strained at the edges of the mask he carefully curated.  He doesn’t elaborate further, knowing Jongseong understands — more than anything, really. “Six.” He says next, holding Sunghoon’s gaze with a firm one of his own. 

They don’t say anything about it. 

They don’t have to.

Every single Mentor here knows that there are no words that should be spoken after everything. There is an understanding between them, no matter what District they’re from, that they need not words but concrete action.  If you can’t do anything to stop it, then why bother saying sorry ? 

They sit in silence now, both eyes trained on the screen.  Pann, their host and an absolute pain in the ass, is speaking — welcoming everyone to the Opening Ceremonies.  Her voice is a shrilly little thing that all Decelis-born have, which is undoubtedly annoying and absolutely irritating to hear. Usually, he does shut it all out by drinking half of the stock in the mini bar, but since he has Heeseung and Eunchae on the line here, he sucks it all up and listens. 

“…. and now,  let us all welcome the tributes of District One!” 

Jongseong could not, in any shape or form, care less about the Aces (District One, Two, and Four), but he knows Sunghoon does.  The younger leaned forward once his tributes entered the screen, his eyes narrowing as two shining little smiles dazzled the crowd.

The One girl, her hair in curly waves splashed in little diamond tears that made her shine, was dressed in a low plunging flared gown doused in multiple shiny diamonds. The boy was dressed in a similarly made suit with see-through fabric and a low neckline that showcased the boy’s collarbones. 

Sunghoon let out a displeased sound at the sight, making Jongseong switch his gaze to the younger one. “They don’t have much on.” The younger mentor mutters, eyes filled with understandable disdain for the stylist mixed with subtle anger that they were subjected to in such a way that it made them more desirable. All Ones go through this. Sunghoon was not the first — but Jongseong could understand why he was angry. Oh, he could understand more than anyone else, most especially since he is a fellow Victor too. 

Oh , how he knows that too well. Being desirable means being killed, skinned alive, burned to the brink of death — but they will always pull you back despite it all, making you go through that process again. 

If that girl wins, or even that boy, then they will be subjected to this torture. They will be wanted, sought out, and desired in a way that will take away their souls. They’ll strip them down, leave them bare, and leave them bleeding. 

Oh, Jongseong knows how it feels. He knows it far too well at this point,  evident in the way his bruises kept on burning — tearing him apart, snapping his seams, and leaving him dead . 

“I know.” The older mentor could only offer as a response,  ignoring the itch his hand felt as he stayed perfectly still. He doesn’t reach out, he doesn’t move — and Sunghoon does not as well. It is an unspoken agreement between them, because even if Jongseong wants to reach out — he knows that he can’t do anything about it. 

After that, he doesn’t pay much more attention to the details.  Everything just blurs, with some making a brief impression in his brain.  There are brightly colored scales that grace the skin of the District 4 Tributes, there is a shiny little ball that looks like a little planet which matches the alien-like costumes from District 5. District 6 looked like… well, a train , which was weird in itself but it fits with the theme so who the hell is he to judge? 

Honestly, with all of the things that happen in this hell, Jongseong could say that he finds comfort over the fact that the stylists have no qualms whatsoever to actually become any more decent enough to dress the tributes well. There was this one year, he remembers with a subtle chuckle, where all of the stylists collectively agreed that holographics were the next big thing. God, the holographic trees they made his tributes wear… it was… it wa—

His breath hitched. 

Heeseung and Eunchae are on the screen. 

Jongseong is not even breathing straight.  Both of them are forest royalty. Dressed in shades of green and white, with shining little accents on both of them that cohesively tied their outfits together — he just… he just has no words, really. 

Eunchae’s blonde hair flowed downwards in a beautiful cascade of subtle curls, adorned with little headpieces that shone with every movement. Her dress, a long flowy green fabric that had a little sweetheart neckline with long puffy sleeves accompanied by a little white belt that accentuated her tiny waist. Her makeup wasn’t even overpowering — her lips glimmered with a shiny sheen, her eyes decorated with green makeup, and her cheeks adorned with small pink blushes. 

Heeseung . . . 

Heeseung is a prince . He’s standing like one, he looks like one, and he’s also wearing a damn corset . 

Fuck. 

A white long sleeved shirt hugged his figure perfectly, the brown corset accentuating his waist even further while an elaborately designed coat tied it all together. His cape, a long forest green shimmering thing, was draped around him so well that if he didn’t even know better, Jongseong would think that he is actually a prince. 

He had earrings on too, for fuck’s sake, which were tiny little emeralds that matched the headpiece on Eunchae’s hair.   

Jongseong could feel the glowering heat that began to build in his cheeks, his eyes blurring the surroundings as he zeros into Heeseung who looked absolutely captivating. Both of his tributes were smiling, the perfect image of a beautiful man with a pretty girl, while both of their hands waved elegantly at the crowd. Pann, for the first time ever, could not be heard over the crowd’s roar — they were all chanting their names, a steady thrum that made Jongseong feel breathless.  They were this year’s favorites, he chuckled to himself, letting a pleased smile break the ever-stoic demeanor he usually gets as he watched them intently. 

Fountains of roses were thrown to their chariot — one landed directly on Eunchae’s hair, a soft pink rose, and Heeseung grabbed it. The camera zooms into his slender fingers — which are wrapped around the stem of the flower, before he lets his lips meet its petals. His eyes, oh , he looks so charmingly powerful — his gaze landing on the general direction of the sender with a heated gaze that made Jongseong’s heart skip a beat. 

Beautiful beautiful beautiful beautiful — 

Heeseung only had to raise one eyebrow, all angular and pretty , which made the crowd lose it. His name was screamed at him repeatedly, even some Decelis-born pretending to faint at the sight of him — which made him chuckle with a sly smirk.  Jongseong can’t breathe. 

“He’s good.” Sunghoon comments, his face never leaving the screen yet Jongseong’s ears remain dull. It is all static, really, his focus narrowing down on him and how he wants him and his ever-present carnal desire building in his chest before Sunghoon breaks his reverie with a soft comment. “You need to be careful with him, Jay .”

And it all comes to a stop . 

Jongseong takes a shaky breath, the heat in his belly dying down into a small spark — his fingers curl, his eyes hardens, and the familiar coil of dread that began to squeeze his heart so tightly he was sure that it actually popped.  

You see, Sunghoon was right. 

Even the name he used, Jay , a pseudonym bestowed upon the clients they both entertain for money, was used in a way that made him feel dread. Wasn’t this what he was frightened of? Wasn’t this what Jongseong wanted Heeseung to be safe from? 

This is unfair . He thinks, as both of the mentors finally arise from the couch — lining up with their colleagues as they begin to walk towards the hall.  This is actually unfair.  How can he be so stupid ?  Both dread and raw possessiveness made him snarl, made his steps quicken, and made his eyes narrow in the carnal desire of keeping him out of it. 

Jongseong wants Heeseung, that’s no question. 

He wants him so bad, that it took no less than ten minutes to find him.  That’s how it is between them anyway — Heeseung walks, and Jongseong finds him. No matter where they are, no matter what they’ve been through. 

Jongseong always finds Heeseung. 

This is exactly what he did, his steps quickening as he dispersed from the line and left Sunghoon in the dust as fast as he could. The same carnal desire coiled his throat, burning his lungs in a way that made him growl. 

Mine mine mine mine no one gets a look no one gets to tou—

He stops. 

Something’s wrong. 

“Heeseung?” His name comes out of Jongseong’s lips in a low whisper, his eyes immediately locked onto the elder’s empty gaze. There is absolutely nothing in it, no surprise, no fear, nor even the familiar gaze of hurt that Jongseong was so used to receiving after the Games. 

“Heeseung.” He repeats slowly, approaching the elder with soft steps while he glances at Eunchae, who looks as lost as him. She shrugs, mumbling a worriedly soft “He was like this before the Opening started.” with a small pout. 

With a small nod, Jongseong reached the elder, who didn’t move an inch. A worried frown graces his lips, his eyebrows furrowing while his hands carefully press on both of his cheeks. 

“Heeseung?”

Where is he?

Nothing is real. Heeseung thinks, sitting on the cloud of his own consciousness — his eyes trained on the soulless expanse of his mind. 

Everything is a blur,  a watercolor painting filled with nothing but black hues and little brown stars. 

At least, that’s what he thinks they are. 

His thoughts are graciously and blissfully blank — a reprieve from the agony he kept feeling ever since he was fifteen.  Heeseung doesn’t even move, doesn’t even breathe. He is still like the pond near his old childhood home — his waves betray nothing from anything, and it’s okay because anything does not exist. 

There is a boy who’s holding him, however, the warmth of his touch familiar enough to spark something in his chest — a deep sense of yearning that crumbled his resolve.   He breathes in and smells the scent of pine, apples, and oranges, of little kids holding each other with pinky promises they eventually break. 

Is this the concept of home ?

Suddenly, all Heeseung wants is to sink into the feeling — to let himself be embraced by the warmth the boy brings. He could burn for all he cares, Heeseung thinks. 

Because nothing felt anything safer than to be in the arms of the boy he—

The boy he—

The boy—

Jongseo—

Chapter Text

Heeseung stirs awake. 

His eyes are heavy, and his limbs are aching, but he manages to pull through by sheer force of will. There is something warm and comforting wrapped around his body, which in his delirious mind, makes him think that he’s back home.  Stupidly, he waits just to check — his eyes flicker towards the window, noting that the afternoon sun’s rays are out, which makes him go back to the door. He waits, knowing that by this time, Heedo will be visiting with his new wife — arms full of freshly baked apple pies and some apple ciders they made because of the apple tree that grows near their house. Stupidly, he waits — anticipation building up in his chest because any moment now, he will smell the sweet scent of the apple pie, and then he’ll see his brother again, and then he’ll bring a slice to Jongs—

Oh. 

The mere thought of his best friend crashes Heeseung back on the earth,  reality pulling him back under as the rush of memories overwhelms him.  He won’t smell that apple pie because there is no oven here. He is not going to hear his brother’s footsteps, hear the sweet laughter he shares with his wife, hear his name being called out. He won’t hear that because Heeseung is twenty-four years old and a Tribute to the Games, and what was the point of hoping when he knows that he’s going to die?

Mom, Heedo. Heeseung pleads, feeling the tears rising from the pain on his chest — his eyes still trained on the door.  He could clearly see that it isn’t their door, but still, he hopes.  

That’s all he could ever do at this point, right? 

Heeseung takes a shaky breath, yet all that comes up is a shaky sob — emotions crashing into his head like a typhoon wave, knocking down all of the carefully constructed walls in his mind until he’s a sobbing mess.  Tears crash down his eyes as he lets out a whimper, his vision tunneling so suddenly that it gives him whiplash. Head aching, heart tearing itself apart, Heeseung lets out a loud cry — his shoulders shaking as he gasps for air. 

Why is he so emotional right now? Why can’t he get his shit together? Where is he? He wants to go home. Heedo, please get him out of here. Mom, please come back and get me. Where is my family? Where is Jongs—

Where where where where where—

Delirious from the pain of it all,  he doesn’t notice the door opening — only noting how it doesn’t creak, unlike his door, which sends another pang in his heart because god it hurts why am I not home why am I here where is mom where is Heedo where is my family where is my hom—

Heeseung feels a touch so gentle that it pulls him out from his reverie immediately.  It’s hesitant,  the warmth seeping through his veins yet it still comes and goes. It’s drenched in subtle confusion, yet there is still a strong sense of reassurance that feels so familiar.  

Heeseung doesn’t mind though. Crawling to the source of warmth like a cat, he carefully lies down on what seems to be a warm hug — the scent of oud wood, sandalwood, and a hint of patchouli greets his nose like a warm blanket.   He lets out a small whimper,  vision still blurry — he could only make out colors — but there was a sense of safety that made him feel calmer than before.

It takes a moment, and then two, and the warmth suddenly leaves. It's a jarring feeling, making him whine loudly and grasp for it — he holds it in his hand, squeezing it gently before he lets out a pleased sigh. 

“Please stay.” He whispers, trying to grab onto as much light as he can, knowing that he’ll be plunged in the darkness soon enough.

And amid the haze, amid the blurred waters, amid the darkness trying to pull him under — the warmth speaks.

Always. 

Heeseung is avoiding him again. 

At this point, it’s pissing him off. Jongseong knows that he hates him, okay? He knows that damn well enough, most especially since, well… his Games. He just knows , okay? It’s nearing a decade since they’ve talked, and it’s fine.  It’s okay for him to be hated, but he should be hated back home.

Heeseung should hate him safely back home, surrounded by all of the forests and trees and the mountains.  But here ? 

His hatred for Jongseong has no place here. Any emotion except for the need for survival had no place here. 

Most of all, feelings have no place in hell. 

(And he’s just so tired… so… so tired. )

It hurts too. Jongseong thinks, watching Heeseung and Eunchae across from him at the dining table and having a little bit of a talk. There is a new level of sincerity in their actions, most especially what happened after the Opening Ceremonies.  (At that thought, Jongseong wrenches all the memories back down in his mind.)   Heeseung is smiling now, quietly trying to reassure her that he’s fine. 

“I’m sorry I worried you.” He muttered, his voice low but sweet in a way that made Jongseong’s heart momentarily soften — because this is the tone Heeseung used back when he was still talking to him. It is a soft tone, reminiscent of the cool breeze that hits your skin just right.  It warmed Eunchae’s eyes, her gaze still shining with worry, yet she gently replied with a smile. “Okay. If you say so, old man.”  She teases, making Heeseung gasp comically before laughing with her. 

This moment, this exact moment — this is what makes it so much worse.  It’s not that Jongseong doesn’t want them to bond; no, he understands that they should have the chance to have fun before being thrown into the arena. It’s not that Jongseong doesn’t want Eunchae and Heeseung to have nothing between them because there is a difference in having that tiny little bit of solace with you to hold on to for the next couple of days. It is a light, a warmth that one needs to cling to — because, in the arena,  nothing will exist except blood and murder. 

So, he understands. 

He knows that too well; in fact, he is already smelling the familiar scent of rosewood and spices, which makes him smile. In the corner of his eye, he could see her walking silently towards him — his hand immediately pulled out a chair for her like it was second nature, his eyes trained on her wispy figure as she sat down and fixed her long red hair.  Her arm immediately reaches out — her hand firmly placed on top of his, which made him exhale. 

It will hurt, Jongseong thinks — his eyes flickering back to his tributes, momentarily confused by his sudden action but continuing with their small talk. Eunchae naturally pulls a smile out of Heeseung, a rare feat in itself — but it is so smoothly natural for the female to do so because she smiles so brightly that it makes Jongseong slightly chuckle before he looks at the woman beside him after. 

It will hurt. There is no guarantee it will not, but there is something about people who impact your life.  There is a certain kind of love that imprints on you because of them — because there are no people who truly leave you without bringing a piece of your soul with them. 

So he understands, really. Out of anyone here, out of anyone in this room — Jongseong understands. 

But it still hurts. 

It hurts in a way that your best friend, the person who has your heart and your soul, physically recoils from you after saying that they wanted you to stay . 

You see, most people know that being Heeseung’s best friend, Jongseong knew everything about him.  They would be right, of course, but no one really knows how deeply he knows him. Heeseung likes his coffee sweet, he likes to sleep with a window open, and he loves to wear that one little pair of shoes Heedo gave him when he finally got the money from his first ever job — ignoring the fact that the pair was a little bit too worn and tiny for his feet.  Most especially, he knows that whenever Heeseung has a nightmare — he clings. 

There was this one time when they were young when the threat of the Games hadn’t started for him, but it did for Heeseung.  It was his first year in the Reaping, and he was so scared shitless to the point that it physically occurred in a dream before the day itself.  Jongseong was asleep at the house adjacent to him, a couple of blocks away from Heeseung’s home — and it was in the dead of night with a single Peacekeeper asleep on the old rickety bench near their houses. 

Jongseong’s room was on the second floor of the house near the old broken window, which was a wee bit high. So imagine his surprise when he wakes up to the sound of fourteen-year-old Heeseung cursing under his breath while throwing away the haphazardly-made curtain Jongseong threw on the window so it would stay covered.  

“ Seung ?” Jongseong mutters groggily, pulling his blanket up further to his chin. He was so sure, back then, that Heeseung wouldn’t have possibly climbed over the wall just to get to his room because it was on the second floor, for gods’ sake, and—

The sudden weight on his bed made him gasp in shock, his body still in fear, before the familiar arm peeked out to envelop his waist in a tight hug. Instantly, his fear melts — giving away to worry instead.  He tries to move to face the elder boy, but Heeseung just pulls him closer to his chest and mutters in a low voice. “Just sleep, Seong.”

And they did. 

Jongseong knew he should have pulled back and bombarded Heeseung with loads of questions. However, at that point, Jongseong trusted Heeseung so much and knew him so well that it comes without question that despite it being the crack of dawn, despite them living in the woods where it’s cold as hell, Jongseong will always leave a tiny bit of his curtain open just so that Heeseung could climb up and sleep beside him. 

So this is why once Jongseong reached out to Heeseung, nearly a decade later, after the Opening Ceremonies — he knew. Calmly, he gently reached out to hold the elder’s hand — hiding the fact of how stupidly pleased he was that Heeseung held his hand so tightly like it was his lifeline, even after all these years. He lest his eyes drop to their hands,  breathing into the elder’s scent, before reaching out to hold Eunchae’s hand. 

He tugged them along,  Heeseung impassively following — the only solace Jongseong gets is the way the elder’s hand tightened and squeezed his own as if he was unsure what it was but deemed it safe enough to try.  On the other hand, he keeps Eunchae busy by quietly pointing out the sights as they walk. It wasn’t much, but it kept the younger occupied. 

He leads them quickly to the seventh floor, letting Eunchae roam around first as he gently directs Heeseung to his room. Jongseong briefly scans the interior first,  a honed instinct throughout the years — his eyes searching for anything unusual before he exhales and turns to his best friend. 

“ Seung ?” He says, shaking his hand a little while his eyes observe for any reaction. The nickname stings, the name bringing so many memories yet Jongseong pulls all of it down. Heeseung only blinks a small blink — his features are still void of emotion — and Jongseong just sighs. “Okay, let’s get you to bed.” 

His limbs were screaming at him in exhaustion, their cries silenced by the way the young mentor strained his legs more to walk towards the bed while making sure Heeseung was following behind him.  “Seung?” The younger whispers, letting himself sit beside the elder so that he can pull him down to rest on his lap.  Heeseung’s body fell towards him without resisting — a mess of unmoving limbs on Jongseong’s lap, which he carefully fixed.  He moves the elder carefully,  placing a small pillow first on his upper thigh before letting his head rest on it.  

“Hey, Seung?”  He whispers again, observing the elder’s features. Heeseung’s face was blank, devoid of the usual warmth Jongseong found so much strength in. Instead, all the younger can see is an empty state — his lovely eyes are stuck in stasis, pupils drawn towards the ceiling. This wasn’t the first time he had seen the elder like this, but still, Jongseong’s eyes softened in worry. However, his hand reached out to gently massage the elder’s hair — the action was so tender and featherlike, fingers threading through Heeseung’s black locks while his lips moved to assure him.  “I’m here, Seung. I’m here.” He whispers, quietly continuing his ministrations as he waits for the elder to come to.  

He remains like that, letting Heeseung take a long-needed nap on his lap while his hands gently and selfishly weave through his soft locks.  Jongseong knows that once Heeseung comes back to himself, he will be questioned, pushed away, and screamed at with the ever-familiar hatred that Jongseong has grown to know over the years. 

Heeseung would hate him more because of this, Jongseong thinks — the implication of his own thoughts sending a sad yet wistful smile form on his lips.  Look, he knows, okay? He knows that there’s no chance of them coming back to what they had before. There will never be a Heeseung and Jongseong, not anymore, and that’s okay. He had long accepted that because he lov—

A call from Eunchae makes him flinch; his thoughts cut off as he carefully places the elder’s head on the pillow instead of his own lap.  “Give me a moment, Eunchae!” He calls out, eyes immediately observing if any of Heeseung’s features change. Nothing does, not even a single movement — Jongseong doesn’t want to leave him, not now, not ever — but the mentor just sighs and carefully drapes over a blanket on his sleeping figure. 

Selfishly, he takes another moment — letting himself think of the single, hard, yet absolutely truthful statement. 

Heeseung is absolutely so beautiful. 

And yet he will never be his. 

Do you understand now, dear reader, how much it hurts ?

How irrevocably painful it is to remain here, witnessing a beautiful part, and yet knowing that you could tear all of that apart with a single word?

Jongseong does. 

It goes like this. 

“Have you explored the whole suite yet, Hee?” Eunchae asks after they all have finished their food, her hands wrapped around a steaming cup of hot chocolate — a delicacy from Decelis that Eunchae instantly loved when they were served. Heeseung shook his head, a small smile forming on his lips as he gripped a cup of his own. He doesn’t speak, which is okay since Eunchae replies back instantly with a childish smile that softens Jongseong’s heart. “Oh, you should! It’s really big, bigger than the Justice Hall back home or even the gardens. Our lumber yards are kinda bigger, of course, but it's cool! The shower room in my room is cool as hell too. Have you seen yours yet? It has different kinds of soaps and shampoos, and this silky thing called a conditioner.  Jong showed it all to me and even showed me a very cool part of the room where you have this small remote, and when you press a number,  the curtain changes! You can see places, and they even have forests back home.” 

Eunchae’s whole ramble was certainly a lot, but both Heeseung and Jongseong couldn’t help but sport twin smiles on his lips due to the fact that her giddiness was contagious. “Really?” The older male spoke, a soft laugh escaping his lips as he shrugged. “I haven’t really explored much, Eunchae. I’ve been sleeping, remember?—..” Heeseung explains,  his lips about to say more of it, but the girl cuts him off with a beaming smile. 

“You should ask Jong for help!”

Jongseong freezes, his hand accidentally dropping his fork onto the plate while Heeseung takes a shuddering breath. Eunchae, however, stayed on course and continued to talk. “Well, I could help you do it, but Jong is much more experienced than I am and my mom said never to go inside a man’s room until I am older and I know you guys are kinda friends, and Jong is our mentor so it’s kinda his job, you know? He wouldn’t say no, right ?”

It takes Jongseong a second to see that Eunchae is already facing him and another second to see Heeseung looking at him as well. “Oh. Uh…” ( She teasingly whispered in his ear, her spicy rosewood scent in his nose. What are you hesitating about? )

Jongseong breathes in so slowly, internally rolling his eyes hard at the voice in his head. ( Excuse me? ) He takes another breath and schools his expression enough without missing another beat.  “If Heeseung wants to.” He simply replies, eyeing the other boy who doesn’t miss a beat as well.  His eyes flickered towards Eunchae, staying on her hopeful gaze, and ignored Jongseong as he blatantly replied. “I can do it myself, but thank you, Eunchae.” 

The fast dismissal, his voice never lingered on each word uttered, and the way Heeseung never looked at him again made Jongseong’s heart twist. Thank you, Eunchae. Heeseung only thanked the girl, not him, as if his name was utterly poisonous — as if Jongseong was only the mentor and not the other half of his soul. 

Or so,  as he proclaimed. 

Does Heeseung really hate him that much?

Jongseong takes a harsh breath, steadying his emotions clearly before he masks his hurt with the mask of a Victor — a mentor because that’s what he wants, and who was Jongseong to deny what Heeseung wants?  “Okay.” He replies, ignoring the intense gaze Heeseung is giving him — this is what the elder wanted, so here it is. 

Forgive him for even trying to care. 

“Do what you want.” His tone hardens, his eyes showing nothing but complete nonchalance to the fact that his heart was tearing itself apart. Heeseung blinks in surprise, the color draining from his face slightly before his gaze narrows. Jongseong matches it with his own — a wolf’s stare, one of necessity and wants for survival. Eunchae takes a breath, her eyes wide as realization begins to dawn directly on her. 

You see, Eunchae and the rest of District 7 knew Jongseong and Heeseung from before. 

Now, Eunchae gets to witness them at their breaking point — and she, like those who had witnessed it beforehand, had realized that even if Jongseong had given everything for Heeseung — Heeseung gave nothing but a scowl in return. 

Jongseong understands, though he always did.

But even monsters can be hurt, and Heeseung just impaled him. 

You see, he understands that Heeseung despises Jongseong — but even to the point of this simple request? 

Fuck that. 

“Go. You guys finished your dinners anyway. Meet me here tomorrow at breakfast so I can discuss training strategies with the both of you.” He says, offering a small smile to Eunchae — who is really confused — before standing up on unsteady feet.   “But—..” He fights his carnal desire so hard, the desire to stop so loud that he almost stopped — his mind yelled at him, his wants screamed because it wanted to let Heeseung know that he was okay, that it was fine that he hurt him— 

But he never stopped. 

Not really. 

Jongseong leaves the dining room on steady feet, only ever entering his own room to lock the door — throw away the key, and sob. 

There was a knock on the door. 

Jongseong was idly sitting on the couch, his legs crossed and his hand nursing a glass of red wine. He couldn’t sleep — he always had difficulty sleeping, especially in a place like this. It's his survival instincts coming forward, ever-present, even though it's been years since he had to truly use them. It is his will to survive, mostly because you never know with Decelis. You could die here, and no one would mourn you. 

So you have to understand that the moment the knock on the door was heard, Jongseong’s mind immediately went on defense .  Eyeing the door, he lets himself compartmentalize. His tributes were sleeping soundly in their rooms, with Eunchae nearest to the living area and Heeseung at the end of the hall.  It is sometime around midnight , which marks the official Opening Ceremonies over.  On the table near the couch lies an abundant array of papers, which Jongseong had been carefully reading for the past hour. It wasn’t much, really — just a bunch of reminders and training strategies Jongseong managed to create based on what he already knew about his tributes. 

They weren’t doing anything out of the ordinary, which begs the question —  who was outside their door ?

It wouldn’t be Sunghoon, Jongseong thinks as he finally stood up from the couch. His hands smooth down the wrinkles on his pants, his eyes narrowing as he slowly approaches the door with silent feet. No, it wouldn’t be Sunghoon. Jongseong knows that he knows it’s stupid to seek him out during the Games season because of the possibility of  cameras — unless he had no other choice because of—

Realization kicks in, and Jongseong just stops . 

Sunghoon wouldn’t be here because it's still midnight. It’s still early, and Sunghoon never comes back at this hour.  He has been desired too much — no client would ever let him go that easily. In fact, logically, since the Opening Ceremonies had just finished earlier in the afternoon and the mentors were tasked to lead them up to their suites to let them acclimate… which means… 

No. 

Jongseong takes a look at the hall — looks at the room where Heeseung is sleeping, and wishes for nothing more than to run to his arms again and weep; 

No, please. It’s too early. Seung, I can’t—

He opens the door. 

The servant, whose face is obscured primarily by the steel mask that covers everything except his left eye, stands outside the District 7 suite smelling like a freshly bloomed white rose. 

Jongseong stands in front of him, eyes wide in shock as he enters the scene. His hands stay at his sides; his fingers shake with every second that comes after. 

He doesn’t get it.  He doesn’t move, he doesn’t do anything. 

(Seung, please.)

Some tears began to form in his eyes, the tiny droplets threatening to fall over his eyes, yet he breathed it all in and pushed it back hard.  Carefully, he pushes his emotions down and places a mask over them — his features shifting to nonchalance as he quietly murmurs. “How many?”

The servant hesitates, his left eye filling with what Jongseong could identify as regret and pity. Slowly, he pulls out letters — one by one, because no client would ever request for him in the same letter — and quietly croaks out a number. 

“ Six.”

Jongseong takes a harsh breath, takes another look at the end of the hall, and wishes nothing more than to have died in the Arena.  

(Heeseung, I need you.)

Another moment passed, and he steeled his heart, pulled his shoulders back, and nodded. Jongseong steps out of the suite, closing the door behind him so gently before nodding at the servant once more. “Let's go.” 

Heeseung, I’m sorry. 

I am so, so sorry.

Chapter Text

Jongseong has a bruise on his neck.

It is a long bruise — several, actually — that is just bleeding red. It extended from his jawline and trickled down in big, angry marks that looked suspiciously like claws. His face was marred, too, with a purple bruise on his cheek.  His eyes are dark, he’s blinking too fast, and he’s been leaning too hard on his left foot — which tells Heeseung that something is wrong with his right. 

How does he know about this?

Well, he’d been looking at Jongseong, who had just arrived, which distracted Eunchae from finishing her food since she immediately rushed to the younger boy’s side. Their mentor, to his credit, immediately flashed the kid with a small smile — pausing from removing his shoes to change into more comfortable slippers while his left hand clutched at the stack of papers he had been holding. “Hi, Eunchae.” He says — and Heeseung immediately catches on the roughness of his voice and the way he winced with every syllable that follows.  

He narrows his eyes at this, intent on being silent just to observe him.  He knew that Jongseong didn’t go to sleep at the same time as them, waving them off (more to Eunchae, since Jongseong was now glaring at him at every chance he could get), so he must’ve gone somewhere after.  But where?

“Hi, sir. You missed breakfast! What happened?” Eunchae requires, her wide eyes flooding themselves with worry. To her credit, she doesn’t try to reach out and touch his marks — which Heeseung just knows fills Jongseong with relief. However, what the kid does is get all up in their mentor’s personal space — which, at every breath, makes Jongseong instinctively step back. Cue a small smile. “Did I? Oh, it’s okay. Are you done with your food?” 

“Yes.” Heeseung buts in, cleanly cutting Eunchae off from another one of her upcoming rambles, which gives Jongseong more time to just breathe.  The younger boy takes a breath at the sound of his voice, and his hands begin to tremble completely afterward, making Heeseung frown. However, he smoothly beckons Eunchae back to his side with a single tilt of his head — her steps light while Heeseung holds Jongseong’s gaze.  

His eyes, bright and wide and yet so familiarly brown, make Heeseung’s breath hitch just a little bit. He drowns in color, in the possibility, and the ending of it all — of what once was and what could have been, despite the circumstances they find themselves in.  How ironically sad is it that every time Heeseung finds himself in Jongseong’s eyes, he just drowns ? He feels it right now, even after all these years apart, the same familiar feeling. 

Now, as previously mentioned, Heeseung knows Jongseong too well. Far too well, since he could probably tell you a lot of things about him without blinking an eye. However, there was this one irrevocable truth — something Heeseung has always tried to run away from but he couldn’t, because he’s a weak man with a weak heart and his shoulders bear the weight of the world. 

It’s simply just this. 

Heeseung can see Jongseong. 

A simple statement by itself, but momentous in its own value.  You see, Jongseong has always prided himself in his capability of becoming the unreachable — his heart has long been in its little steel cage, in a fortress only he could ever visit.  Everyone in District 7— the kids in the school and even the neighbors thought he was nothing more than a soulless kid, a boy who had lost not only his parents but his own beating heart. 

But Heeseung knew better. 

He knew better than most, really. Wasn’t that already established? Years of trying and prodding and rattling, only Lee Heeseung managed to get through the gates of the fortress Jongseong carefully made. Only Lee Heeseung was able to witness the pure beating heart the younger boy held deep in his soul. 

He had access to it for years — a frequent visitor to a living art, a sole participant in the journey of Jongseong’s growth. 

For years, it was just him. 

But then it wasn’t —suddenly, Heeseung was thrown out of the gates and out of the fortress to the cold ground below. Suddenly, Heeseung could look at Jongseong’s eyes and see nothing anymore. 

And wasn’t that devastating? To have witnessed something beautiful and to have it all pulled away from you the next, wasn’t that the highest form of tragedy ?

But then again,  Heeseung shouldn’t have made the mistake of looking at Jongseong’s eyes and expecting him to let him in again. 

“Ah, alright then.” Jongseong carefully replied, his eyes a stormy brown that forced Heeseung out with a hitched inhale from his lungs. Selfishly, he feels the pool of hurt starting to spill over his stomach like an overflowing dam, but then Heeseung remembers that ah , he deserved it. 

So he accepts it.

“Both of you guys should stay for a moment. I need to discuss things with you guys before Sakura comes in and takes you both to the training room.” Jongseong says, his tongue carefully forming the words while his eyes flickered to the side as if he was seeing someone there. With a brief shake of his head after, Jongseong finally moves to the table and sits in front of his tributes with a weary sigh. 

Heeseung could see the barely concealed wince when Jongseong sat down, but his focus was immediately cut off because of the younger boy’s next words. Eunchae was sitting at attention as well, her eyes trained on their mentor’s while her lips curled up to a thoughtful frown. 

“Okay, now listen up. These next three days are important. This will be the chance for you guys to check out your competition. Not only that, you need to make sure that they know what you’re capable of — don’t show too much of it though, because they will be strategizing against you.” Jongseong mutters, his hand clenching and unclenching — his movement mechanical as if it was a soothing motion instead of a hurtful one. 

“Take it this way.  Imagine trying to balance on a tightrope while holding on to two silver plates.  Now, the left plate is the competition’s impression of you. You should be careful with it, as I said, because if you reveal too much about yourself your enemies would take note of it and devise their attack on you.  So what I would suggest is for you both to not linger between stations, most especially those stations where you are most proficient in.”

Another shaky breath. 

It seems like even breathing is hurting him. 

“Each year, every tribute reaped from the ball gets to have their profiles submitted to me. I took a look at them, but I need to confirm the details regarding your profiles. Eunchae, it said that you are proficient with a gardening hoe, correct?” Jongseong asks, his gaze firmly on the female who takes a breath and nodded. “Okay, there won’t be a gardening hoe in the arena, so I suggest for you to go for a knife, since its a versatile weapon and you could do a lot with it, but also try to go for a machete. Its weight should match the gardening hoe, so it won’t be too difficult to handle it. Heeseung—..”

Jongseong’s voice catches on his name, making Heeseung blink in surprise — the mentor’s eyes briefly flickered to life with the feeling of pain and regret before it settled back to its dull brown hue. “That means you have to stay away from the axes. Try to expand your knowledge of things at least — but I suggest you try knives or even a spear, it gives you a bit of a long range advantage, but then don’t overexert yourself. The Aces would probably have their eyes on you this year.”  He explains, taking a moment to close his eyes from what Heeseung could see is excruciating pain before he exhales. 

Jongseong’s shoulders are trembling. 

“Given our history and my volunteering for you, their mentors would probably or would have probably already told them to target you.  There’s nothing wrong with me and their mentors, but it’s the name of the game. And as much as I…” Jongseong winces again, his eyes blinking rapidly for one moment until he carefully reconstructs his mask. “It’s… well, the Aces are the ones to stay away from. This means, every single one from One, Two, and Four is not your friend, because they are trained to give a good show.   And this year, you being my collateral means…” 

Jongseong trails off, the term that fell on his lips an unfamiliar one, but Heeseung understands it just the same.

You see, everyone knows why Jongseong fought as he did. Everyone knows how he did and what he has done, and of course, everyone knows about the person he was fighting for.  Heeseung remembers how he was dragged for an interview for the Final Eight — he remembers how he was asked about their status as best friends and how the interviewer seemed so sad that they weren’t anymore.

Familiar hatred began to burn in his veins. 

For fuck’s sake.  Jongseong was fourteen. They were kids. Surely, they wouldn’t expect them to be more than they were right now?

But as Heeseung held his gaze once more,  realization began to creep in — that yes, they do care, and yes, the mere fact that he was the reason why Jongseong came home would be the reason why Heeseung wouldn’t be able to do it.

Fuck.

“You’re my collateral, and to make a good show, they’ll target you —..” (What Jongseong doesn’t say is this: and they will make me watch ).  “—.. so if you plan to stay alive for more than a day, I beg of you, don’t let them see what you’re capable of. If both of you seem to have any sort of proficiency with something, make sure to drop it. Don’t stay at one station for too long.  Stay together. I mean it. Trust no one else but know your enemy. Try to get to know what the other’s tells are. Spar if necessary, but I suggest focusing on your individual skills first. Always do things together so the people will know you are a team. Lastly, focus on survival skills as well. Learn how to make a fire and identify poisonous things. Remember the things you regularly see in the forests back home and apply them to your head. Everything counts. I mean it. They're watching you, so make every single moment count. Do you understand? All they want is a good show, and you may damn well give it to them if it means that you'll stay safe.”

Jongseong finishes with a hardened stare, as if he was trying his best to construct another wall of concrete to protect his heart.  Heeseung and Eunchae blink in surprise, and the elder boy’s chest squeezes. However, before Eunchae could reach out and speak, Jongseong cuts her off with a shaky voice.

“I won’t be here all day since I will be completing sponsorship deals and gathering enough funds for your Games. This is why Sakura will be arriving shortly since it will be her job to complete my duties in case of my absence. Don’t worry, I’ll be here every breakfast to hear about your training. Now go.” The mentor finally finishes, his mouth shutting close while his eyes squeezed shut.  His tributes stay in place. A moment passes, but then Jongseong opens his eyes and growls lowly. “Are you both deaf? I said, go. ” 

Eunchae flinches at the tone, her movements snapping into place — like a marionette on strings — leaving the living room immediately without another glance. Heeseung, however, stays in place — stubbornness winning over the confusion he had earlier felt. Both boys stared at each other hard — never budging, never stepping down… because there wasn’t any part of him that could ever leave Jongseong alone.

“Heeseung.” Jongseong says, and Heeseung immediately hates how he hears it — the unfamiliarity of the vowels, of the word, and the consonants — all because it was never just his name when it came to him. 

Where was the Seung ? Where was the boy who clung to his every step, with eyes so beautifully brown and a smile to match it?

Oh, how he hates him.

“ Please. ”

Heeseung hates Jongseong so much that hearing that single word — that single plea — makes his heart tear itself apart.  Jongseong never begs, he never asks for anything at all. Not even when his family went hungry back when he was twelve years old, not when his father was roughly punished for being late to work, and especially not when he needed something from Heeseung, it was always him doing everything for the elder,  them exploring new things with each other, them being together. 

It wasn’t like this. 

And that makes it hurt more. 

Heeseung takes a shaky breath, pulls back his seat, and stands up. Jongseong stays in place, their breaths not in sync — not anymore, all these years pushing them further and further away — yet their eyes never seemed to leave each other. Distantly, he could hear the door opening _ he could hear the familiar cadence of Sakura’s cool tone mixing in the heated air that seemed to form whenever he looked at his mentor. 

Distantly, he knows that he should move — that any time wasted is a time laced with regret. 

But he couldn’t. 

He couldn’t leave Jongseong, not now, not ever. 

And selfishly, he hates him for that too. 

Both Heeseung and Eunchae are already outside, clad in matching flexible black jumpsuits with their district number embroidered on their backs. Eunchae’s hair is in a long ponytail, and Heeseung’s lips are pursed into one thin line. 

Sakura is staring at him. 

“Hey.” Their district escort, clad in a black strapless dress with her hair down in a straight wave, greeted the mentor with a small smile.  This was a different sight for the tributes since she was always seen in bright, colorful outfits. It was a different sight to behold, but Heeseung remained impassive to it all — seeing Sakura at the door made him glower, his eyes narrowing in both disgust and curiosity as his arm instinctively wrapped around Eunchae’s waist protectively while he stared her down. However, Jongseong offers her a small smile,  gingerly leaning on the doorframe with his head tilted — a small smile forming on his lips to match hers. 

You see, Sakura Miyawaki might be Decelis-born, but she has one of the purest hearts Jongseong has ever witnessed. They first met in his first year as a mentor — he, fifteen years old, drowning in both alcohol and nicotine,  eyes plagued with the nightmares and the implications of his new job while dealing with the demons in his head, was sitting on the floor of the living room drunk with a raging headache. Sakura entered after a while, stared at him with big eyes filled with nothing but sympathy, and sat down beside him in silence. 

No words were exchanged, no pitiful nor sympathetic remarks exchanged, only a long moment of silence. 

That was the first time Jongseong ever cried.

“Hey, Kkura.” Jongseong mutters lowly, the rawness of his throat making him stumble over the words. He had miraculously managed to stand up and walk the tributes to the door without stumbling from pain — which he suffers from right now,  his legs shaking under the weight of holding his entire body upright. He clenches his hand to ground himself, the bruise on his palm digging deeper with his fingernails, breaking more of his skin. “I’m sorry, you must have been tired from the journey.” 

To her credit, Sakura doesn’t bat an eye at the mentor’s appearance. Years of working together made her realize that the best thing she could offer Jongseong when he gets like this is blatant ignorance while in public. This doesn’t mean that she wouldn’t worry about him. Jongseong knows that once they’re alone, Sakura will be the one to try to mend his wounds using what little knowledge she has of healing various injuries. 

“Don’t be ridiculous.” She replies with a small chuckle, her arms crossed. Her big eyes meet his, and she offers him a small head tilt, the unspoken question in her eyes going unanswered as he shrugs. “It’s my job, silly. I know how much they mean to you, and they mean so much to me, too.” 

At the side, Heeseung rolls his eyes hard. Butting in, his voice taking on a tone of sarcastic contempt as he spoke. “Sure. If we mean that much to you, then you shouldn’t have taken this job.”  Jongseong stiffens at the retort, his lips immediately moving to butt in — to try and protect his one Decelis friend — but Sakura beats him to it. 

She doesn’t move to face him, but her lips move in a quick yet soft reply — her tone gentle, as if she knew that it would happen, and yet she understood anyway. “Every name I called is a name I write against my heart. I understand what you mean, but please do not judge a person over the things they have done, most especially if they had to do it to survive. ” 

Heeseung blinks in surprise, mirroring Eunchae, who looks at Sakura in a new light. The kid was silent, which was an unusual sight, but Jongseong only took a breath and let out a bitter chuckle just to break the quiet. The older boy also stays silent, his eyes a storm of emotions and confusion that threatened to overwhelm his sight. Jongseong understands — Sakura was the one who called their names in the Reaping, the one who had sentenced them to this fate. 

What they didn’t understand is what Jongseong now did, after many trials and tribulations, after many talks and revelations, and after many misunderstandings and pain.  Sakura is a woman born in Decelis — a hell that Jongseong fell into — but not all those who are born there thrive in pain and agony. Not everyone loves to see the pain a tribute bleeds out; some would love nothing more than to stop it. However, as Jongseong had learned after all these years, change would not happen in a world that has been too conditioned to stay stagnant. 

In other words, change wouldn’t happen as long as power stays in the hands of a single person. 

What could they even do anyway, with the little power they have?

( Die ). 

“You should go.” Jongseong says, his eyes flickering toward the clock before returning to Sakura’s warm gaze. His lips curl in a thin smile, the movement painful, yet he bears it hard . The escort could only nod, taking a moment to raise her eyebrow.  

Both tributes could only gape in confusion as both mentor and escort stared each other down. 

“How many?” She asks, her voice low and raw in its emotion. Jongseong hesitates,  willing his eyes not to glance at the boy he loves before his lips form one word. 

“ Six .”

Sakura could only nod in understanding as Jongseong took this moment to leave, the door closing before her as Jongseong carefully turned the doorknob. He listens carefully, his ear against the wood — listening for the sound of footsteps fading from the door before his legs finally collapse. 

His body crashes to the floor, pain burning through his bones as his muscles begin to melt under the heat. Jongseong, finally alone, lets out a small whimper — his eyes squeezing shut as tears begin to form. 

A muffled sob begins to escape the mentor’s lips,  loud in its devastation — in its memories and regrets — as Jongseong lets out a painful wail. 

He can’t see anything.

He can’t hear anything. 

But a servant can — a servant could hear the wails from the one Victor Decelis hailed as one of the strongest. But… The servant wonders, his hands clutching another set of six letters on his hands. If he was the strongest, then why was he crying now ?

His left eye twitched in concern as he carefully took a step forward — his hand ready to knock on the door, but it fell down — hesitation forming in the pits of his stomach. 

Standing before the door, arms to the sides, never moving away from the entrance — he waits. 

Take your time. He thinks, eyes trained on the wall as he subtly takes a shaky breath, his black eyes glinting with sympathy underneath the fluorescent lights. 

You won’t have enough of that soon enough. 

Heeseung hates Sakura. 

That fact pushes him forward, ignoring how the elder female calmly matched his pace. However, he does care for Eunchae a lot — which means that he still has to slow down and listen to whatever their annoying escort has to say. 

Selfishly, he wishes for Jongseong. Heeseung wishes for nothing more than his presence, which inherently makes him hate the younger more, yet he still craves the entirety of him. He doesn’t want Sakura here— he doesn’t want the person who called Jongseong’s name all those years ago, he doesn’t want the person who called a kid’s name without feeling any remorse, and most especially, he does not want to be in the presence of a person who managed to pull a smile out of Jongseong when he couldn’t. 

However, life sucks, and here they are anyway. So, for Eunchae’s sake, Heeseung lets out a small sigh and lets his ears listen to their conversation. Their escort was speaking in low tones, her cadence a bit unusual to his ears — Heeseung was used to her over-emphasizing her vowels and her blatant dismissal of consonants that it jarred him to hear that Sakura could speak normally. Here’s what she said:

“Remember what your mentor said. Everyone is your competition, so don’t let them have more leverage than you. Stay off the Aces’ radar— did he explain that to you both? Who are they?” With Eunchae’s small head shake, Sakura only hums in understanding — her eyes flickering with something as they all walk down a downhill slope in an empty hallway. Up ahead, Heeseung could see two Peacekeepers guarding two metal doors — which made Sakura wince slightly and draw to a stop. She moves to face them, her eyes observing their surroundings first before talking to them in a low tone. 

“Every year, they are proclaimed as the strongest and most skilled tributes — which naturally leads them to ally with each other. We call them Aces since they ace every game and are highly proficient in their chosen skill. So you two need to stay off their radar and keep to yourselves because they are absolutely headstrong and ruthless. They will kill you if you don’t listen to your mentor, so make sure you both do, okay?” The escort finishes with a low murmur, her eyes showing nothing but absolute determination as she stares at each of them with a burning gaze. 

“Do your part, and I promise Jongseong will do anything in his power to save you.”

At her last statement, her eyes lingered on Heeseung — the intensity of her gaze making him feel something unusual in return. “And I mean anything .”

She meant something with her words, Heeseung thought — observing how she broke their gaze with a big smile, her hands pushing them forward as she exclaimed ecstatically. “ Are there any more questions? No? Okay! Well, you guys should go and have fun ! Don’t worry, I’ll be the one to fetch you once the training session is done. Bye now, my lovely sweethearts!” 

The whiplash in Sakura’s tone makes both Eunchae and Heeseung blink — their hearing turning into static, which makes them follow robotically. 

It was only when Heeseung managed to pull the kid close to him while the tributes gathered around in a big circle that he finally thought of a question he wasn’t able to ask. 

What did she mean about ‘anything’?

Chapter Text

Park Sunghoon downs his fifth shot, yet Jongseong thinks he looks better than he does. 

Which is simply ironic because they both had just finished their respective rounds with their clients. Sunghoon has a swollen throat, evident in how he winced every time he swallowed.  There were new gashes on his skin, new rope burns on his neck, and his hands kept on trembling even after he gritted his teeth.  At first glance, you wouldn’t notice it — but Jongseong could see that his foot was unnaturally bent at an awkward angle, which brings him to know that his clients had broken his bones too.

Seriously, how do they get off to that ? 

Jongseong, on the other hand, had so much burns on his skin that even breathing hurt him. His skin, a bronze expanse, was marred with multiple candle burns and slashes from a whip he couldn’t remember when he received it. Bites were all over his neck, trailing from his jawline down to his chest — makeup tried its best to cover it, but all it could do was put a sheen cover over it.  His broken ribs — still healing very slowly — were hell to deal with, primarily since every new potential sponsor wanted to physically embrace him. 

But no matter how many times his clients have fucked him over ten ways to Sunday,  Jongseong has never missed a chance to drink with his friend.

Here’s how today goes.

Evening barely began to break into the sky when he unanimously announced his presence by flopping down the couch beside him. Sunghoon could only chuckle, his eyes rolling as he neatly handed Jongseong a drink before downing another.  The older mentor could see the brown liquid — probably whiskey — and quietly assumed something was wrong. 

(Almost everything is).

Certain that Sunghoon would tell him at his own pace, Jongseong casually downs his shot — eyeing the bartender with a subtle smirk afterward just for a refill. Sunghoon usually needs time to speak, as proven by this instance. Jongseong looks at the younger impassively, expecting him to immediately know what the problem is.

However, what Jongseong saw was Sunghoon downright looking guilty at him — which, at some point, would raise no alarm. If it were any other year, Jongseong would simply sit down and listen closely. He always believed that there is nothing more noble than lending an ear, especially if you can’t barely move after all. This was a sacrifice he would make every single year just so that Sunghoon could tell him what was going on. 

But this isn’t any other year. 

“What is it?” Jongseong croaks out, his heart clenching hard in his chest — the muscles in his body straining as a sudden force freezes him into place.  Instantly, his mind goes to Eunchae first — his hands clenching themselves as he takes a shaky breath. 

“My girl?” He asks, his mind desperately on his knees, hands clasped in prayer while a mantra begs to pour itself out of his lips. 

Not her, not her not her not her not he—

Sunghoon shakes his head slowly. 

He opens his mouth. 

Everything freezes. 

His surroundings blur and focus and blur and focus and—

No. 

Suddenly, his hands held a fistful of fabric, his muscles straining and screaming at him to stop. Suddenly, his mouth was snarling, pouring obscenities faster than he could ever throw an axe, and God knows how ridiculously fast he is with an axe and may God help Sunghoon because he can’t breathe. 

And then suddenly he’s fourteen and he’s fifteen and he’s sixteen and twenty — he’s all the ages that passed, he’s all the time that has been bent. He is the space that drove them apart, yet he is the fire that burned both of their hearts. 

There is a loud roar from somewhere inside him, and he just tears it all apart . His body is screaming at him, and there is a girl with red hair somewhere, but he just can’t think.  There are hands on his body. There are touches everywhere, yet he does not stop. How could he? Heeseung… Heeseung is hurt . The one person he killed for. 

The only person he died for. 

How dare they. 

“For your sake, Sunghoon. Tell me something else. Anything else.” Jongseong whispers, his voice low — he can’t see anything. Nothing is real, and the world is shifting. Everything is not moving, and everything isn’t breathing. Air is nonexistent, and he is nonexistent. 

All Jongseong ever is… is fire. He is burning; he is a flame never extinguished. A spark left unattended, a flame burning in the embers of his rage. Fire is uncontrollable, fire is hot, fire is burning . 

And fire leaves nothing to chance. 

Heeseung was able to barely hold an ice pack against his swollen eye when the doors slammed open.

It’s a loud sound,  wood against the wall — it scares every single one of the servants (except for this one kid with a brown left eye) and even Sakura, who barely concealed her flinch. Eunchae lets out a whimper beside him, her hand on his with her thumb gently rubbing over the sleeve of his training suit on his wrist. 

He, however, knew who it was — his body showing no outward response except for a single breath. His chest, which was previously filled with fear, was immediately deflated, and he had to fight his lips so that it would remain closed without releasing a whimper. 

At the sight of the mentor, all of the servants began to slowly back away — even Eunchae, who clutched Heeseung’s hand to pull him back, as if Jongseong was merely a monster, not a man they knew. 

Heeseung stands his ground, his eyes trained on his best friend —  suspicion leaking into his gaze as he tries to meet Jongseong’s eyes.

They’re burning . 

You see, for all of the years he has known him, Heeseung has never seen Jongseong mad. It didn’t matter if his father was whipped in the town square. It didn’t matter when his mother was struck in the face by a Peacekeeper after dark.  Park Jongseong has never once given up and threw himself onto his fire. 

But that was before . 

Is this what changed?

Heeseung didn’t know Jongseong anymore. How many times does he need to remind himself of that fact before he does something stupid ?

Sakura straightened up from where she was kneeling, her hand holding the bandage that she had previously wrapped around Heeseung’s leg clenched against her palm. Calmly, she faces Jongseong, who looks… well… furious. 

Distantly, Heeseung sees her carefully shielding Eunchae from Jongseong’s view — leaving Heeseung wide open for the mentor to see. The younger female, sensing this, stood up quickly and moved behind him — breathing shakily as the moment passed. 

However, Sakura’s actions confused him — wasn’t he supposed to be hidden, given the circumstances? Did she not understand that Jongseong is mad because Heeseung had caused a riot , which may further dampen his chances and make his job harder?

“Calm down.” Their escort mutters, her eyes soothingly still as she slowly raises her hands. “He’s fine. I bandaged him up and gave him a little bit of the painkillers you like.” Her hand reaches out, palm resting against his forearm, only to be violently wrenched away by the glowering boy. Sakura stands her ground, her eyes glaring as she calmly repeats her words. “ Jongseong . He’s fine. He’s a bit bruised, but it’s nothing a night’s rest could fix. You know that. When have I ever lied to you?”

Heeseung takes another breath, his teeth biting down on his lower lip as he observes the scene. Eunchae was now frozen behind him — her hands shaking from where she clenched Heeseung’s shoulders. 

It hurts, but he grits his teeth and listens. 

It takes a long while as both mentor and escort face each other with contrasting energies. Sakura exuded so much calm fluidity that Heeseung momentarily held respect for her — but Jongseong’s fire seemed to burn brighter despite it, like a predator circling around his prey. 

“Leave.” Their mentor replied, his tone bordering on murderous — his eyes a pool of dark brown — flickering with all his anger. Soon enough, Heeseung finds himself fixated on Jongseong’s eyes, which have flickered to meet his own gaze. A whimper finally escapes his lips as he finds himself drenched in Jongseong’s familiar energy. 

He’s drowning— no, burning — and yet he welcomes it.  

( He hates him so bad because he craves it) . 

A moment passes.

Sakura does not move, her eyes narrowing as she crosses her arms in defiance. “Jongseong.” She says, her tongue sharp with a warning as clear as day — You will not harm him. — in which the mentor matches with a growl of his own. “Are you deaf? I said, leave. Everyone—..” His voice grows louder in volume, his words as sharp as steel as he takes a subtle breath. “Leave now, or you will get to witness why I won my Games.”  ( When have I ever hurt him ? )

Heeseung watches as all the servants begin to leave, even Sakura, who gently tugs Eunchae away. The younger kid, bless her heart, tried to hold onto Heeseung — her hands digging into his shoulder blades, making him wince. The sound makes Jongseong snap his gaze to the younger female, his fury reaching her in waves of flickering flames that make her step back instinctively. “Eunchae.” Their mentor breathes out, his voice obviously at war with himself so he couldn’t hurt her .  His restraint on himself makes his tone come out as a low murmur — his eyes softening as he whispers a soft “ Please. ”

“Come on,” Sakura whispers beside her, her hands reaching to pull Eunchae to her side. “Let's go to your room.” Distantly, Heeseung thinks that Sakura is smart. He doesn’t think about that further. 

Everyone leaves them both alone; Jongseong’s eyes carefully observe everyone who passes through the doors before he takes a shaky breath. His eyes flicker to Heeseung, meeting his gaze with something unreadable. 

You see, Heeseung was prepared to flinch, he was prepared to meet his fiery gaze, he was prepared to listen to his fiery anger —

But he wasn’t prepared for this. 

“ Seung… ”

Jongseong can’t breathe. 

“Seung.” He repeats, his eyes softening as he quietly approaches Heeseung, who inhales a shaky breath. Quietly, albeit hesitantly, the younger boy reaches out to gently touch his chin — the pad of his thumb pushing Heeseung’s face upward.  Slowly, yet oh so delicately, he removes the bandage Sakura has made to reveal the bruise he has on his skin. 

Sunghoon didn’t lie. 

There was a huge slice on his temple. The tip of it barely reached his tear gland. It was still red, which means it was fresh — and whatever hit him must have used a really sharp object since Jongseong could still see small speckles of blood that remained stubbornly on his skin.  Heeseung winces every time he touches the bruise, making Jongseong’s chest begin to fill itself up with the familiar flames of rage and hatred he had clearly only started to suppress. 

I could kill them all. He thinks to himself, entertaining the fury he has in his chest. It is a festering wound, a growing pain, a dripping blade of blood and gore. 

Anything for you. 

He shoves it all down. 

“I’m sorry.” He whispers, his voice lowering to a whisper — his fingers lingering on the side of the elder’s face while he lets out a soft murmur. “ I’m really sorry, Seung .” Double meaning, triple meaning, a fountain of meanings — he lets himself apologize to Heeseung for all of the things he has done and for all of the things that he will continue to do because life is unfair to think of doing anything else.

It is also unfair in the sense that his nickname is what sends Jongseong to tears — hot, stubborn ones, like liquid fire dripping down from his eyes to his cheeks. The name tastes so familiar in his tongue yet it turns toxic the next moment — blinding him with the familiarity of everything and the unfamiliarity of them . 

Oh, my love. Jongseong thinks as he moves to gently dabble ointment on his bruise — his touch gentle as the breeze, soft as the feathers that once fell from the pillows they used to share. It brings the mentor to more tears, his hands shaking slightly as Heeseung doesn’t speak. He could feel his eyes on his own, searching for something he knew he would, but Jongseong hid it all with his words and barely concealed worry .  “I know what happened, but do you want to tell me everything?” He offers, a hand wiping his own tear — the salt making itself known through the bruises he owns — while a small smile forms on his lips. “It’s okay if you don’t. It’s okay if you won’t. I know that we… I know that this is a bit unorthodox, and I’m so sorry that it is. I didn’t warn you enough, I didn’t help you more, and I’m sorry. I’ll do better, I promise, and it won’t happen again. Not until the Games, and not af—” After , Jongseong thinks bitterly to himself, knowing damn well that it was becoming an impossibility. “—I just… I’m sorry, Seung.” He finishes, his fingers gently pressing down a fresh bandage on his skin — the pads of his fingers rubbing the wound with a softness he could never replicate for his own. 

Silence passes.  He waits with bated breath, his hand falling down to his side after a few more — his eyes never leaving Heeseung’s, who looked unreadable. 

Jongseong understands. 

He always did. 

With a shaky breath of his own, he takes a step away— one foot after the other, his back turning. “I’ll be in my room.” He says quietly, fully intending to let Heeseung be, knowing that he wouldn’t want to be in his presence anyway—

“They said it was your fault.”

Jongseong stops. He takes a shuddering breath, yet he stays very, very still. 

Behind him, Heeseung laughs lowly — humor gone from his tone, a cackle deep in his throat. “Eunchae and I did what you said. We stuck together. Survival stations first — we relearned how to light a fire; apparently, you can make a fire out of cloth and flint, we also touched upon the plant identification station… and even the ropes section where we met someone. District 8, Hyunseo.   She wanted to exchange information with us, seeing that District 8 had no forests at all…Eunchae tried to tell her about the poisonous oleander she was holding, but I took over the conversation and told her a little about the oak tree and how it was best for making weapons, ” Heeseung mutters, betraying nothing in his tone of voice as he waited to see if Jongseong would say something.

Jongseong doesn’t. 

Instead, he barely conceals a wince as he slowly takes another breath. 

“We both tried the weapons. Eunchae liked the throwing knives — the karambits, the ones with the slightly curved edge. I tried using the machetes, and it’s fine. Kind of heavy, so I’ll try something else tomorrow. The 10 kids were watching us, but I glared right back. Didn’t want to talk, so…”

Jongseong winces at the implications, yet he stays silent. His feet wobble with the weight of his body — his fractured ribs agonizing his every breath, his vision clearing and blurring all at once. It is punishment for standing too long, the mentor thinks — his mind reminding him of the ordeal he went through the whole day — but despite all of that, he remains very still. 

“1, 2, and 4. They’re the aces, don’t know why they’re called that, but you know,” Heeseung mutters, his tone souring — Jongseong struggles not to look. . “Complete show-offs.  While Eunchae and I were in the fire-starting section, they were toying around.  The Ones are good with a bow and arrow, The Twos had their spears and maces, and the Fours had their tridents.”

At this, Heeseung finally reveals what Jongseong was dreading to hear once again. 

“They were strong, and they wanted everyone to know it. Especially me, because I made sure that everyone knew that I did not give a fuck about everyone else but Eunchae. This angered the One girl. Her name is Yuna.” 

Jongseong’s hands turned into fists. 

“She went over to the fire-starting section and proceeded to yell at me. All hysterics, all loud, and all throat raw. She said I stole her bow, which was absolute bullshit because everyone with an eye could see that I didn’t. Eunchae tried to say something, but Yuna kicked her and proceeded to fight me.” 

At this, Heeseung lets out a dry chuckle — his voice letting out the pain and hurt he had been holding for Eunchae’s sake, Jongseong thinks sadly, as he rambles on. “The people from Two held me down, and she sliced with the tip of her arrowhead. It hurts like a damn bitch, and she was going to go for my eye — but what hurt more was that she yelled something about me being your collateral. ”

That word. 

That word is reminiscent of the years that passed between them, from his first year being a mentor to this — years of looking on people, his fellow mentors, losing everyone they have ever loved, because no one ever wins the Games.  

There are survivors, but there are no winners. 

And wasn’t that unfair? Jongseong was secure . Year after year, the deep-rooted fear of having to mentor him began to fade. Year after year, death after death, Jongseong was about to feel happy . Soon, after this year, Heeseung will grow out of the Reaping. Soon, after this year, he would be safe. 

He was wrong. 

And that was the saddest thing of it all, wasn’t it?

“They said that it's because you volunteered for me that I became your collateral. They said that it was your fault that I am here today because Decelis needs to have a story, and ours is what they want to tell. They said that it was because of you that I had to suffer and that I should have been here during your Games. They said that it's because of you that I have to die.”

Jongseong doesn’t know what to think anymore.

Heeseung lets out a loud chuckle then, and Jongseong just knows that he’s fighting the tears that are in his eyes now. Because he himself is fighting the same thing. 

Because this feels like something. Jongseong knows that Heeseung is crying because he is too. He knows the elder too well at this point, okay? 

He loves the elder too much at this point, okay?

“And I think that they’re right.” Heeseung rasps out afterwards and Jongseong just fights himself hard. He kicks his soul hard and forces himself to stay still. He can’t look at him. He can’t see him. All he could do was to listen because he understood. He understands, okay?

But it hurts. 

Seung, please. 

“You shouldn’t have volunteered. You should’ve stayed in your place. You should have let me go. You should have let me die. Seong—..” Jongseong lets out a whimper. He can’t help it. Not anymore. It’s been so long . “—You should have let me die.”  Heeseung repeats, his voice cracking at the end — silence comes next, and the air feels too hot and too heavy, and it feels like that day.  

It feels like that day when a fourteen-year-old boy volunteered for his best friend, all because of a four-letter word. 

Love. 

“And I blame you for that.” Heeseung finishes him off and oh , Jongseong just wishes he had stabbed him instead. He wishes that he was on the floor, bleeding out from a wound, life draining from his eyes. He wishes that he was back in the arena, defenseless and cold, at the mercy of the District 7 female in front of him. 

He wishes that he had died in the arena. 

He wishes he wasn’t here at all. 

He wishes that nothing was ever real. 

He wishes and wishes and wishes… 

But nothing comes true. 

Nothing ever will. 

“Jongseong?”

“Jongseong. What should they know for Day 2?”

“Would you still be here for dinner later, Jong sir?” 

“Jongseong?——” 

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Chapter Text

Sakura Miyawaki is a woman born from hell.

Even if she wanted to deny it, she was. A Decelis-born, through and through — evident in the way she held herself higher than the tributes, from the servants, and even from one of her only friends — Park Jongseong, one of the youngest Victors when they have won their Games. Sakura Miyawaki knows that she had a far more comfortable life than they did, a pleasant life that she doesn’t deserve, but then again  — it is not the life she wanted from the start. 

No, she never asked for this. 

But that was rather selfish of her to think of, right?

So she doesn’t. 

Sakura does not think about anything else than her job — take the train to District 7,  wear her newest wig — the color always so obnoxiously bright — and regale the tale of the War to the citizens, who she knows would rather stick one of their axes to her stomach than listen to one more word she has to say.

She didn’t want this life, she didn’t want to be here , but here she was anyway. Years pass, time flows, and the clock ticks and fades like quicksand. She is still here anyway,  holding her head up and trying her best to walk the fine line between her birth and what she actually wanted. 

It doesn’t matter anyway. Not even when all she wanted was to truly help the tributes — her heart was bursting at the seams, the names of all she called echoing in its chamber like a lonely siren call.  Sakura viewed them all as children at some point, her mind capturing every awed–eyed moment the tributes shared every time she showed them a part of her world.  Everything is precious, and every moment is held with love in her heart because she simply knows that she was the reason why they were even here in the first place. How selfish would she be if she tried to forget them? 

Now, after years of doing this job, she knows it too well — in fact, she knows Jongseong too well. She had worked for him for years now, nearly a decade, having been reassigned to District 7 after her… well… assignment at District 5. Some escorts say that she was demoted — her rank in their society demolished, her life ruined. They all said being in District 7 was a ticket to madness, seeing that their reigning Victor was one of the most brutal of them all — but Sakura disagreed.   

How could she when she got to know the mentor personally?

Sakura knows his Games — she had watched it even — so she knows how he won. She remembers how it went, remembers seeing him up close during the interviews, and even remembers how brutal of a monster he had become because of what he did. 

You see, dear reader, Park Jongseong was not just a Victor. 

He is a Quell Victor. 

The Quell, or more simply, the Games that transpire every ten years, is a special way for Decelis to add more punishment into the mix.  It is a way for their president to assert more power over the districts, seeing that for every ten years, there is a proclaimed special rule that brings more tension to the Games itself. 

Jongseong’s year was one of the worst. 

She remembers it clearly.  Too clearly, in fact, because she could just close her eyes and then immediately see what he had done — what he was forced to do. During his year, the rule was that every district must produce a pair of tributes for the ages of fourteen to seventeen . This was to commemorate all of the Decelis children who the Districts had killed during the War. 

That year was brutal because even the Aces couldn’t provide a tribute because they weren’t prepared enough. 

However, from her standpoint, the roster during that year was fine. Mostly since all of the tributes before and after District 7 produced a pair of seventeen-year-olds.  They were all at the end of the special age bracket and were nearly safe for that year but weren’t.

It was fine, mostly. 

But then, Lee Heeseung was reaped.

And Park Jongseong volunteered. 

He was the youngest of them all. 

At fourteen years old, he was the underdog. No one really believed that he would win. How could they? He was the weakling, the only one who couldn’t be heavier than the regular tribute a hundred pounds soaking wet. His odds were against him; everything was against him, but still, he was the one who came out as the winner.  

Why?

It’s for the boy she’s observing right now.

Lee Heeseung,  the boy who couldn’t even meet her eyes without becoming so hateful but nervous simultaneously.

She understands why, of course. However, what she doesn’t understand is how he could still be here and look at his mentor with nothing more than hate in his eyes, even after everything Jongseong has done for him. 

How selfish. Sakura quietly thinks to herself, observing and reading more into Heeseung’s gaze as if it were one of the books she loved to read. It had a mixture of hate, of course, but there was some sort of twisted longing in there, too — Sakura thinks he has his hand out for something he wishes to see, but not someone he needed to have. 

But then again, understanding takes root in the deepest part of her soul — a flashback of something, of a girl with long hair and a pretty daring smile dancing in her thoughts — as she leans back to take a sip of her coffee. The bitterness of the taste keeps her awake. 

She clears her throat, making both tributes snap their gazes towards her. Eunchae stops from finishing her chocolate pancake (her favorite, which made Sakura quietly gesture for her to take another bite). Heeseung wretches his gaze away from Jongseong, who doesn’t even blink. 

The younger boy seemed to have tapped out of existence, as evident by his lack of presence and the lack of light in his eyes. His movements are mechanical, his pain from his wounds ignored as he quietly takes a sip of his coffee — and even the bitter liquid did not procure any kind of reaction from him at all. It is as if he’s not there — it is as if he is a ghost of his own doing, a victim finally burned alive by his own fire. 

Something happened, Sakura thinks — eyeing Heeseung, whom she catches,  making another hurtful gaze at the latter boy.  Selfish , she thinks again — her lips pursing with the carnal need not to say anything out of line because of the fact that her best friend is hurting. 

Physically and mentally hurting. 

But was Heeseung the only one to blame?

Ignoring the state of their mentor and her own thoughts about the matter, for the tributes’ sake, Sakura takes a deep breath and mutters in a soft yet firm voice. “Listen, you two. Today is Day Two of training. From what I know from before, this will be the day when most of the officials will be there to observe you. Continue what you guys are doing before, but please stay together. Try to observe more about your competition, and write them down after the training session if you must. However…” She clears her throat, sensing Heeseung’s guilt and unease a mile away.  Her eyes meet his, and she holds it — her emotions carefully sealed under her mask of nonchalance as she speaks again. “Go directly to the axes. Scare them if you have to, but make sure that they back off because if they don’t, then you will be the first they will come to the arena. Not even your mentor could save you.”

At her words, Heeseung takes a shallow breath — the same amount of fear swirling in his chest like a storm ready to unleash.  Sakura wondered when that would be, her eyes flickering to Jongseong, who again had not made any noise of agreement, and thought to herself how fire and water couldn’t coexist after all. 

“Will you both be here when we finish?” Eunchae speaks up timidly — her wide eyes vulnerably showing Sakura her own fear, yet her lips remain determinedly shut. Quietly, the escort lets herself soften at the younger female — the urge to take care of her increasing tenfold as she quietly replies.  “Of course, sweetheart. I’ll be here, waiting for your arrival. As for your mentor…”  she trails off, eyeing Jongseong with a slight frown.  

He seems to look worse. Sakura thinks, her eyes catching on all the bruises he has tried to cover up.  For all of the years she has known him, for all of the nights they have shared together — sharing secrets under the stars while she bandaged his wounds — Park Jongseong looked… well, like death. 

( How much longer can he take this? )

Stubbornly, she looks at Heeseung again. 

He’s looking back at her. 

An eyebrow rose, her eyes flickering a challenge to Heeseung, which only he could read. “He’ll be out for the whole day and will be back for tomorrow.  Eunchae, Heeseung, please go and get ready. I just need to talk to someone for a minute, and then I will be back to walk you to the training area.” 

She quickly stands up with a grace she had learned over the years — her hands quietly reaching out to rub Jongseong’s shoulders before leaving. 

However, she did catch Heeseung reaching out to hesitantly rub Jongseong’s shoulders as well. 

This makes her smile. 

“What happened to him?” 

Sim Jaeyun, the mentor of the District 10 tributes and one of Park Sunghoon’s closest friends, uttered lowly in his ear. The younger could only shrug, his trembling hands forcing themselves to let him take a sip of his red wine.  It does nothing to calm his nerves, but his vision clears — the ache of his swollen throat dulling itself with the wine’s delicious sting.  “The sponsors are enjoying him a little bit too much, aren’t they?” 

He agrees.  Jongseong has been weird all day — first of all, he arrived in the Mentor’s lounge looking so dead in the eyes that he even scared the most frightening of the mentors involved this year. No one could talk to him, not really, because every time someone could, he would offer no response. 

His eyes were clouded with something indescribable, his movements jerking off from one moment to another, and even if they tried to press on one of his fresh bruises, Jongseong stayed perfectly still, as if he was a walking corpse instead of a human being. 

Something must have happened, and that something must be the reason why Sakura Miyawaki, the District 7 escort, pulled him aside earlier this morning. 

“Look.” Sakura mutters, her Decelis-born accent unusually absent from her tone of voice. “I don’t exactly tolerate you, and you don't exactly tolerate me. However, Jongseong is currently out of it . I think you could figure out why. ”

Of course he does. 

Love, stupid love. Love in its purest form, in Sunghoon’s humble opinion.  He watches Jongseong gaze at the window, peering over the horizon with a bread knife in his hand and thinks that love destroys. Wasn’t it the only logical explanation? Love is love, and yet it burns . 

It burns like Jongseong wrapping his fingers around his throat, his eyes wild with his lips curling up into a snarl. Pay no mistake: Sunghoon is also a Victor. He knows how to kill and could have easily broken Jongseong’s neck like a twig. He did not win his Games only by his looks, mind you, no matter how he was led to believe otherwise.

However, Jongseong?

Oh, he’s a monster. 

Could monsters love? Sunghoon asks himself, the same old question ringing in his brain like all those years ago — when most men and women lowered themselves down on him while whispering the same words repeatedly. So lovely, my love. Oh, how I have waited for this moment.  Could a monster love without repercussions, without any pain, or any harm? Or are they doomed to fall in love and die by the very own flames of their desire?

Slowly, anger begins to rise — the familiar little hurricane of storms overcoming his house of stone.  Slowly, he could feel the familiar storm brewing in his mind, his chest twisting itself as he breathed in and out. 

His own wounds, his broken foot — it all ached. However, he pulls himself together to answer his friend. “He’s going through a lot right now.” Sunghoon mumbles, keeping it simple as he keeps his eyes on Jongseong.  Jaeyun only shrugs, back leaning against the couch they’ve been sitting on for the past few hours — courtesy of Sunghoon, who was dealing with his own set of sponsors all morning.  “Aren’t we all? Look around you, man.” Jaeyun responds, nodding at the number of mentors entangled in the arms of wealthy men and women — offering themselves for their tributes’ safeties. 

There were a bunch of familiar faces, the mentors of every tribute, all entangled in the arms of a sponsor — Victors giving away their souls in exchange for their tributes’ freedom. Chaewon’s eyes meet his before flickering to Jongseong, making her own widen in soft sympathy before she moves her hips to meet her sponsor’s hand.  He could see Choi Yeonjun speaking to a male sponsor, leaning in closely before sending a soft nod to them both.  There was the ever-elusive Choi Soobin, who was glaring daggers at whoever Yeonjun was talking to, yet he offered a slight nod once he caught Sunghoon’s eyes. 

Look at them. Look at us. How much further shall they die not to have another life on their hands?

Watching Jongseong now be embraced by a sponsor,  her hands sneakily grasping his chest — his head throwing itself back into a practiced moan that makes the woman smile. It’s disgusting in nature yet necessary for the future — one that Park Sunghoon knows far too well. It is a game, isn’t it? Bounded by rules, a dance forever made for them to die on. 

However, as Jongseong is forced to entertain another woman who leans in and kisses him fully… Sunghoon finally decides to do something very impulsive — something that may break the rules. 

He shouldn’t. He knows that far too well. 

But just this once, maybe he could bend the rules for a friend. 

Just this once.

He had barely sat down on the couch in the District 7 suite when someone slammed the door open again. 

But this time, it wasn’t Jongseong. 

Heeseung finally flinched in fear once the towering stature of Park Sunghoon, the Victor of the 51st Hunger Games and an Ace tribute, entered the room with a flourish.  He wasn’t even given a chance to breathe when he was suddenly pulled up by a fistful of fabric and slammed into a wall. Eunchae let out a cry of shock, her little arms trying to pull the mentor away from him while she screamed for help — Sakura had just left them alone, mumbling something about a meeting of some sort— but Sunghoon only leveled the kid with a glare before pushing her away, making her land on the ground. 

Heeseung doesn’t know what to do. He tried to fight back, believe him, but Sunghoon was just too strong. His mind races with every single possibility, with any possible reason why the mentor of District One could be here at all, only to come up with the incident that happened yesterday, and oh , was he going to finish what they started?

His bruise aches at the thought. 

“Oh, what? Decided you couldn’t fight me?” Sunghoon sneered, his eyes lowering into slits as he snarled. “How pathetic. Even your district partner has more fight than you.” Heeseung can’t breathe. He can’t breathe. 

“What did Jongseong even see in you, Lee Heeseung?” Sunghoon spats out, and Heeseung just can’t help but stiffen. Confusion begins to pool in his eyes — wasn’t the latter here because he caused a riot with his tributes?  What was he even doing here?

Sunghoon catches the look and laughs . He throws his head back, his eyes blazing with both humor and annoyance. 

“What did he even see in you? Why did he even fight for you? I can’t understand it.” He seethes, his eyes narrowing in annoyance while he tightens his hold on Heeseung’s suit. The threads are barely holding themselves together at this point. “Why would he give everything to someone who doesn’t even want to understand?”

Heeseung finally snaps, his eyes narrowing at the words — at Sunghoon’s implications — his face sneering at the younger boy. “ I don’t care ? Of course, I fucking care! Who are you to dictate what I am feeling? I, out of all people, understand him the most—..”

Sunghoon slams him back to the wall again, his anger growing tenfold — his hurricane reaching the storm. 

“ Understand ? You? How fucking selfish are you, huh? He gave everything to you. He fought for you; he gave everything so you wouldn’t have to be here. He failed, so what ? He’s still fucking doing shit for you while you stand here being all whiny just because he wouldn’t bat an eye for your wants. You don’t know what he has done for you.  You don’t know what he is doing for you. And—..”

The door slams open again. 

It stops Sunghoon, his grip on Heeseung’s suit loosening as he turns to look at the intruder — but before he can even move, a hand harshly pulls him by his shirt and slams him on the floor. 

“ Leave. ”

Heeseung lets out a whimper. 

Jongseong . 

Behind him, Eunchae was gasping for breath — her hand grasping her chest while she heaved soundlessly. Her eyes flickered towards her fellow tribute, checking him for any injuries, yet Heeseung couldn’t even focus. His hands trembled, and the weight of all of Sunghoon’s words began to pull him under as he let out another whimper.

It hurts it hurtsithurtsithur—

Jongseong doesn’t look back at him, but he does let his body move on his own accord. Gone was the hazy gleam in his eyes; now, it was just two twin pools of darkened hues — two twin flames begging for release.

“Leave.” His mentor repeats, his tone a harsh slap to the ears. Heeseung could feel his fire growing hotter in intensity, could feel his burning embers turning brighter, could feel nothing but the ever-growing promise of destruction that Jongseong never delivers unless you truly pissed him off.  A smile began to form on his lips, and a cold, cruel laughter was emitted from his heaving lungs. “Or did you forget that I can kill you?” 

( Did you forget that I can kill you all ?)

Heeseung couldn’t even focus on seeing whether Sunghoon actually did — his mind relentlessly punished him with the images of before. Suddenly, he was back in the training area, being pinned down by two gnarly men while a wispy female with red hair sliced through his skin like it was hers to use.  Suddenly, he was crying out in pain, and then he was begging for them to stop stop s top please stop it hurts hurts hurt—

It’s your mentor’s fault why you’re here, Seven! 

You’re just weak . You would’ve died before, but it is great to see you die this time. 

Should I thank your precious boyfriend that you’re here so that I could kill you?

Should I thank him because he marked you for death ?

“I’m sorry.” 

“I’m sorry—..”

“ Oh please. I’m sorry. Please.”

“ Seong, please. ”

“ I’m so sorry, Seong. ”

Everything in his whole body hurts. 

His bones hurt, his muscles hurt, his brain hurt, his chest hurt. 

His heart hurts. 

There was that familiar smell of blood somewhere on him, but Jongseong couldn’t care less. He doesn’t even remember why or how he got to that point anyway. All he ever cared about was the boy he held up to his chest. 

He doesn’t know who he is. 

All he could remember was that this moment was important. 

Or, this boy is important. 

As Park Jongseong carefully lifted the boy in his arms, letting him sag from the weight of it all, his mind conjured up some kind of feeling that made him stop in his tracks. 

It’s a warm feeling — not too hot like the flames he threw himself in, not too hot like the blinding rage he felt from before, but it's more like the fireplace inside of a brightly lit cabin. It’s like the way his feet would sink under the bearskin carpet. It’s like a glass of hot tea, a sniff of pinecones, and the taste of freshly baked walnuts. It’s like the warmth between two boys with hands interlocked, their smiles bright, and their hearts bursting with hope for the future they have started together. 

It feels like… home . 

Briefly, he wonders. 

Is this love ?

Chapter Text

Heeseung is going to cry soon. 

In fact, it's amazing how he hasn’t given everything that has happened to him in the last few days. He has been reaped, his mentor is his best friend whom he has not spoken to in years, his fellow tribute is a kid , his escort pisses him off, and he’s been horribly slashed and tackled to a wall when all he ever wanted was to sleep . 

But it only took one glance, just one glance at Park Jongseong — that’s what it took for him to break. 

It’s a full-on sob, a wave of both regret and hurt crashing through the carefully made wall he constructed around his heart. It’s a twisting pain that would bring anyone to their knees — it brings the strongest of people begging for sweet release. It is the cut that would always bleed — a wound long festered enough to remain a scar, yet it still stings enough to feel like it's still new. 

He is sobbing, crying, breaking down on his knees. His eyes are shut, his lips mumbling a phrase over and over again like it's a mantra — one that he burned to his chest, a set of new bruises that he accepted just because he deserves it. He does, and always will — for this wouldn’t have happened if he hadn’t, right?

“ Seong. ” Heeseung croaks out; his voice shattered with both relief and guilt once they were both alone. (He doesn’t know where Eunchae went). His arms were aching, yet he reached out blindly — hand tugging on the younger’s sleeve, wanting nothing more than to see him. Call it selfish, call it undeserving, but he is just so tired and absolutely drained because he’s a fucking tribute and he may well die in a few days and just please, he just needs to se—

Jongseong does not answer. 

He’s not even moving .

“Seong.” Heeseung whispers again, tugging on the other’s sleeve more incessantly. He stands on weak knees, his feet wobbly as he repeats his words — hands grabbing onto arms to pull the younger to face him, and oh, he flinched. 

Jongseong flinched. 

He never flinches. Not once, not ever.  He has never seen him do so, most especially during the years they both shared — Lee Heeseung was just so sure that there was nothing in the world that could make Jongseong’s body move out of his own accord. He is a rock, he is steady, he is the lifeline Heeseung has selfishly grasped onto. It saved him through every single turmoil in his life, saved him from drowning in anything other than his brown eyes. 

And yet here he was, he’s drowning now; the waves are taking him over. Nothing is near, no one is going to save him. His hands are reaching out and yet he finds nothing . Nothing is going to save him now. He is going to die.  

Was it all his fault?

“Seong, I—..” Heeseung trails off, hurt filling his chest as he searches for something in his eyes. All he gets is nothing . There is a void in Jongseong’s gaze now, a whiplash from the fury he has burned Sunghoon with earlier — gone was the unreadable yearning, gone was the hurt, gone was the shock — Heeseung looks at Jongseong and sees the familiar brown hues, yet nothing in him drowns in it. 

There is nothing in Heeseung that makes him even want to. 

He takes a step back. 

Jongseong takes a step forward. 

“What are you—..” Robotically, but in a blink, Jongseong has managed to lift Heeseung up and carry him in his arms. Suddenly, his head is nestled perfectly on his chest,  his body supported by strong arms, and his feet are in the air. The younger takes a shaky breath, and Heeseung catches it — confusion giving way to revelation as he quickly exclaims. “What are you doing? Put me down!—..” Heeseung tries to say, his arms weakly pushing the younger away, yet all he ever does is to make him grip his body tighter. 

He doesn’t even try to fight it anymore, his hands falling slack to his sides while his eyes glue themselves in observing Jongseong’s face. His gaze wanders to every inch of his skin, realization sinking in as he blatantly widens his eyes because of the various bruises Jongseong has.  He has a lot, and god has he not observed this before?

Didn’t he see this before?

Peering closer, he could see more — his heart twisting with every step the younger takes. There are fresh bruises — purple, reds, blues — and scars, barely covered by the makeup he was sure Jongseong tried to do but had failed completely. There were scratches on his skin, burns on his neck, and teeth bites everywhere — Heeseung took a shaky breath at every turn, his heart twisting further and further and further and further. 

Oh, my love. What have they done to you?

Tears threaten to fall from his eyes, a fresh wave of agony pulling him under as they finally reach their destination. Heeseung expected that it would be his own room, seeing the logic of Jongseong lying him down on his own bed an act of protection from a mentor to his tribute… but as the younger gently lies him down on the bed, Heeseung quickly realizes that it wasn’t his room. No, not at all. 

It’s Jongseong’s.

It’s Jongseong’s blanket he is blanketed with right now, it is Jongseong’s mattress he is lying down right now, and it is Jongseong’s scent he is smelling right now — the familiar warm tones of home filling his lungs, making more tears form in the corner of his eyes. His heart sings for it, the loss of home a wave of hurt crashing his bones. He feels his lungs shatter, his muscles strain, and all he wants is to be home, and it’s here, home is right here, its right here, and Heeseung just—

 “ Don’t .” The younger mutters, a small part of his own personality breaking through his cloudy reverie as Jongseong stared Heeseung down.  It breaks the elder’s thoughts, his eyes widening as he whispers his response in return. “Don’t what, Seong?” 

It seems like he’s coming back — the mechanical movements of his body a contrast with his stare — his brown eyes a flood of hurt mixed with something unrecognizable. Heeseung could see a bruise near his temple, a fresh cut — matching his own — which made him try to reach out to… well, touch him. Do something about it. Anything, really. 

Jongseong shakes his head. 

The younger pulls away from the elder, his eyes darkening with something as he carefully maneuvers his body to sit on the corner of his own bed.  A whimper escapes Heeseung’s lips — he can’t help it, he just needed to do something, and yet he’s being denied of it — but it all gets shut down by the younger’s words. 

“You’re so unfair.”  Jongseong mutters, his voice carrying through the wind like a gentle caress to his skin — yet instead of comfort, all Heeseung feels is the sting. Silence comes afterward, a heavy weight on both of their shoulders like the widening gap between them — separating them more and more and more like how all of these years passed by. “You’re so unfair, Seung. I don’t—...” Jongseong took a shaky breath, clarity evident in how his teeth bit down into his plush lips while his hand clenched and unclenched — Heeseung could see how his fingernails dug into the palm of his hand hard enough to make a mark. Yet, Jongseong continues to talk as if the pain is merely irrelevant. 

Like whatever he feels doesn’t matter.

“You say you don’t care about me and hate me, but—..” Another shaky breath. “Yet you look at me like that, and your name… your name makes me feel again, and I hate that so much because I was… I just wanted to be alone. Was it selfish?” Jongseong mutters, each word sending a dagger to Heeseung’s already twisted heart, his blood pooling down on the floor with every stab he feels. 

Jongseong rambles on.  It seems like he can’t stop now, even if he wants to try. 

(He does ). 

“And yet Eunchae… she ran so hard to find me, she tried to look at every corner and crevice. The kid was so… she was so scared , Seung, and yet she found me. She found me — no, she found my corpse of a body, and yet all it took was your name to make me feel alive again.” He whispers, his eyes trained on Heeseung’s in almost a desperate motion that makes the elder feel breathless. 

“Do you understand how that feels, Seung? Do you understand how helpless I feel, when even after everything you said,  it is still because of you that I still remain alive in this hell when all I ever wanted was to die .” Jongseong finishes, his own tears filling his eyes as he stares Heeseung down. 

Heeseung can’t breathe. 

“But I understand. I can’t hate you for that. I never hated you for that.” The younger adds, a harsh chuckle escaping his already raw throat as he begins to stand up. “Even after all these years, even after all the birthdays and New Years, I will always understand you, Heeseung. And that hurts me the most because I know you don’t — and I doubt that you even want to, but that’s okay because all I ever really wanted was for you to live .”

Heeseung still can’t breathe. 

Jongseong fully stands up, his legs wobbling with the sudden weight of his body, but he remains firm. “You will be safe here in the meantime. Take a rest; I need to check on Eunchae. I’ll sleep somewhere else.”  

He leaves without another word, leaving Heeseung in shambles — the home he imagined fracturing under the weight of reality.  He leaves him, and Heeseung hates him for it — but most of all, Heeseung hates himself for making it seem like he hated Jongseong. He never did. Not at all. 

He needs him. 

Nonetheless, he was right. 

It was all his fault anyway. 

Feeling emotions again after repressing them for so long is not a wonderful experience. Jongseong thinks. 

It is so hard to even move at this point — the pain of his body’s wounds a fresh wave of agony in his mind. He doesn’t remember anything, thankfully — usually, they would make him remember — but with every step he makes, a tear begins to stubbornly form in the corner of his eye that he harshly wipes away because he can’t afford to be weak right now. 

He didn’t sleep.  Jongseong spent the night watching over his tributes equally — his body guarding the door as if he was nothing but a mere guard dog his father had once described him as. However, he wasn’t wrong on that aspect — not at all, because there is absolutely nothing that would stop him from protecting the people in this suite right now. 

Eunchae had trouble sleeping at one point, her frail body finding its way towards the couch — her teary eyes an unsettling sight. 

“Eunchae. What are you doing awake?” Jongseong mutters, his hands rubbing his own eyes before he patted the space beside him. The kid only follows, never uttering a single word as she promptly rests her head on his shoulder — accompanying him through the night. 

He had held her close to his chest at some point, his hand rubbing nonsensical circles on her back as he quietly cradled her back to sleep. He remains awake, though, his hand never stopping from its movements until he finally carries her back to his room despite his aching bones. 

It’s morning now, and both of his tributes struggle to eat. Eunchae is touching her food meekly, her eyes somber. She looks well rested, yes, but no matter how she sleeps, she will still feel exhausted from it all. Jongseong would know. He remembers back then, he thinks to himself — his own frail body listlessly coming in and out of sleep, his mind being plagued by nightmares of—

Heeseung isn’t eating that well, too. He barely finished his food and is now nursing a cup of hot chocolate while gazing at the wall. He looks… well, sleep-deprived and has not been taking a single glance at Jongseong in the entirety of the morning they are currently sharing together. 

He’s used to it at this point. 

(It still hurts. Everything about Heeseung hurts him now). 

“Listen up.” He mutters, making both of his tributes snap up to attention. Jongseong flashed a small smile at Eunchae, his gaze softening as he stared at her before hardening again. “I need you guys to remember that the Aces’ fatal flaw is always hubris. No matter where they are from, One, Two, or even Four, they will go in with their stupid heads up high. Make sure to go for the throat. I guarantee it’ll be their downfall.” Jongseong mutters, reaching for a glass of water, but he stops himself due to something — a memory, no, a flash of something he would rather not remember, so he lets his hand fall back to the table. “So that’s why, this time, you guys need to go straight for the kill . Today is the last training day before your individual evaluations  — go to the stations you mastered and flaunt it. Don’t do it too much, but make it so that even if the One girl watches you, she gets that lump in her throat as a warning.” His eyes flicker to Heeseung’s, letting himself stare at him with the same intensity that made the elder gulp. Jongseong looks away afterward, feeling the burn of his stare lingering in the room. “Go for the axes and the machetes,  make sure you don’t miss. Do you understand? Go for it for a while; hell, make it the first thing you guys go to after the initial reminders. Make them scared, but stop it when you feel like you got their attention. Remember, the Gamemakers are also watching you .”

“All they want is a good show.” He adds after a moment, the weight of his words is reaching down to his brain and bringing out a twisted memory, which he wants to repress so badly. 

The scent of rosewood and spices fills his nostrils, and he’s not here anymore. 

Suddenly, he’s fourteen again — scared out of his wits, stomach wide open, wat the mercy of a red-haired female… both of them just wanting to return home… 

She just wanted to go back home. 

Jong, please. I’m sorry. I’m sor— 

He takes a shaky breath, masks his emotions, and hardens his face. 

Not now. 

“The evaluations will not be right after training. It will occur later at night, so you guys only have the whole afternoon to hone your skills and think about what you will do before then. Once the time is up, all mentors can enter the training room to talk to their tributes. I will find you, so make sure that you have some sort of a plan.  Am I clear?”  The mentor finishes his spiel, throat dry, yet his eyes are firm as he holds both of their gazes with his own. 

Eunchae visibly gulps, her throat shaking a bit before she shakes her head and determinedly nods. “Yes, sir.” She says, trying her best to hold his gaze firmly without wavering. A sense of pride formed in his chest as he watched the girl — someone who was very scared at the beginning, yet now someone who pulled herself together — and there was a small bloom of protectiveness that made Jongseong take a breath.

However, it dissipates once Heeseung speaks next. 

“You’ll be there later?” He whispers, his voice so low that Jongseong could’ve mistaken it for the wind. He forces his head to nod, his eyes finally meeting the elder’s — careful not to show anything weak, just in case. “Of course.” He says, his voice low yet firm in its tone. He understands why Heeseung has asked, given prior circumstances, so he adds a playful smirk in return. “You know I’ll find you, Seu— Heeseung .” He says, ignoring the foreign feeling of Heeseung’s own name on his lips. 

He never called him that before. This was evident in the way the elder’s eyes winced, hurt filling his gaze as if Jongseong had actually struck him with a knife. 

But a boundary is a boundary, even if it's a useless one like this. 

“I’ll find you.” He repeats, breaking their gaze by tilting his head towards the door. The same servant — the one with brown eye — was already there, spine straight and eyes trained on the floor. In his hands were white envelopes — Jongseong took another shaky breath. “I always did, didn’t I?”

That was true. 

No matter when, no matter how, no matter where. 

Jongseong will always find Heeseung, even if they don’t want to. 

Even if Jongseong himself didn’t want to.

 There is no place Jongseong wouldn’t be in for him, nothing that could stop him from finding the elder. It was a promise they both shared with children; the younger thinks back — a flash of something flowing in his head like water against the tide. 

“We’ll always be together, Seung.” 

“ Always?”

“Of course. Even if it doesn’t exist, I’ll invent it just for you.”

“All for me?”

“Just for you.”

“Go.” Jongseong says, watching as both Eunchae and Heeseung stand — the kid fixes her braids, his… his everything takes another gulp of hot chocolate. They both don’t say a word. Heeseung doesn’t look back. 

Jongseong wishes he did. 

Selfishly, he wishes that he would stay. 

But they don’t. They leave him alone, sitting on the chair in the dining area — holding six white envelopes in his hands. Heeseung doesn’t spare him another glance. He understands.

Jongseong doesn’t cry. He stands up, straightens his shirt, and goes outside. 

He doesn’t feel anything. 

Not anymore. 

Selfishly, he wishes he did.

Chapter Text

Training goes by usual. 

Heeseung and Eunchae stick together. Sakura was still not back, leaving the kid a bit of a frazzled mess, even though Jongseong reassured her that it would all be fine. Frankly, he did not understand why the kid was innately going through something with reasons other than their impending doom — but then again, perhaps there was something he wasn’t seeing. Heeseung thinks to himself, his eyes flickering again towards the kid just to observe her.  There was a bond that formed between their escort and her tribute, which clearly was something more than a simple connection — no, it was familial . 

Eunchae is scared for Sakura, which makes him hum in thought. Maybe he was wrong, maybe there was something he wasn’t aware of — perhaps there was something about the escort after all. It wouldn’t be the first time Heeseung was wrong. 

Wasn’t it a theme he had going on for these days?  

Being wrong?

Shaking his head afterward to clear his thoughts ,  he tugs her along the familiar hallway, ignoring how the cleaning staff steals glances at them as they walk downhill to the training room. 

“It’s okay,” Heeseung mutters lowly for the nth time, his hand squeezing hers while she hums in response. “She’ll be back. She’s a Decelis-born, remember?”  Eunchae could only nod, her lips pursing as she unconsciously moved their interlocked hands back and forth — making the elder boy smile a tiny bit before she spoke. “I know. I just… Well… she just—” She tries to murmur, her voice turning turbulent with the emotions she keeps on resisting, but Heeseung only calmly squeezed her hand once again and uttered a brief response. “Take your time.”

Eunchae beams at him for that, making him feel a small twinge of happiness slowly swirl around his chest. Perhaps he’s doing something right, Heeseung thinks to himself — a small breath of relief escaping his lips as his shoulders sagged. 

He’s been doing everything wrong lately. This was a change of pace. 

“I just… Well… She’s… Sakura-nim, well. She’s like a sister I never had.” Eunchae whispered, quietly mumbling her words as she knew every word they could say could stab them back in the stomach.  “Well, I did have a sister. But… you know. It’s been a while since I had one, and I didn’t want to bother you with things and I know that out of everyone here, you would understand me the most but Sakura… I just… I needed someone too, you know? Just like how you have Jongseong.” 

Heeseung takes a sharp breath at her words, letting it settle in the pits of his stomach — the implications of it a blaring noise in his head. 

Just like you have Jongseong.

Oh .

“Yeah.” This was all he could muster as a response —  his throat drying up before he cleared it all out and tried again. His face contorts to a small smirk, trying to lift up the younger’s spirit. “But you know, Eunchae, you have me . No matter what. We are partners, aren’t we?” 

Cue a forced chuckle, his hand squeezing hers in an attempt at a smile. “Besides, who else would you have told about the little…. crazy shindig you did back  home?” 

“Hey! I told you that in confidence!” Eunchae speaks, cutting his thoughts off with a playful pout. Bingo. Heeseung shrugs, keeping his smile light yet teasing. “Eh, it seems like you want someone else to know about the time you accidentally—” The kid whined so loud in response, cutting him off with a frown — the silliness of it all making Heeseung laugh. It was a nice distraction, and the atmosphere made him feel like they were actually back home. 

He could just close his eyes and imagine the smell of pine, feel the rough expanse of the fresh wood he just chopped with his ax. He could see a boy with brown eyes and a bright smile, beckoning him over with an easy grin because he wants to sh—

A shaky breath. 

He has got to stop thinking about him. 

“We’re here.” Heeseung mutters, removing himself from his thoughts and banishing Jongseong from his mind. 

Not here. He thinks, quietly pushing his… something in the back of his mind. He can’t think about him now, not when he’s about to go into the lion’s den —  not when he’s about to see the Aces again. 

Not now. Jongseong… even the thought of him shouldn’t be entertained here. 

Not when he’s like this. 

Steeling his expression immediately,  he carefully slows down their walk — watching Eunchae take a short breath and do the same. Together, they enter the training area — hand in hand, eyes blank and dark.  They both immediately walk over to their stations as if it were clockwork.  

Heeseung keeps to himself, but his eyes flicker to Eunchae occasionally. Their plan was already in motion — they would be separated, but only by adjacent stations. They agreed on this themselves — not even Jongseong knew about this strategy — because they both knew they needed to cover more ground. Appearing as a boxed unit will intimidate the others, but after… the incident , both Eunchae and Heeseung try to spread out. It should not be too close or too far, so that if something happens again, one could run out and find their mentor again. 

This is why, despite his growing anxiety, Heeseung forces himself to move to the axe station. Seeing the familiar blades of the axes made him feel calmer, though, as his hand carefully caressed through each one to memorize every rough expanse.  This action was something soothing, something he had always done before — he could almost smell the familiar pine scent again as well as hear the familiar woosh of the axe hitting the base of the tree. 

If he could just close his eyes, Heeseung could imagine he was already home. That this wasn't the last day of training, but it was a new day of work in the forest— a day shift he was forced to take— and he could just taste the feeling of exhaustion in his mouth. It tastes like hard work, of coming home to his mom and brother and the apple pie his mother managed to bake. It smells like the warm hug of his best friend, who was already waiting for him to finish with one of his brightest smiles and oh, J—

Heeseung grabs an axe and throws it to the target. 

The blade pierces through the neck of the mannequin cleanly — the head crashing down to the floor, breaking into a million pieces. 

He’s breathing heavily.  

He needs to stop thinking about him. 

Shaking his head, removing his thoughts once more, he takes another axe — this time, it is a bit lighter than what he was used to, so he carefully balances it first on his hand, observing how it tips over from gravity’s pull. Taking another deep breath, Heeseung throws it to the next target. 

Stomach. 

Another one. 

Heart. 

Another one. 

Head. 

He loses himself in the rhythm, his hands busying himself with the motions — even stopping to tap on a board next to the axes to generate moving targets to practice longer. 

One. 

Two. 

Three. 

It takes him a moment to notice something, but he moves on instinct once he does.  He turns back around quickly and tilts the hilt of the axe sideways so that he can apprehend what it seems to be—

“Woah! Woah woah, hey there, hi. Yes. Please don’t kill me. I’m sorry for interrupting. Woah, it's a very shiny blade. Hi.” 

Choi Beomgyu, the District 10 tribute, exclaimed — his hands raised and lips wide open. Heeseung narrowed his eyes, flickering his gaze first at Eunchae, who was already looking at him with a small frown before he held his position. He pushes the blade further to the tip of his Adam’s apple — his gaze sharp and dangerous. 

“Please, I don’t mean any harm. I just want to talk.” Beomgyu mumbles, looking at him pleadingly. Heeseung takes a breath, his thoughts returning to his head, and carefully pulls his axe away from the latter’s neck so he can breathe. He raises his eyebrow next, his suspicion still intact, as he silently prompts him to speak. 

Beomgyu does. 

In a very hurried manner. 

“Okay, look. I’ve been eyeing you and your partner since the first day, and we know now that you guys are both — well, she’s adept with a machete, and you’re… well…” Beomgyu’s hands widely gesture towards the broken mannequins. “You get my point? And my partner, uh, Ryujin , she’s amazing with survival skills, and both of us could use the knives well. I have a favorite little cutting knife at home since I mostly specialize in handling meat. Ryuj tends to the herds, so she can use a spear since it’s like the rake she uses to clean. We could both identify the best part of an animal to eat… and uh… yeah?”  The latter finally trails off, his lips shutting close nervously while his fingers scratch the back of his nape. 

Heeseung let his eyes flicker back to Eunchae, who was already moving closer to him — she had one of the practice machetes in hand — her curiosity getting sedated immediately once she realized what was going on. She’s absolutely smart, that kid. Heeseung quietly thinks to himself, a small laugh soundlessly escaping his lips as he watches her appear more intimidating than she actually is.  Beomgyu is actually holding his breath. 

Heeseung is trying not to laugh. Eunchae is a very soft and precious girl — it’s like being scared of a little baby duck. 

Quack. 

Her eyes are sharp, her intellect shining through as she carefully situates herself beside him. Both of them stare Beomgyu down. 

 “You want us to partner with you and your district partner?” She asks, her voice still — her eyes carefully analyzing his movements while Heeseung downright glares at him. Jongseong never told them about having an alliance, seemingly because he doesn’t have to. 

Alliances are a weak link to your survival. It is a risky gamble — a very risky gamble. You would be putting your life in someone else’s hands — who knows what would they do with it?

This is why Jongseong has always stressed them to stay together.  The only person you could ever trust is the person you got from home. 

Not that it says anything, Jongseong himself was—

Heeseung breathes heavily again, his teeth biting down his bottom lip. There it was again, another thought of him — how much longer can he convince himself not to even think about him when everything he sees just reminds him of before?

Fuck . He needs to focus. 

“If we agree, our mentor will talk with yours, right?”  Heeseung clarifies, ensuring his voice remains impassive just so that Beomgyu remains intimidated. The latter only hums in response. “Yeah. I think? I’m sure my mentor is seeking yours already if he hasn’t already seen him. Your mentor is Park Jongseong, right? 50th Victor?” 

Another mention. Heeseung steels his thoughts and nods. Beomgyu responds with a small grin. “You guys should think about it at least. We have the whole day here, and the evaluations later at night, so if you guys want to talk more about it, you know where to find us.”

The District 10 tribute finally leaves, joining a frowning female in the fire-starting station with a jovial smile. He leaves them alone, with Heeseung releasing a short breath before staring completely at Eunchae. 

The kid asks the question first, eyeing the elder with a small pout. She carefully turns to face him, her hand on the machete's hilt grasped tightly before repeating her words. “Should we?” She mutters, mirroring his thoughts as she continues to talk. “But Jong never told us we should, and having more than one teammate would be… great for one point, but from the Games we’ve watched, it never ended well, didn’t it? Even our mentor’s games…” She trails off, the implications of her words coming back on her as she winces internally. Cue a small pout. “I’m sorry.” Eunchae whispers, quietly using her other hand to squeeze Heeseung’s wrist. 

“We’ll meet him later, anyways.” Heeseung replies gently, offering her a small smile of encouragement. It’s okay. “Lets just go back to the plan, okay?” 

They both nod, separating once more — Eunchae leaves him be, his head still whirring, screaming at him with one single name.  

Jongs—

“—Jongseong?” 

Snapping out of his reverie, his eyes clearing out of its emotion-induced haze, Park Jongseong finally registers someone’s voice. 

You see, the thing is, Jongseong isn’t someone who is easily startled by many things. It began with his Games and the ever-unwarranted conditioning from this endeavor that made him stone-cold to everything that tried to come for him. He prided himself in it, even if it was a talent borne out of necessity. Throw him anywhere, give him nothing, yet he wouldn’t flinch.  It scared many people who weren’t close to him whenever they saw the young Victor.  They all said that he was like a rock, unmoving, even if it was against raging waters. He liked that analogy. 

It was fantastic, and it earned him some confidence that helped him remain calm through many events in his life. 

This isn’t one of those times.

He reacts first before speaking — his whole body turning, facing the intruder — only to grab their wrist, pull it upwards, and twist their arm behind their back. He tightens his hold, his eyes darkening as the familiar scent of rosewood and spices fills his nose again. The intruder tried to struggle, and yet Jongseong remained impassive towards it all. His brain is whirring, his heart begins to pound, and then suddenly, he isn’t there anymore. 

And then suddenly, he was fourteen with a makeshift axe trying to hold his victim and break his arm fruitlessly. He’s shaking, he’s hungry, and he’s thirsty — but most of all, he was scared. Holding the victim to its place made him realize that he had power, that he could go home, and that he could stay alive and not die because he needs to go home he needs to go to him he needs Hee—

“Shit. Hey , Seven. I’m sorry for scaring you.” The Victor of the 52nd Hunger Games and the mentor for District 10, Sim Jaeyun, croaks out — his tone carefully enunciating his words as he maintains eye contact with the elder Victor. His Adam’s apple bobs briefly, eyes locked into the elder Victor’s while he repeats his words. “I’m sorry. Look, I’m not doing anything, see ?” The younger male prods, hands open wide – it takes a moment for Jongseong to realize this, his lungs slowly calming down while his head clears itself from the fogginess his mind produced. He released him from his hold, his eyes trained on the latter’s arm as Jaeyun carefully flexed it — noting that he didn’t break it before taking a deep breath. 

“Sorry.” He mutters as an apology, his eyes finally meeting the latter before observing their surroundings. Apparently, they were both at the Mentor’s Lounge already and oh , he was standing by a window. 

Jongseong doesn’t remember how he got here. 

All he remembers was getting out of the sponsor’s suite — but with a quiet inspection of his body, he surmised that he had taken something again anyway.  His head was hurting already, and his limbs were sluggish. He was… well, held against his will again. 

Jongseong quietly hummed to himself. He must’ve lost contact with reality again. 

Big sigh. 

Anyways. 

“Yes?” He mutters, eyeing the latter with a brow raised — his eyes carefully observing the latter’s movements as he beckoned him to speak. Honestly, Jongseong wasn’t even sure why he was talking to him in the first place. Jongseong wasn’t the type of mentor to be friends with — most especially since he was a rare type, a Quell Victor. 

His one and only friend, Park Sunghoon, was the only one who could truly talk to him. Jongseong prided himself on being very unapproachable because he swore to himself that he wouldn’t trust anyone again. 

Not after her . 

However, he knew that Sunghoon had other friends as well — given his status as a District 1 Victor and an Ace, he knew that the younger was close to the other Ace Victors. However, what he does know as well is that Sunghoon was also friends with Jaeyun. He doesn’t know how they became friends, but being the Victor after Sunghoon must’ve felt so pressuring and he’s kind of glad that they have each other. 

Which brings him to the question.

“Where is he?” He asks, letting himself look at Jaeyun, who flashed a big smile before replying. “Sunghoon? Oh, he told me he had a couple of clients to attend to —..” The elder absentmindedly clenches and unclenches his hands“—and said that he’ll meet you and me later. Maybe he would introduce us to each other, but I don't know. I wanted to meet you earlier because of something, so I left the big couch over there…” The younger points to the right side, where a long couch takes half the space, away from the windows, and sheepishly continues speaking. “And then I tried to look for you. There you are, so… Sorry again, by the way!  Can we talk, Seven?” 

Jongseong had to stifle a small smile at the younger’s long spiel — Jaeyun, at some point, had slurred over his words with the specific District 10 accent, making all of his soft as to an aye, which made him blink in confusion. However, after a few seconds, he managed to retain whatever the younger mentor said. Cue a nod. “Sure. Call me Jongseong.” He offers Jaeyun a small smile before he gestures to the smaller couches near the left side of the room. The younger boy smiles back, hands in his pockets, letting the elder go first while he spoke idly. “Are you sure? I mean, thanks for the offer, man. Oh, I’m Jaeyun, by the way. That was bad, not introducing myself first. I should've done something like that, seeing that — ah, well, anyway. Hi, I’m Jaeyun. Sunghoon calls me Jakey, which kinda bummed me out a lil’ before I got used to it. I mean, Jake stemmed from the nickname I got from the people here — so it wasn’t really quite my name, you know? But Sunghoon called me Jakey-jake as a joke when we first met, which made me want to bash his head in — that One asshole — but that was better than Jake. Anything is better than that, but you know, small victories matter!”

Jaeyun talked animatedly beside Jongseong, who was nodding slowly before sitting down on the edge of the small couch. It had little to no space, which made the elder regret his choices for a bit — but Jaeyun shot him a reassuring smile and sat very close to the other edge. It was a tight fit, but they made it work without touching each other, making Jongseong feel warm. “Can I just call you Jaeyun, then?” He asks, quietly chortling afterward by the way the younger nods enthusiastically. It reminds him of the small stray dogs Heeseung’s family used to take care of back home. 

Heeseung.  Even the name hurts.

“Of course! Dude, I’m so glad you weren’t that much of a bitch. Sunghoon told me you were kind, but you know —..” Jaeyun lets out a timid laugh. “Can’t trust anyone. But I guess you can be my friend. Can we be friends, Jongseong? I’m aware that we only ever met now, but we have Sunghoon as the bridge, and I’m best friends with him too, so…”  

Jongseong could only shrug in return. Again, he doesn’t have the energy nor the will actually to create new friends. He had Sunghoon, and that was enough. However… it made sense to be friends with Jaeyun. It is similar to why Sunghoon and him became friends in the first place — they’re the Victors of the 50th and 51st Games. It was common sense and inevitable, really, so why wouldn’t he be friends with him?

Hesitation pulls him back in his head. 

He knows why. 

Distantly, he could even see why — coming towards him with her wispy figure, sitting on the couch adjacent to them with a small smirk. Her long red hair was a pool of blood after she rested her head, her eyes trained on him. The scent of rosewood and spices hits his nose, and Jongseong can even hear her. She lives in his head, his most haunted ghost, his every waking thought. She is here, she is dead, she is alive, and she is haunting him. 

Go do it, Jjong. 

He still hesitates. His mind throws him a memory — playing the tape he was sure he had broken years ago. 

It goes like this. 

He was fourteen, and it was the last day of the Games. 

He was fourteen, and he was going to die. 

He was fourteen, and he had a sickle in his stomach — it hit his intestine, he knew that much — his guts slowly dropping out of his hold while his hand desperately tried to push it back in. 

Not like this. Please. 

He was fourteen, battered and bleeding and dying — yet nothing hurt more than the fact that it was her who did it.  

He was coughing blood. 

Please. Forgive me, Jjong. Please. I know you wanted to go back to him but I just… 

I just wanted to go back home too. 

Please. 

He could feel his head ringing, his fingers turning numb, and his throat drying — he remembers thinking about Heeseung and wishing to the stars that he wasn’t watching — and yet, with a final push, with a final desperate bit of clarity… he manages to pull the sickle out of his stomach and throw it cleanly through her chest. 

BOOM! 

He lied. What hurt the most wasn’t the fact that he almost died. 

No. What hurts was the realization that came to him right after he had done it. 

She was her closest friend. 

And he killed her. 

“Uh… Jongseong?” Jaeyun says, pulling him back from his thoughts as his vision clears. The younger was frowning on him, his upper teeth chewing on his bottom lip as he quietly added in a nervous tone. “Uh… do you want time to think about it? I do have something else to talk to you about. You know, mentor-to-mentor kind of things.”

Jongseong clears his throat, forcing himself to reply — his throat has gone dry, his voice coming out rough as he stares at her while speaking. “What is it?”

Jaeyun frowns for a moment before replying once more. The younger’s hands were about to touch him — but thankfully, he doesn’t. Jongseong doesn’t move his eyes away from her. “Anyways, uh, How’s your tributes? I heard that they were.. well…  scary.” 

At this, Jongseong stifles a laugh. He shrugs. Jaeyun takes that as a win and raises his hands in a placating manner amicably. “I get it, I swear! I just wanted to tell you that my tribute, Choi Beomgyu, wanted to get on with your boy —..” Jaeyun trails off, realizing the implication of his words. His eyes widened slightly as he proceeded to exclaim. “Not in that way, I swear! Uh, romantically, no, because they’re tributes… maybe more of an alliance, I guess?”  At this, Jongseong’s eyes narrowed further — ignoring the blush that threatened to bloom in his cheeks — as he asked a question. “Why didn’t your tribute tell mine about this? Why through you?”

Jaeyun sheepishly shrugs. “He’s scared. You have to understand that.” The younger quietly explains, leaning back on the plush sofa while focusing on each other.  “They said that both of your tributes were… scary. Your girl might be better to approach, but Beomgyu told me he wanted me to try with your boy. It’ll be easier for both of us if you agree, seeing that we need to discuss their alliance, if ever. I did tell him that he should try asking him now, just so that your boy could at least get a feel from them… so yeah. What do you think?”

Jongseong hums. It was smart . An alliance is technically a glorified process that stems first from the tributes and then is discussed by the mentors. If he ever agrees, he and Jaeyun will have to sit together for the entirety of Beomgyu and Heeseung’s alliance. It is beneficial, seeing that the accumulated funds from each tribute shall be joined together, making it easier for him to provide more aid for both tributes. 

Quite frankly, he would like to use every single way possible to ensure Heeseung and Eunchae’s survival, thank you very much. 

So if he agrees with Jaeyun, it will give Heeseung and Eunchae a bigger chance of survival for at least a few more days, given that they stick together for the majority of the games. 

And then… 

What ?

Unconsciously, he rubs his stomach — his hand ghosting over his scar as he thinks about it more. 

What happens next ? Alliances are temporary. They are there to survive, not to bake a cake. If they ever survive until the end of the Games, there will be some point in time when the alliance will eventually end. This doesn’t even consider the other factors. There is a huge possibility that they will be separated, and being alone tends to make you forget about some alliance you made beforehand.  Beomgyu and the girl from 10 would be with each other, and he knows that Heeseung wouldn’t leave Eunchae alone, so if there is a time when they get separated from their district partner and land with the other, there is a high possibility that it wouldn’t end well. 

This is a good idea, but this is also a bad one. So many factors could go wrong, yet many things could also be helpful. Jongseong takes a shaky breath. 

Just one word. 

It’s just one word, and his fate is sealed. One wrong choice of his could lead to his death — could Jongseong even live with it?

Could Jongseong live with himself if he died?

Heeseung… He whispers to himself, letting in the familiar pang that always comes after the name. 

Seung, please. 

Help me make the right choice. 

“You should know that he wouldn’t leave my girl tribute alone, not for any reason.” He says,  knowing Heeseung enough that even if it meant a better chance of survival, he wouldn’t dare to leave Eunchae — not for anything. Jaeyun only nods in response. It kind of reminds him of a small wet dog. “Well, that shouldn’t be a problem — your girl is around seventeen?” He asks, glancing at the elder, who nods slowly. “Mine’s 21. It should be easy enough, I guess. Ryu’s kind.” He absentmindedly hums, accidentally revealing more information about his tributes that made Jongseong blink in surprise. 

Was it deliberate? Maybe this was an act of true friendship — which was very rare. In that case, perhaps it was for the sake of providing more information to gain a little bit of his trust.  Jongeong thinks it over and wonders if he should accept the proposal already — it was beneficial to have more people guiding your back, especially since the signs point towards an extreme arena this year — yet he had this instinct to gather more information. 

His shoulders weigh downward with the weight of it all —  his hands clench and unclench, his eyes shutting close as he breathes in deeply.  

He should be used to this at this point. He’s been a mentor for years —  yet no one prepares you for this, right? No one would have taken the time to teach him how to hold lives in his hands without breaking them, right ?

(He broke Heeseung already, right ?)

Nonetheless, you can never be too safe. He thinks to himself as he begins to respond. “Well, I can bring this up with them both, and then if you receive a summons from me, you know that they’ve accepted. You told them they must tell my tributes about their skills, right?” He asks, deliberately leaving out his own thoughts from the manner.  Jaeyun would understand this — and he does, grinning widely— his giddiness so palpable that it made the elder chuckle again. “Really? Thanks, dude! I hope you three can consider the proposal. I told them too about that, don’t worry. They said they’d try to share something — plant distinction, at least, I guess? — so they’ll have something to bring to the table. Anyway… I think that’s all? We should go and hang out somewhere! Sunghoon and I usually share drinks after the whole… shindig, so if you want to, just call us.”

Jongseong only nods in response. That was nice of him, Jongseong thinks.  He wasn’t that approachable initially, so it was a pleasant change for Jaeyun to try to talk to him. Some people wouldn’t, and Jongseong wouldn’t blame them at all. Most especially now, since all of them knew that Heeseung was someone special to him. 

His. His to protect, his to hold. 

( Is he really?)

“Huh,” Jaeyun mutters, his eyes on the clock. His lips pursed, his body suddenly standing up— Jongseong immediately mimicked the action as he realized why he was confused. 

“Wasn’t it time to go down… like ages ago?” The younger mutters, eyeing the elder with a question in his eyes. 

Jongseong’s heart stills. 

The mentors around them also began to stir, their confused murmurs growing louder and louder in volume. Jaeyun also looks at the doors, and then he suddenly exclaims with a loud gasp. 

“ Hey! There isn’t anyone guarding the doors!” He exclaims, pointing at the large grand entrance of the Mentor’s Lounge — which typically had two Peacekeepers guarding them. Jongseong glances at it, his eyes widening as he realizes it. The mentors do as well, their agitation growing tenfold as they begin to grab their stuff. 

Jongseong isn’t breathing. 

No. 

The door opens. 

It bangs against the wall, making everybody stop. 

Sunghoon is there, his eyes wild — his lips parted with long, hot breaths escaping. He stumbles over, kneeling over to the floor with a shudder. He looked like shit —the younger boy was quietly shaking,  eyes closed, and his hair a rattled mess. It was so unlike the District 1 boy, who always walked with his head up high, with a playful smirk on his lips whenever someone came by. It’s not even the Sunghoon he knows, the one who likes the quiet, the one who likes to hold a cup of steaming hot tea in his hands and space out with him on a good day of theirs.

“Sunghoon.” Kim Chaewon, the District 5 Mentor, reaches out — her lips forming the words they were all begging to say. “ What happened? ”

Sunghoon takes a shaky breath, looks at all of them, and wheezes out with a strained tone. 

“They locked the doors— they—... ” He meets Jongseong’s eyes, who are wide with fear, and squeezes out the last few words. 

“ We can’t go inside anymore. ”

Chapter Text

Sakura Miyawaki is a very busy woman. 

She has, frankly, no time for absolute bullshit and would stab you with her fingernail if she had the choice. (If she had, she would have done it already). Time is gold, time is money, and time is something she had — so why would she waste it?

She was also very, very smart. Being in this profession for years, being with Jongseong for years, was something not to be ridiculed for. 

This is why when the mahogany doors opened in the hallway, two lines of Peacekeepers began to line up the walls with their brisk walks and steely gazes. Sakura immediately knew. 

She was talking to her fellow escorts, her deep burgundy dress falling down her legs in a pool of sewn-in roses — a theme that was becoming more prevalent as the Hunger Games began to draw close — when she flinched at the sound. Drusella, one of the escorts, paled so hard that her bright red sweetheart dress looked like blood. 

Which was maybe the point. Sakura absentmindedly thinks as she purses her lips close. 

Something was wrong, she mutters to herself, eyeing the Peacekeepers with a frown before she cools her expression — her feet quietly walking towards the back as she waits for an opening to leave.

A man steps forward, his chest decorated with numerous medals, and upon further inspection, Sakura could see that there was a bright snake insignia on the soldier's right chest. 

She narrows her eyes. She knows that person. 

What was the Head Peacekeeper doing here?

Narrowing her eyes, she carefully moves again, weaving through the back with easy steps, her mind quickly forming an escape plan just so she could run towards Jongseong’s side. 

She was sure he needed her, and she was sure that he needed her badly. If the Peacekeepers were here, then something must have happened —It couldn’t have been one of the mentors.  None of the Peacekeepers could give a rat’s ass about any of them. 

So, it must be a tribute .

As if to confirm her thoughts, the Head Peacekeeper takes a small bow towards the shaking crowd and pats his hands down on the empty air — placating them further before he speaks. 

“No mentors are allowed in the Training Center. Please fetch them all in your Living Quarters. Do not allow them to go inside, as this will incur a punishment. These are orders from the President.” The Head Peacekeeper drawls — making her stop as she furrows her eyebrows. 

Another escort, a newbie, someone who had blood red streaks in her hair — mimicking a fallen tribute’s broken head, which both sends a chill and hot anger through her veins — raises her hand. An indignant voice began to shrill out. “May we ask why there is a change of plans? I have a nail appointment due in about 30 minutes!” A bunch of other escorts began to speak out as well, their otherwise… annoying and absolutely worthless concerns.  Nail appointments, parties, and even a walk with a dog ? Lives are being traded off here, and there were real people possibly being gunned down — the kids that didn't even choose this life, and here they are, worrying about a fucking dog? No wonder they were all seen as monsters. 

No wonder Heeseung hates her. 

The same hot anger began to bubble in her chest,  and it took everything in Sakura not to snap. Ahead of her, the Head Peacekeeper began to speak again. “Line up by your assigned district number, and we will walk to the Mentor’s Lounge. Again, all mentors should be escorted to the Living Quarters. Anyone not complying will face severe consequences.” All escorts began to line up towards them, with two lines of Peacekeepers flanking their sides. The Head Peacekeeper begins to count them one by one, his eyes furrowing as he takes in something with a frown.

“Where is the 7th?” he commands in a low tone, eyeing the escorts with a hard glare before he steps back. All of the people began to scramble, with some of the escorts pointing fingers at them while he began to recount. 

What he didn’t catch, though, was a figure rushing out of the back door — a woosh of burgundy leaving behind her back in a swirl of color, a single rose petal falling down the floor with a soft thud. 

“What do you mean we can’t go inside anymore?” Jaeyun roars out, indignation bleeding through his tone as he takes a step forward — all of the mentors rushing out, a vision of district unity finally coming to fruition as Sunghoon takes another shallow breath. 

Jongseong’s head is static still, the ringing in his ears growing louder and louder as his mind tries its best to combat logic. Indeed, what did Sunghoon mean? Mentors have always been allowed to visit their tributes. It was part of the system — they were supposed to have this last day for strategic planning, to help the tributes have one more chance to showcase their skills to the Gamemakers so that they could improve even just a little part of their odds. 

So he doesn’t understand. What was different this time? He was sure that every single tribute was informed about the usual logistics and none of the mentors said anything about having an unruly tribute, so what could have happened?

Heeseung. What happened to him? Is he okay? What about Eunchae? What happened to them both? Are they safe? Are they alive ? They’re Tributes, and Decelis could not give more than two fucks about the tributes, not unless they’re already Victors — but even then, Decelis would only keep you alive to serve as an example for those that will come next. 

Fear began to wrap around his heart like a vice, pulling it down, sinking it in the bottom of his chest like a pebble down a well. Heeseung, oh, his heart, please — let his heart be okay, for a body cannot live without a heart, can it?

“Sunghoon—” He whispers, quietly moving forward — a puppet on a string, his arms turning into lead. Jongseong wanted to know, but he needed to know. He could feel his knees weakening, his hands trembling as he reached out to the younger boy. 

One step, two steps, three — he’s close, he’s so close. 

“ Sunghoon —..”

A hand pulls his arm back, and nothing else registers.

“Why are we being held here?” Ryujin, Beomgyu’s district partner and unofficial older sister to Eunchae, hollers — the typical District 10 accent, making it seem like she’s hollering for a herd of cattle. Next to her, Beomgyu glowers as well — a pitchfork grasped hard against his palm, imprinting the metal on his rough skin. 

Behind them, Heeseung holds Eunchae close—close but not too close, as this would show weakness, allowing the others to see that they were undeniably allies without showing that losing one would impair the other. Practically bullshit, he knows — Heeseung doesn’t give a shit about anyone’s opinion, if you would ask him, but some things shouldn’t be questioned.  He knew that back then, and he definitely knew that now. 

On one hand, he holds her hand, letting his warmth seep into her skin as it has grown cold over the hour they were forcibly thrown into the Detainment Room. 

Weapons in hand from their last push on learning in the survival stations, the tributes stumble into the room, thoroughly confused, yet the doors lock right after the District 12 tributes trip over themselves. 

This room, as explained by a Peacekeeper, was to hold them until the Evaluation. What they didn’t explain, however, was the fact that it had been more than an hour, and none of the mentors had appeared. When the girl from District 6 tries to make a run for it, one soldier actually tased her — now she lies on the floor with her eyes wide open, twitching and mumbling something incomprehensible while her district partner tries their best to calm her down. 

This is why when Ryujin tries to make her voice louder, Eunchae was barely able to reach out and snap her out of it. Beomgyu also mimics her, seeing that the same Peacekeeper reaches down to his pocket to bring out his taser. 

“ Ryuj .” Her district partner mutters in a low voice, forcing her to listen to him as he quietly animates with a small frown. She responds in hushed whispers, eyes narrowing as they exchange messages in a very incomprehensible tone. Heeseung tried to listen, but all he could ever get were some phrases.

“You know you can’t—”

“Jaeyun warned us—”

“I know but—”

They stopped before he could actually decipher what the hell they were actually saying, but Heeseung managed to cool his features down as they both faced Eunchae and him. Ryujin offers Eunchae a small smile, her free hand reaching out to gingerly touch her thigh while she speaks in a low tone. “You alright, darlin’?” Eunchae only nods, her grip on her machete tightening as she begins to analyze everyone around them with a small frown. She presses her side closer to Heeseung, who automatically tightens his hold on her while his other hand balances the hilt of his axe. 

Beomgyu speaks next, making Heeseung focus on him as he listens. “Has your mentor explained anything about this procedure?” Beomgyu asks, making Heeseung shake his head and mumble a small phrase. “No, he never said anything about this.” Distantly, he thinks about Jongseong — his mind finally letting him rest on the familiar embers of his name, of home and warmth and comfort and oh— how did he survive this ?

What would he do in this situation? Heeseung’s sure that Jongseong would’ve told him anything about this — he wouldn’t keep anything from him, even if they were different , even if it wasnt the same anymore.  No, it wouldn’t be like him to keep something this important from him —  would it? 

Doesn’t matter. Heeseung just needs to think like him — slip into the mind of the bravest person he will ever know. 

“The training evaluations should start by now,” Heeseung mutters, eyeing Eunchae with a small nod. She hums in response, her eyes trained on the elder as she replied in a low tone. “I think so too. Why else would they hold us here? Unless…” She trails off, suddenly sitting up — he does as well, his mind catching on her train of thought.  Carefully, they count the number of tributes in the room —muttering their district numbers lowly in their heads — their eyes widening as they finally realized it. 

“Where’s District 5?”

Beomgyu and Ryujin jump at that, Ryujin’s eyes narrowing as she finally takes the hint. Her grip on her pitchfork tightens — Beomgyu, on the other hand, quietly mumbles with a soft voice. “Don’t. Stop. Unless nothing . We should stop focusing on that and start focusing on what to do to survive.” He reminds them in a somber tone, his eyes taking on that wistful feeling as both Heeseung and Eunchae take a shuddering breath.  Ryujin blinks out of her reverie, lowly muttering a soft “ Right . Um, I’m assuming you guys know what to do?” She asks, directing her gaze towards Heeseung, who held it with an unreadable one. “Yes.” He replies curtly, leaving no room for discussion as he raises a brow. Eunchae senses this and tugs on his sleeve immediately, making him glance at the younger girl with a soft frown. 

She tilts her head up and whispers. “Same plan?” Heeseung nods, quietly pulling her closer to him — his skin feeling her every breath, inhale exhale inhale exhale inhale— the young girl raises an eyebrow at this, almost looking exactly like him that it takes everything in Heeseung not to laugh.  He only stares at her, however, his eyes letting her in — letting her see what he was trying to do. 

I just need to feel that you’re alive. 

She understood, of course, or at least had a pocketful of understanding that makes his heart squeeze itself — Hong Eunchae is smart, he knows that, and yet he keeps getting surprised at how she could understand him easily. To be honest, Jongseong was the only one who could — and yet, she wasn’t him, and yet, she could see right through him anyway.  

And it scares him.  There is an undeniable sense of dread building in his chest, all violent and angry and frightening and yet… and yet Heeseung thinks it’s undeniable anyway.

“Same plan, okay?” She mutters again, pouting a little — it makes him chuckle once more, a real one, and it makes him just want to bite her. Chew her down, make her safe. All Heeseung wants is to make her feel safe .  “Yes, Eunchae.” He drawls out, poking her cheek just to make her laugh — and she does, and oh , isn’t this the reason why he’s still fighting?

No. His mind supplements, his thoughts quietly poking him on the side with a brand new knife.  There is a boy that forms in his mind next, all soft and warm like the embers of a flame — his mind screams his name, making him remember even if he never really forgot. 

Jongseong. 

Wasn’t he also the reason why he’s still fighting?

No. His mind repeats, making his heart turn into lead. No, he isn’t. Even if all Jongseong ever did was to fight for him, Heeseung won’t be doing the same.

Why? His mind berates, the all too familiar claws digging into his shoulders, reaching deeper and deeper and deeper, and oh, isn’t this all just a tragedy?

Jongseong has fought, given everything, and anything just for that sole reason — Heeseung. The younger, at fourteen, defeated the impossible and came back home just because he needed to get back to him. All just because Heeseung wanted him to, and oh God, how selfish was that to begin with?

He’s tired. Heeseung is just so tired. He doesn’t want to be selfish anymore, so he doesn’t. 

A simple smile locks into place, his resignation finally settling in quietly, he cradles the thought of him in his heart, whispering the words in the air as he waits for the evaluation to start. 

He’ll fight. Of course, he will, but not to win.

No . He’ll fight just for her. 

And Jongseong has to live with that. 

He has to. 

You might be wondering what the plan exactly was. 

Here’s how it starts:

In every Game, there is an Evaluation — the last chance for the tributes to show off their skills to the Gamemakers, the people who control the Games.  It’s very simple, to be honest.  The tribute only walks into the room, introduces themselves sparingly with their name and district number, and then showcases their particular talent. 

This may be anything and everything in between. Some tributes use their weapons and shoot at the targets, some people showcase their ability to camouflage — there was even a tribute, back then during Jongseong’s first year as a mentor, who managed to completely finish the obstacle course while shooting an arrow by a mile radius.  

This year, they had to be different. This was the year before the Quarter Quell, Jongseong explained — back when they were all gathered in the District 7 suite, the moon doing nothing but shining on Jongseong’s face. He looked feral, Heeseung remembers — all gnarly and animal and monstrous. 

He looked like a Victor . 

What did Jongseong do during his Evaluations, actually? Eunchae wondered, voicing out her concern with an ease by a girl who never truly had the privilege of knowing who Park Jongseong really is — but then Heeseung wondered just the same. 

Isn’t that heartbreaking?

Jongseong, back then, only replied in a short tone – his face devoid of everything he felt, because if he didn’t know the reason why Heeseung knows that Jongseong was taken aback by her question. The younger grits his teeth.   “I shouldn’t be telling you this.” He mutters, his eyes turning dull as a memory begins to play behind his eyes. “My mentor… he helped me and he was the one who asked the axe trainer to generate living holograms of people around the training room. I managed to kill fifteen of them and fend off the last eight with only a knife and an axe.” He mutters, chuckling slightly at the memory while both of his tribute's mouths turn agape — especially Heeseung. 

He was fourteen. He barely even had any experience with an axe, not much of him — how did Jongseong even do it?  

(Heeseung said it out loud.)

The mentor raises his eyes and chuckles dryly, matching Heeseung’s gaze with an amused one of his own. “It’s because I had a reason to.” He replies, tone dry and full of dread and oh , Heeseung can read between the lines, can he?

I did it for you. 

You shouldn’t have. Heeseung stares back, his embarrassment turning his gaze into anger — he pulls on the familiar embers of his dying hatred and shields himself from ever feeling into his dread… because what was the point?

“I can’t say what exactly you should do, but all I ever want you to do is try your best. Let them see that you’re a threat, and I—...” “Sir, I mean, Jong — why can’t you tell us what to do?” Eunchae rasps, her voice rough from exhaustion, and yet it was still laced with fear. Jongseong sighs, staring at her next with softened eyes as he quickly responds. “Because they don’t want to feel my influence. I am a Victor, yes, and your mentor — but this is your evaluation. They want something new—something to prove that you’re more than a pretty face.” He explains, words gently delivered despite its sharp blows. 

Eunchae takes a shuddering breath, and her hand reaches out to grip Heeseung’s. 

There’s more . The elder boy thinks, staring at their mentor with narrowed eyes, watching Jongseong, who sighs deeply. However, before he could actually think about asking, their mentor cuts his moving tongue and adds. “Well, but that doesn’t mean that I can’t approve of your ideas or tell you that it's a bad idea. So… Eunchae?” He asks, looking at the younger girl intently, intentionally not looking at Heeseung, which makes the growing dread in his chest grow. 

Eunchae starts to talk, her hesitation evident in every word she utters— but Jongseong only smiles, letting her go on.  Heeseung, on the other hand, blanks out. He leans back on his chair, his eyes staring at Jongseong unconsciously as he thinks further into his words. 

Distantly, he remembers Yuna — the way she taunted him — and plays with the memory like a puzzle piece. 

It’s your fault, really! They all needed a story to tell, and why wouldn’t they use yours?

Stories…  he remembers his mother. He remembers how his mother held him close to her chest while uttering tales upon tales about everything he could probably think of. After every story, his mother would never fail to tuck him into his bed and pull his blanket way up to his chin.  Her sweet voice, even being thousands of miles away from her, comes to him right now. 

“Those who hold the pen hold the power, my little love. Nothing should ever make you let go of yours.”

Oh. 

“I get it now,” Heeseung states bluntly, cutting off Jongseong and Eunchae, who look back at him in shock. The younger male winces, pain flooding back to his brown eyes before he carefully answers back with a raised eyebrow. “What?”

“Those who hold the pen hold the power,” Heeseung mutters, staring straight back at the mentor who meets his gaze head-on. There was a flicker in surprise in them — Heeseung only stared at him hard before realization finally hit the younger.  Jongseong knew what he was talking about. Of course he does . “The pen… It’s not on my hands, is it?”

Eunchae stays silent, considerably confused. 

Jongseong doesn’t answer. 

Heeseung lets out a broken laugh, his eyes squeezing shut. Of course. “You volunteered for me, and yet I’m there. I’m reaped, despite you wanting to protect me. My story— no, the pen is in their hands.  So this is why you’re pushing this, because you know that they’ll look at me the most, because you fought for me, and now they’re looking for a reason why. ”

Jongseong still doesn’t answer. 

Heeseung pushes, forgetting that they weren’t the only ones in the room. “I’m right. You know that I’m right. Fuck, Seong. I’m not good— What am I supposed to do ?” He asks, letting the question hang in the air while his chest constricts. 

It was true, it was true. Wasn’t this the point? Jongseong volunteered for Heeseung. He was the one who killed, maimed, and decapitated for Heeseung. Jongseong won the Games for him. He went back home just for him. 

It didn’t matter, because here he was anyway. 

Isn’t that a tale? Isn’t that a story?

Jongseong takes a shuddering breath, his eyes closing once more before he grits his teeth and opens them once again.  “Yes.” He whispers, his voice on the brink of something akin to regret. “That’s true. They’ll look at you and rip you apart just to see why I won . They… All they want is a show, Seung.  That’s all they want. They don’t care — they never cared. I shouldn’t have won, all of the odds were against me, but I did. And now…”

They want to see if you can, too. 

“Fuck that.” Heeseung seethes, familiar hatred burning through his sadness and fear and turning it into a raging tsunami. It crashes, it floods him, it eats him alive .  He shakes his head. “No, fuck that. I’m not going to be a fucking pawn . They can’t, no. I won’t do it. I would rather die. I won’t do this.   Jongseong—”

The mentor slams his fist on the table. 

It breaks. 

It’s loud — the sound rings through the suite, stays ringing in their ears. Eunchae jumps, a strangled whimper escaping her lips. Heeseung flinches, looking at Jongseong with wide eyes.  

“You're fucking with me." He starts, laughing so loudly without any humor. News flash,” Jongseong states, his eyes dangerously dark. It’s a contrast from earlier — the boy who was close to crying was gone. What sat there wasn’t… that isn’t him. A dry chuckle escapes his lips. “Everyone is a fucking pawn. It’s not always you.”  His hand lifts up — it’s littered with bruises, both small and fresh,  both self-inflicted and not. Beside him, Eunchae reaches out to hold Heeseung’s hand — and they’re both shaking.  “You’re angry? You don’t want to do this? Then die .” He growled, his words stabbing Heeseung through his heart. “Waste all of the things I did to you, Heeseung. You never wanted me to anyway, right? Then go. Do it. Die. Go face the Gamemakers and die.”

Jongseong is staring at him with the gaze of a thousand suns — it burns him. It’s burning him alive. 

The younger raises a brow. “ Well ?”

Heeseung doesn’t breathe. The younger sighs, turning to Eunchae, who had her hand interlocked with Heeseung’s. “I like your plan, Eunchae. You can do that.” He then turns to Heeseung again, who is still struggling to speak. 

He repeats. 

“ Well?”

Heeseung—

“—  District 7 . Please report for your individual Evaluation.”  The speaker rings overhead, making him jolt. Quickly, he glances at his side, half-expecting Eunchae to be staring right at him, only to be greeted by an empty space. 

Right. Females went first. 

A sigh escapes his lips as he stands up, ignoring the looks of Beomgyu and Ryujin, who shyly wish him luck. He doesn’t even stare at the other tributes, but he flexes his shoulders back and walks towards the door in front, passing through it while his heart gets wrapped by the vines of his fear. 

Eunchae walks past him, her eyes dull, only lighting up to glance quickly at him with a small nod before he finds himself entering the Training Area once more. 

Above, on a balcony decorated with lush greens and an overwhelming amount of flowers, lay the Gamemakers. They are seated comfortably on the chair, conversing with one another, and not paying attention to him. 

What the fuck. So much for focusing on him this year. 

Seriously, he knows that they have a bunch of tributes to wait through this year but isn’t it their fucking job? 

His hands curl up into fists, fingers digging into his palms as he tries to stay calm. His mouth opens, but no voice comes out — his indignation turning into white, cold anger as he watches a servant bring in a plate of what he assumes is roasted duck. 

What the fuck. He’s going to die in a couple of days, and the Gamemakers — the literal people who could seriously make a difference with his chances aren’t even looking at him. It’s maddening, it makes him go crazy — he grits his teeth and growls lowly. 

Remnants of the plan he painstakingly created fly out of the window. Okay, don’t blame him for that. He knows what he was supposed to do — take an axe and throw it to cut the dummies in half from a mile away. He is supposed to take only two axes and a couple of knives and hit the strings holding the balance courses upright. He was going to do that. 

But life is unfair and it will continue to be fucking unfair because none of the Gamemakers are looking at him. 

They are choosing to actually put all of their energy and focus on the fucking dead duck. 

So, reader, can you blame him? No, you can’t. Maybe you could, given that there are consequences to every action — but then again, he was already in the Hunger Games. What else are they supposed to use against him?

( A lot of things, but he doesn’t think about that right now. )

Heeseung storms over to the axe station, grabbing two medium-sized ones — his hands already adjusting to its weight before he walks over to the knives station. From there, he grabs three throwing knives — his fingers twitch — and carefully balances them all with his two hands. Carefully now, he takes a deep breath — his back still turned from the Gamemakers — and quickly swivels around to throw the knives to them. 

It lands. 

All three of them. 

The first lands on the balcony itself, cutting through one of the flowers, making it fall down gently on the floor below. The second lands on the wall behind them. The third lands next to the second, but also slices a small part of one of the Gamemaker’s hairs. 

They all jump in surprise. One of them lands directly on the floor, the other almost tips himself over the balcony. Indignant screams of terror and irritation begin to overwhelm Heeseung’s senses, but he’s not done. 

With two of his axes, he throws them both simultaneously with such brutal yet precise force that one of them lands on the plate where the roasted duck was resting. It cracks and falls down to the floor, and the servant jumps in surprise and begins to tremble. However, the second one lands directly on the wall, landing itself close enough to the Head Gamemaker's head, who stared at him with wide eyes. 

With a huff of relief and a glare that could cut through steel, Lee Heeseung curls up his lips in a small, mocking smirk and puts one foot over the other and bows. 

“District 7, Lee Heeseung.” He introduces himself, pulling himself up with a flourish before turning his back, heading for the exit. 

However, he stops, lets his head turn back, and sardonically chuckles. “ Thank you for your consideration. ”

Then, he leaves. 

Ignoring the fact that one of them just smiled at his retreating back, muttering one word over and over again. 

Perfect. 

Chapter Text

Heeseung was barely able to take a sip of his water when the door to the District 7 suite slammed open. 

Eunchae, who was nibbling on a piece of bread, gasped in delight, seeing that their escort, Sakura, walk inside. She was wearing this long dress drenched in red sewn roses, her pace leaving petals in its wake.  Sakura, well, she looked beautiful . (Oh, how he hates admitting that.)  She was walking fast, too fast, and yet Heeseung was still berating himself for ever thinking positively about the woman when she suddenly held his wrist and pulled hard. 

The fuck. 

Instinctively, Heeseung tugs his wrist back — tripping Sakura over. Eunchae reaches out, steadying her with a confused expression. However, the elder woman didn’t care.  Not at all, even so, she gently held Eunchae’s hand and reached out to pull Heeseung’s hand hard, making him tumble over in shock. However, Sakura still did not care and frantically began to walk at a faster pace, making both of the tributes stumble before struggling to catch up to her pace. Soon enough, she nods at the servant guarding the door to the back of the suite, making him open the door in haste, revealing a staircase. As they pass, Sakura smiles gently at him. Heeseung spots a glint of a mischievous brown eye, and they quickly go up. 

“Kkura, what’s going on?” Eunchae asks, trying to stop them from moving yet failing once again as both tributes get dragged upwards and upwards and upwards and oh. Heeseung knows now. 

This must be punishment.

Realization must’ve already struck the younger female because she locks eyes with him and frowns, head whipping around frantically as they heave from the sudden exertion. A question rings in her gaze, and Heeseung shrugs, confused as well. 

But that doesn’t matter, because when Sakura finally rips the door to the rooftop open, Heeseung locks eyes with Jongseong. 

Jongseong, who is having a panic attack. 

A punched out breath comes first, but then he’s moving, wrenching his arm away from Sakura’s weakening grip, and strides over to the younger male. He pulls him to his chest, kisses his hair, and breathes. 

His surroundings blur and focus, like a colored kaleidoscope that made him drown in the entirety of himself. He grips it, lets his fingers dig into it — yet all it could do was to gently caress Jongseong’s back and murmur consistent inconsistencies that spoke nothing but the truth.  I’m here. He whispers, watching as Jongseong takes a shuddering breath, and yet he heaves a sob. Nonetheless, Heeseung stays. 

How cruel is it really, when all Heeseung ever wanted was to do just that?

Jongseong is heaving like he never had a heart, which was untrue, because Heeseung is holding him now. He’s holding him now, and yet he wouldn’t hold him again in a couple of days, because… because.. He’s going to the arena. Heeseung is going to the arena, and he might not come back, because Jongseong knew what he did, and he can’t. He can’t. 

He can’t do this. 

“Why would you do that?” Jongseong rasps, his voice an unsteady rope — Heeseung feels himself falling. He’s falling and crashing down, he’s drowning and crashing, and yet Jongseong takes a deep breath and Heeseung just lets himself fall. 

How did he know ? Heeseung wanted to ask, and he did — his voice coming out as broken as he, and Jongseong pushes him away hard enough that he feels himself stumble. “Are you actually stupid?” He crashes down on the floor, winded from the sudden force, and yet his surroundings are not clear enough to make him move.  It centers on, as it always does, Jongseong. 

Jongseong, who was heaving for breath. Jongseong, who had tears streaming down his cheeks and his mouth parted. Jongseong, who looked so much in pain that its so familiar that it makes Heeseung’s heart constrict, his eyes blur, and make him feel like he’s fifteen again.

How sad was it that once he looked back at this moment, all he could remember was Jongseong’s fury, and not his love?

“I’m your mentor, have you forgotten that?” He croaks out, and Heeseung feels himself cracking more at the seams. Jongseong is all fire, all burning and intense, and he’s burning. Oh, why is Jongseong mad? “The one thing I let you do, the one thing where I stepped back and let you do what you want,  this is the one where you fuck up. Are you fucking kidding me, Heeseung?”

There are tears forming in the corners of Jongseong’s eyes. Heeseung fights the want to wipe it all away.  

Instead, he lets Jongseong’s fire ignite his own. 

“Guess what, you idiot? I was fucking sick and out of my mind worrying about you! I had no idea if whether you were alive or not, because you’re a fucking tribute. They don’t care! They could fucking kill you! They could kill every single one of you and wouldn’t bat a fucking eye because they do not give a damn unless you win, and guess what, I’m trying my fucking best to make sure you do, and yet the first thing I hear from Sakura is that you threw a fucking axe at the Gamemakers?!” Jongseong bites out, his voice a sharp knife, digging into Heeseung’s soul like he was nothing more than another kill of his. 

He has never been this mad before, Heeseung thinks. 

Most especially, Jongseong was never mad at him before. 

It doesn’t matter how Sakura knew. Heeseung wasn’t stupid enough to think that he would get away with it. He knows that the Gamemakers knew him by his name alone — he was there, waiting in the courtyard back in District 7, gripping his own hands with clenched teeth as his best friend flirted and giggled around Pann’s questions, skittering over the fact that he is doing all of this for him and trying his best not to feel so sick about it. 

Heeseung opens his mouth, and what comes out is a slow whisper — a soft wind, one that is trying to calm Jongseong’s flames. He locks eyes with his fiery gaze, holding it with his own.  “They weren’t looking at me, Seong. You have to understand. I was mad. They were having a roast du—” Jongseong takes a sharp breath, his eyes dimming with both anger and something Heeseung could never decipher as he sharply retorts. “We’re all mad, Heeseung.” He states, glaring down at him. “It’s not just you, you fucking idiot. Do you think that I would still be here if I weren’t? No, because you’re too fucking stupid to even think why I’m telling you this.” 

What?

“They weren’t looking at me, Jongseong. What the fuck was I supposed to do?” Heeseung finally says, feeling so… so wronged. There is a storm slowly building in his head, a reigning tornado composed of everything and nothing he had felt. Why wasn’t he understanding this? The elder thought, as he finally found the energy to move. Slowly, he gets up — one foot standing over the other, and then he matches Jongseong’s glare with his own. “They weren’t looking at me, and all I could think is how could they, because its their fucking job , and yet they were all focused on a fucking duck.” 

His mentor flinches in shock, and his mouth opens in retaliation. Heeseung blocks it. “I am going to die in a few days, and yet they wouldn’t get off their high horse and pay attention to me. Now, I am aware that what I did brings hell on earth for me, but am I not already in hell?” He snapped, inching closer and closer until he could finally smell him again.  Oud wood, sandalwood, and a hint of patchouli. It’s a scent that he could never get rid off, even if he dies. 

Which he will. 

Jongseong has to accept that.

But still, he can’t. Heeseung knows that he can’t, primarily because he’s the reason why he’s still alive. What Jongseong could not see, however, is that Heeseung will not stand in Jongseong’s universe. 

Not anymore. 

Distantly, he flashes back to the day of the Reaping, when he was last held by those who truly loved him. His mother’s words flash back to him, ringing in his ears like a desperate prayer falling from a broken deity — but yet… 

There is a seventeen-year-old somewhere around this floor, probably shaking in all the ways she could be shaken, and Heeseung is just expected to what… let her die?

Realization must have dawned in Jongseong’s eyes because he lets out a whine — a broken sound that makes Heeseung stop talking. It’s raw, guttural, and absolutely heartbreaking. It is a catastrophic calamity, a burning fire doused too late. Jongseong heaves, his mouth pouring desperate pleas as he whispers. “ Please. ”  

Everything in him wants to reach out, pull Jongseong to his chest, and cradle him, yet he doesn’t. It hurts because he wants to. It hurts, because Heeseung doesn’t want to at all. Heeseung… Heeseung wanted to try. He wanted to live, he wanted to breathe, he wanted to go home. Nonetheless, that doesn’t matter now. 

Heeseung shoves his feelings into his heart, pulling it down hard enough it makes him wince. It creases through his skin, settling through his bones and landing on his muscles like how blood remains still in his body. 

A breath passes, and for the first time since he was fifteen years old, he shakes his head, choosing to look away. 

A moment passes, then another one comes. 

Heeseung simply waits. 

“Right. I’ll see you tomorrow then, for your interviews.” Jongseong mutters, his eyes torn open by tears as he moves past Heeseung, his shoulder crashing to his — the contact burning through his skin, meeting sinew and bone. Heeseung inhales sharply, quietly listening to the sound of familiarity — the sound of his heartbeat leaving him alone.

And once he did, Heeseung crashed down to the floor and exhaled a sob. 

“You know, you can always talk to me about it, right?” Sakura opens her eyes, gently meeting him while the smell of caffeine seeps into his nose. Jongseong breathes it all in, closing his eyes for a moment before opening them again to speak. “What’s there to tell you? He made his decision, and that’s.. that’s all there is.”  

His heart pangs deep in his chest, clawing his muscles out until he’s all but a bag of skin and bones. There is the familiar dread again, the feeling of agony and desperation and oh this is just so fucking unfair and yet he takes a breath and shoves it all back down again.

Sakura only hums, her slender hand pushing a cup of black coffee towards the mentor, her free hand already holding her own. “You know what I think? Maybe he’s just… scared . You know that people tend to do things in the face of fear.” 

Jongseong only shakes his head, looking away as he takes a sip of his coffee. He feels the liquid down his throat, and it burns — 

It always seems to burn these days.

“I know him too much, Kkura. Heeseung may be scared, but he’s not a quitter. He knows damn well what he said, and he knows damn well what he wants. I just…” I just wish he would want me too. Jongseong thinks, wanting nothing more than to die rather than to take another breath.

“But that doesn’t matter.  They still need to have their interviews —  we still need to prepare them. The things they have to do — Kkura, I can’t do that to them.. Kkura, I can’t.” Jongseong whispers, his hand trembling slightly under the weight of the coffee cup and the weight of everything he has to bear.  The escort only hums, reaching out to softly place a hand on top of his — his eyes snap towards the contact and he has to remind himself to breathe, but Sakura only forms a smile and lets her hand hover.  

He takes a moment, then two — and the weight on his hand shifts from a dark place to a warm embrace.  Jongseong only breathes in, his eyes closing as he nods slightly — Sakura takes this as a sign to press her hand to steady his own. “I know, Jjong. I know. One day at the time, remember?” She prods, her eyes calmly meeting his to let him drown in her sense of security. “You can’t control what happens on the day itself, but we can help them prepare to face her . You and I know what to do—..” 

“But I don’t. I really don’t. She’s going to use me against him, Kkura. I don’t want her to do it.” Jongseong says, his voice lowering into a whisper as he quietly adds in a shaky voice. “Eunchae… she won’t even focus on Eunchae.  She’s just a kid, and Heeseung’s my collateral. Kkura, I can’t — please don’t make me to this.” 

He can’t do this. Jongseong can’t just stand there and watch. Please.

He did all of this so he wouldn’t be in this position, but why did it happen anyway?

“Listen to me, Jjong-ah.” The elder female whispers, her eyes firmly locking onto his teary ones — her hand slightly gripping his own tightly.  “You need to be strong right now, okay? I know. By all of the Gods,  I know .  I know, but you can’t break down now. Not now—not ever. This isn’t something you can control; they’re already here. What you can control is the fact that they will be facing Pann tomorrow, and they’ll need something. Everything is not enough, but something is. Do you understand, Jjong? Not now. Okay?” 

Jongseong crumbles under her words, and yet he pulls himself together again, forcing himself to breathe in just once and nod. 

Sakura only smiles, her hand gently squeezing his once before she gently grabs his unfinished coffee cup to place it on the table. “Do you want to wait here? I’ll ask someone to get you some soup, as you feel a little bit cold. I’ll wake up the two.” Her words are gentle, reminding him of his own mother so well, making Jongseong smile slightly and shrug. His shoulders, those that were previously tensed, relax. This makes Sakura smile earnestly. 

“Alright. Stay there, Jjong. I’ll be back.”  She states, making sure to maintain her warm smile as she slowly backs away from his figure. 

She locks eyes with the mask-covered servant in the back, the one who had his hands behind his back but his head never lowered. His brown eye glinted in the sun’s bright rays — the morning light glimmering between them. 

They don’t say anything. 

They don’t have to. 

Because as the escort takes a leave, the servant does too. 

Leaving the mentor all alone. 

The servant follows her orders, silent feet walking towards the door of the male tribute, as instructed.  

He takes a deep breath, his eyes shaking — he could feel his mouth trembling, despite the fact that he hasn’t used it in almost a whole decade. However, he moves forward, hand pulling upwards to knock on the wooden door.  Mahogany. He whispers quietly in his head, his ears wincing at the loud sound his knocks has made. 

He knocks on the door once more, for good measure. 

The servant is now shaking all over, his body heaving and his mind battling hard with himself, but he pulls his feelings down. Slowly, he waits — his breathing shallow and his mind at war with himself.

He was going to knock on the door again, and yet all he does is breathe, because the door opens by itself. 

There and behold, the male tribute comes out of the door — his eyes red from the lack of sleep, his body rigid at the sight of the stranger, most especially someone with a mask like his — and stops to lower his gaze into a glare. “Who are you?” 

The servant takes his breath and lowers his head, his hands coming up to unclasp his mask. Slowly, he removes it — his eyes opening wide at the sudden wave of clarity and his nose breathing in unfiltered air for the first time in years. 

He’s trembling. 

Do it scared.   Sakura’s voice breaks through his head, his eyes blinking, and oh, this feels so good, and he’s free.   He’s free, he’s finally free. 

Trembling with the newfound freedom, he takes a shaky breath and tilts his head up. Slowly, he could see the realization pool in the male tribute’s eyes, his mouth slowly parting, and yet the servant pushes on, afraid that he wouldn’t get to try once he lets himself drown in his own fear. 

“I’m…” His voice comes out, as rough and gravelly as it comes — his throat burns from misuse.  His brown eyes are on the brink of tearing up — warm tears pooling in the corner of his eyes, making his heart constrict.

Oh, it has been so long. 

“Taehyun. Kang Taehyun.”