Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A piercing scream rippled through the small house, awakening Thomas from his slumber. Bolting out off the old blanket he uses as a bed, Thomas made his way over to his little brother, Chuck, who was curled up on the bed. Another cry came out of the young boys mouth, his eyes clamped shut but you could see the eyes moving underneath the lids. Thomas didn't hesitate to move Chuck onto his lap, rocking him back and forth.

"You're okay," Thomas whispered. "I'm here, Chuck. You're okay, it's only a dream."

Chuck had often suffered from nightmares after their father had been killed, which later wasn't helped by their mother committing suicide two years later. Thomas used to suffer with night terrors, but thats when his insomnia kicked in and he rarely slept anymore. They've been on their own for almost three years now, still living in the small shack -basically just two rooms - where both of them were born and grew up. Thomas was only 12 when his father died, and even then, it was basically just him and Chuck. Their mother suffered from depression already, but it only became suicidal after they found his fathers body after the mine explosion. She just shut off, wouldn't talk or anything. She became a shell, a vessel of what she used to be. Thomas would spend hours, sobbing and screaming for his mother to come back to him, but she never did. People said she was like a walking coma, unaware of the world around her. But Thomas didn't care. All he cared about was how he was going to look after a 8 year old little boy and himself. Chuck, now only being 13 needed his sleep, but it was nights like these that Thomas wished he'd convinced Chuck to stay awake with him.

"Its okay. C'mon, Chuck. Wake up, buddy," Thomas said softly, and thankfully, after a few more minutes of comforting whispering and rocking back and forth, the screams died down, turning into small whimpers. It was a few more minutes before Chuck fell back into a silent sleep, relaxed and scream-free. Thomas laid Chuck back down on the bed gently, tucking him under the worn blankets.

Thomas wondered into their poor excuse kitchen, searching the cabinets for some food but found there was none. This wasn't unusual, there wasn't much to buy in district 12. So instead they lived off the things he could find from the Hob. Thankfully, Thomas and his dad had gone to the Hob hundreds of times before he died, which meant Thomas was well known around the place. Everyone knew him as the boy with the depressed mum. Of course, when she died, he was known as the orphan, like the rest of the unfortunate children around District 12 who lost they're parents.

Thomas glanced back into their bedroom, silently thanking that Chuck was still asleep. Slipping his old boots on and grabbing his dad's jacket, Thomas walked out of the house with his bag hanging on his shoulder. He used to be reluctant of leaving Chuck at home alone, but the small boy is more independent now and most likely knows that Thomas is only going to the Hob.

Thomas lived on the outskirts of District 12, in the small shabby homes which only consisted of one or two rooms. It was by far the poorest place in District 12, but at least they had a home. Poverty wasn't an uncommon thing in District 12. Thomas is more than lucky that he can still hold a roof above his and Chucks heads otherwise they'd be on the street with the other less fortunate families.

The route to the Hob was long, but with it being so familiar and Thomas' long legs, it only took him half the time. The strong stench of burning coal and sweat burned his nose as he walked past the miners. Their clothes stained with dark splotches, tears and holes blotted all over as they hang loosely on their figure. No one in district 12 is a healthy weight, let alone fat. But the minors are probably the largest people, although they still are only the size of the average weight simply by built up muscle.

It wasn't long before Thomas was at the Hob, weaving through the crowds of familiar long faces of sunken people. The people of district 12 always seemed to have a dark cloud hanging over them, not meaning the literal weather but their faces only showed the colour grey, skin as colourless as their clothes.

"Hey, Thomas!" A voice called out, turning to see Frypan waving from his stall with a wide grin, his dirty apron untied around his neck, hanging limply down his front.

Thomas had known Frypan for as long as he could remember. They're fathers were close, before his own died. Frypans family owned a soup stall in the hob, and family had practically taken Thomas and Chuck under their wing after their parents died. Back when Thomas was basically on the borderline of deathly starvation as he had to give all his food to Chuck, Frypan had taken Thomas home after he's collapsed on the way home from school. From then on, Frypan and his family refused to ever let Thomas and Chuck get that bad.

"Hey, buddy," Thomas replied as he made his way over. Saliva forming in his mouth when he recognise the distinct smell of Frypans mothers tomato soup.

"Frypan, will you start getting the soup ready?" Frypans mother appeared, her long black hair tied up in a bun at the back of her head, stray strands falling down her face. She was wearing her usual grey canvas dress underneath her apron, only hers was tied in a double knot at the back. Her expression was sour, eyes narrowing into a glare when she saw that Frypan hadn't done what she had asked. "For god sake child, do some work!" Her expression softened when she saw Thomas, a small smile formed but didn't reach her eyes. "Oh, hello, Thomas. Sorry love, today's been a bit of a manic."

"It's fine," Thomas replied with a small shake of his hand. "Today isn't exactly the easiest day of the year."

And it wasn't. It was reaping day.

"Can I help with anything?" Thomas asked as Frypan started filling up bowls of soup while his mother cut small chunks of bread.

"Oh, no, my love," Donna replied in a gentle voice. She looked up, putting down the large knife before turning around. Grabbing a metal pot and lid before handing it to Frypan. She pulled out a cloth, putting two bits of bread in and wrapping it up. "You go home, get yourself and Chuck ready."

She handed Thomas the cloth and pot. Thomas put the pot in his bag, his fingers instantly missing the warmth he felt from touching the metal container. He reached for his pocket, rummaging for a few coins to pay Donna when she held out a hand.

"Don't be silly, Thomas. You really think I'd give you soup and expect you to pay? I thought we got past that stage," she said. It was true, for years after Donna had sworn to look after Thomas and Chucks eating habits, Thomas still felt reluctant to pay her for what she'd done. He'd always offer, and even when they declined, he'd very often bring the pot back with some payment in it.

"I still feel selfish," Thomas sighed. "You don't have to do this, but you do and you don't take anything back."

"Thomas, I wasn't expecting you to pay for soup three years ago when I started. So why would I expect now?" She asked, leaving Thomas in silence. "Go on," she continued when the young boy couldn't reply. "Chuck will be waiting."

"Thank you," Thomas said again, before turning and leaving.

Thomas once again weaved through the black market and made it back outside just to see people start to pack up. Business' always closed early on reaping day, people needed time to prepare themselves for the upcoming event.

When Thomas got home, he shrugged off his jacket and boots, placing his bag on the dining table and getting out the pot and cloth.

"Thomas?" Chucks small voice called out as the boy appeared at the doorway. His, thick curly, brown hair was falling in his sleep coated eyes, sleepy dust clogged in the corners. His round face lit up as he recognised the metal pot on the table. "You got food!"

"Yeah, buddy. C'mon," Thomas waved over. The boy bounced into the room, jumping into the chair as Thomas unwrapped the still warm bread. The boys ate their food in silence, dipping their bread into the pot of soup before spooning the rest out. Thomas occasionally glanced up from his place opposite Chuck, he couldn't help but notice the boys uncommon quietness that engulfed him like a thick rug.

"Thomas," Chucks voice was barely above a whisper, and when Thomas looked up to check the boy had actually spoke, he was met with tear rimmed eyes.

"Whats wrong?"

"Whats," the boy broke a sob. "Whats gonna happen if...if-"

"Hey, Chuckie, don't think like that," Thomas said softly. "This is your first year, they never pick the first years."

It was rare, but not impossible for a first years to get chosen. They had just a good a chance as anybody else, but somehow luck seemed to always be on their sides as only a few unlucky 12 year olds have ever been put through. Thomas knew this, he'd stressed about it for the past year. The thought had been playing on his mind for that past months, plaguing his thoughts with violent scenarios of how today could play out.

Thomas knew Chuck probably wasn't nervous for himself, but for Thomas.

"Don't be scared, you know I won't let anything happen to you,"

"I'm not scared," Chuck tried to sound brave, but the poor boys face betrayed him, showing nothing but fear. "I just wish I could say the same back."

"Say what?"

"That I won't let anything happen to you," Chuck murmured, a tear swelling and running down his cheek.

"Hey," Thomas got up from his chair, making his way around the table and crouching in front of Chuck, who was staring at his lap, sobbing quietly. "You don't need to protect me. I'll always be here, you know that,"

Thomas reached into his pocket, pulling out a small wooden piece. It was carved of two people, man and women, side by side. Chuck had done it not long ago during school and given it to Thomas. From then on, the older boy kept it in his pocket for good luck.

"Here," Thomas said, reaching for Chucks trouser pocket and slipping the wooden doll inside. "If you keep this in your pocket, nothing bad will happen to you." He looked up, meeting Chucks red, but glistening eyes. "Mum and dad will protect you."

The two boys didn't have any other clothes so when the clock met one o'clock, they made their way to the square. Thomas had tried to explain to Chuck that attendance is mandatory unless your on deaths door or under 12. That Capitol officials even go around in the evening to check and if your not, then you get imprisoned. Thomas has thought many times that it would be easier to just skip it go to prison, at least there they would get two meals a day and a shower. But Thomas knew he couldn't expect Chuck to go to prison, the boy was too kind and gentle, he would get beaten to the bone.

The reaping was held in the District square, a place that is usually quite a pleasant place. Its full of market stalls and shops, and when its sunny, it has a holiday feel to it. But today, even with the sun cracking through the grey clouds, the air is coated with grimness. The camera crews are perched on the rooftops, the one place that Thomas refuses to look.

Thomas walked side by side with Chuck, the younger boy holding onto his older brothers wrist like a lifeline. People filed silently, walking in a slow pace, trying to take as long as possible.

Chuck makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat when his hand is ripped from Thomas' wrist, being pushed into a separate line for signing in. Thomas sends him a reassuring smile, but knows it won't do anything to help. A small prick of the finger to draw blood is all they ask for, after that everyone gets herded into roped areas marked off by ages. The oldest, the eighteen year olds, stand at the back while the youngest ones, like Chuck and other 12 year olds, stand at the front. Family members and other population stand around the crowd, holding tightly to one another's hands.

The place gets tighter, more claustrophobic as more people arrive and are shoved into the tight spaces. The square is large, but not large enough to hold the entire of 12's population. Thomas feels his chest tightening, his hands forming sweat in his palms that he wipes on his old, filthy cargo trousers. He blows out a long breath when his shoulder bumps with someones, he didn't know them, but they still shared a firm nod in respect before turning to the front.

On the temporary stage, was four chairs. One of which was for the mayor, who was a tall bald man who was the richest - as rich as you could get in district 12. He has a daughter, a small girl named Misty, a girl around Thomas' age. Her name was 'placed' in the bowl, but everyone knows the mayor pays one of the peacekeepers to swop it for a blank piece. One of the other chairs was for Effie Trinket, District 12's tribute escorts. Fresh from the Capitol with her scary grin, shining white teeth and pink hair. Her lime green suit sticking out like a sour thumb among the dull colours of the population. The other seat were for the past victor, Jorge. Every year they set chairs for him, but he never shows. Thomas always wonders why they even bother anymore, considering the poor victor usually stays in the shadows now a days, spending his days drowning in alcohol.

The play the usual sermonical video, something pathetic the Capitol had pulled together but Thomas always tuned out. Instead, he finds Frypans face in the crowd a couple of metres beside him, mouthing a 'good luck' and a solum smile, feeling slightly better when he gets one in return.

The video is over before they know it and thats when Effie walks up to the staged microphone on the centre stage, her slim heels tapping against the floor as she walks. She recites some god-awful scripted speech about the Capitol and the past tributes. To which Thomas also tunes out, not listening to it because he's heard it hundreds of times before.

"Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favour!" Effie finished in a bubbly and bright voice. "Ladies first!" she announces as she crosses the stage to the glass ball of girls names. She reaches in with her thin fingers before pulling out a name. The crowd draw in a breath, shoulders tensing.

Effie crosses back across the stage, standing in front of the podium as she says in a clear voice, "Teresa Agnes!"

Thomas instantly recognises the name. Him and Teresa went to school together for a few months before he got kicked out for stealing, but she seemed pleasant, undeserving of this fate. The crowd watches as the girl makes her way to the stage, her long brown hair hanging past her shoulders. The pale blue dress she wore blew limply in the wind as she made her way up the steps and across the stage. Bravo for holding a brave face, as she showed no emotion on her clear skin.

But now it was time for the boys and Thomas had never felt so nervous before. He watches closely as her hand reaches in, digging deeply before pulling out the slip. The square is so silent, you could have heard a pin drop. But Thomas doesn't care. He keeps chanting 'please don't be me, please don't be me,' inside his head as he tries to keep the waves of nausea creeping up his throat under control.

In a crystal clear voice, Effie announces the name. And its not Thomas.

Its Chuck Greene.

Thomas felt the air get sucked out of his throat like a vacuum. He forgets for a moment how to breath as his lungs cry for air, unable to speak as the name bounces round his skull.

No. This was some kind of mistake! Thomas thought. Chuck was a single piece of paper among thousands! He feels his hands shaking at his side, his legs trembling underneath him as he tries to register what was happening. His heart rate was like it kicked off with rocket fuel, racing a mile a minute with no signs of slowing down.

It didn't matter. Somewhere among the crowd people were murmuring unhappily, as they always do when a 12 year old gets picked. Thomas spot Chuck in the crowd, the blood drain from his horrified face as he shuffles slowly towards the stage. It was the glint of sun that caught on a pin that was on Chucks chest, holding his shirt together, and then shone in Thomas' eyes seemed to pull him out of his state of shock.

"Chuck!" Thomas shouted, although the word got choked in his throat. He was moving, pushing through the thick crowd without any consent, eventually they began to move into a path for him to pass through. "No! Chuck, stop!"

He came into the clearing, a wide path that split between the two sides of crowds. Thomas didn't hesitate when the peacekeepers came into view, marching forward with their guns at hand. It wasn't until they grabbed him by the shoulders, attempting to pull him away when the words ripped through Thomas' lips. "I volunteer!"

Silence fell over, all eyes on Thomas as the mayor rose from his chair. "What?"

"I said, I volunteer," Thomas was thankful that his voice didn't break, it as actually kind of bitter, something he didn't recognise from himself. He didn't wait for the peacekeepers to move before he barged past them, walking quickly down the isle were Chuck was violently shaking his head by the stairs.

"N-no, Thomas!" He cried, reaching out his hands as if he could stop Thomas, by grabbing a hold of his wrists.

"Chuck, let go," Thomas asked, his voice now his usual gentle manor. But the boy refused, if anything his grip became tighter and Thomas knew it would most likely leave bruises on his pale, thin wrists.

"Excellent!" Effie praised, clapping her hands together with joy, Thomas couldn't help but scowl.

"No, Thomas!" Chuck screamed, sobbing loudly. "You can't go! You promised-"

"Chuck, please!" Thomas tried to peal off the boys hands but they stayed locked. It wasn't until Frypan came up, lifting Chuck off the ground as he looked at Thomas with pained eyes, carrying away the thrashing boy.

Thomas turned slowly, the past few minutes crashing down on him like a ton of bricks. His legs felt like jelly, but he refused to seem weak. With shaky knees, Thomas climbed the steps, feeling insecure with all the wide eyes on him.

"Well, lovely," Effie trots over to him, grabbing him by the elbow to pull him further on the stage. His legs felt so thin beneath him he almost stumbled when she pulled him so suddenly, but thankfully he caught himself without too much embarrassment. "So, whats your name?"

Thomas swallowed hard, taking a long look at the crowd that suddenly felt so distant.

"Thomas Greene,"

Chapter Text

Thomas' mind is working so hard he feels dizzy. His thoughts are bouncing around his head like tennis balls. He feels like someone has taken a baseball bat to his chest, it felt bruised and tight. His heart was beating so fast and hard against his ribs he was surprised they hadn't broken yet. It hurt to breath and he could feel himself suffocating. The room alone was isolating, being so large yet so plain with lack of furniture and character.

Thomas doesn't know how he's meant to do this. He feels like he's stuck under cold water, drowning and suffocating in a pool of black. He doesn't know what he's meant to do, doesn't know how he's meant to protect Chuck when he's fighting for his life or dead.

"Thomas,"

The boy jerked his head up, not even realising the peacekeeper was standing in the door way, looking at him with a disgusted expression. "Your family is going to be let in in a minute." He closed the door without waiting for a reply.

His family was coming. No. Chuck was coming. Chuck was his only family, unless they let Frypan come along. They were coming to say goodbye and Thomas wasn't even sure what he was going to say to them. Nothing seemed proper. Nothing seemed like it would be enough. These could be his last words to the people he loves.

Thomas sat there quietly, gazing at his fingers, trying to remember how to breathe, but he was still failing. One could not blame him, not after what had happened.

Startling Thomas, the door flew open and Chuck came running through. Thomas had barely enough time to get up off the cushioned seat before the small boy ran into him, wrapping his arms around Thomas's thin waist.

"Y-you promised!" Chuck sobbed, tears already socking Thomas's top. "You promised you'd never leave me!"

Thomas felt as if his heart was literally shattering in his chest. Seeing his baby brother in such distress sent waves of guilt through him. "I know, Chuck," he murmured gently. He looked up when he saw the door open and close again, Frypan standing by the door. Thomas felt like everything around him was crumbling, falling apart like bad bread. "I'm going to gone for a while, okay? So you gotta stay strong, be a brave boy for me, okay? Be strong like dad was."

Chuck nodded firmly, though the tears in his eyes told Thomas this wasn't going to be easy for him.

"Chuck, stop," he said faintly, but the boy continued to sob as if Thomas hadn't spoken. Thomas grabbed Chuck by the wrists firmly, pulling the boy off his waist as kneeling down in front of him. "Chuck," Thomas stared the small boy in the eye, his small brown eyes screaming so much fear that Thomas felt hot tears burn his eyes. "No, Chuck. Please, stop! Chuck, don't cry. Okay? 'Cause then I'm going to start crying, and I... I can't cry."

"Okay," Chuck whispered, wiping his eyes furiously before holding his head high.

Thomas's heart stopped when the door opened, a peacekeeper stepping inside. "Thomas, times up-"

"Wait!" Thomas yelped, jumping to his feet as he approached Frypan hysterically. "Frypan-"

"I know," Frypan replied calmly, softly. "I'll look after him."

"Thank you," Thomas said gently, pulling the boy into a tight hug.

It didn't last long. Suddenly, Frypan was yanked out of Thomas's grasp, a peacekeeper pulling him out of the door. "Times up," he said again, reaching for Chuck, but the boy squirmed in his hold, kicking and screaming for release.

"Wait, stop! Please, just, just a few more minutes!" Thomas pleaded, reaching to try and calm his hysteric brother as the peacekeeper dragged him out. "Chuck! Chuck, it'll be okay! I promise, I'll try-"

Thomas was cut off by the slam of the door, his final words were drowned out by his little brothers cries, screaming his name.

Thomas leaned against the door, palms pressed flat as he rested his forehead against the cool, glossy paint work. He felt tears prick his eyes again, swallowing down the nervous bile that crawled up his throat. No. I must not cry, Thomas said to himself. I must be brave. No one can see me cry.

It was less than 10 minutes before peacekeepers were in the room again, guiding Thomas out of the Justice building and onto the train platform. He was back with Teresa, unable but to notice the tears that tracked down her pale cheeks. Her eyes red and puffy, nose runny and sniffly. It was okay, for girls, he thought. They could cry, it wasn't a sign of weakness. It kind of was, but much less than if a boy tribute came out crying, he was an instant target, labelled as a weakling that was easily taken out. If Thomas wanted to get back to Chuck, he couldn't be seen as a weakling.

The train was already there and Thomas couldn't get a word in before they were shoved on and it was moving.

Thomas had never been on a train before, it was such a high level of transport, especially in district 12. Only the peacekeepers traveled by train, and a few coal miners, but that was just a rare as a hot water.

At first, it was weird. The foreign sensation of the moving but the floor staying still under his feet. The train swayed and Thomas only managed to stay on his feet because a Peace Keeper harshly grabbed his elbow before he could face plant the flood.

Inside the train, the carriages were connected by narrow compartments, carpeted with red velvet and old fashioned orange wallpaper. They were lead to the main room, what Thomas would call the 'dining room' if this was a home, had a large table, seated with 4 chairs, 2 on each side. The rest of the room had other necessities that Thomas had no idea what purpose they held.

"Just wait here, Effie and your mentor will be here shortly," a peacekeeper said from behind them, not waiting for their response before he walked out the way he came, closing the door behind him. Thomas had watched him leave, wondering what would happen if he followed him. He decided not to take the risk.

The sound of an opening door caused Thomas to spin around, finding Effie and another male walk in the opposite door. "C'mon, Thomas. Sit down," Effie motioned to Teresa, who was already seated.

Thomas hurried over, sheepishly sitting in he seat next to Teresa, Effie seated opposite her, adjusting her pink hair for a moment while Teresa was eyeing the food laid out on the table. But Thomas couldn't think about the food, couldn't even stand the smell of it. He was too nauseated, the events of the day catching up to him, making him feel exhausted. He slumped in his chair, looking at the mentor that sat opposite him.

"So, how are our lovely tributes?" Effie asked in her usual bubbly tone, dragging Thomas abruptly out of his daze.

Teresa was the first to answer, her voice was cold, venomous. Thomas didn't think it suited her appearance very well, with the dark hair and fair skin, she looked more gentle. "We just got reaped for the Hunger Games," she spat. "How do to think we feel?"

Effie looked slightly taken back, which was surprising as Thomas had assumed she'd be used to the pissed off tributes. She was about to speak, but Jorge interrupted her.

"Not both of you got reaped," he flickered his eyes over to Thomas, which caused the rest of the heads to turn towards him. "That was a brave move you made."

"Well I wasn't going to let my 12 year old brother go into the games, was I?" Thomas was surprised at how firm his tone was, although it came out slightly more bitter than he intended.

Jorge's eyebrows shot up, a small smirk tugging on his lips.

"Okay, let's begin, shall we?" Effie said cheerfully, obviously working around the heavy tension in the room.

"Alright," Jorge sighed, facing both of the tributes. "I'm not gonna sugar coat this. We have little time to prepare you two for the Games. You will face horrors unlike anything you have met before. If we're lucky, only one of you will die and the other will be victorious. In the end, that's all what this is about. Returning home," he paused, eyes flickering between the two tributes. "I'm expected to prepare you. However, that is impossible."

"Well that's useful," Teresa muttered under her breath.

Jorge ignored the comment, although he clearly heard it. "Nothing can prepare you for what you're going to find once you pop up in the arena. An endless sea, a frozen land of ice, desert or forest? We don't know. When you're out there, we aren't there to hold your hand and offer you our opinion. You have to depend on yourself." Jorge crossed his arms, leaning back in his seat.

"You weren't kidding when you said you weren't going to sugar coat it," Thomas said after a few moments of silence, causing the mentor to chuckle.

"Okay," Jorge sat forward again, eyes sharp. "What are your skills?"

"Skills?" Teresa repeated.

"Fighting skills, survival skills, anything to help you in the arena," Jorge answered, his tone borderline bored and Thomas could only imagine how many times they had to have this conversation with tributes.

The pair sat in silence, thinking thoroughly of what their 'skills' could be.

"Well?" Jorge broke the silence after a few minutes, obviously becoming bored of waiting.

Teresa answered first, her tone hesitant and unsure. "I don't think I have any survival skills," she paused, as if she was nervous to say something. "I grew up with only my mother and father, we didn't have to fight for anything."

It was true. Teresa's family were considerably wealthy, compared to most people in District 12. It was families like Teresa's that Thomas envied. Not once, in the entirety of Teresa's life, would she have had to work for her food, or hunt. She's probably never even stepped foot in the Hob or black market.

"Nothing?" Jorge sighed.

Teresa began to shake her head when Thomas blurted out, "you can fight,"

Teresa's head snapped towards him to fast he thought her neck was going to break.

"What?" Thomas shrugged. "You always used to beat people up in the school playground."

"How do you know?" Teresa said loudly, her voice defensive and angry.

"Everyone knows. You weren't exactly quiet about it," Thomas dead panned. "You throw a good punch too. I'm surprised, thought you'd remember splitting my lip last year."

Teresa's eyes lit up suddenly, a smile broke out on her lips. "Yes, I remember now,"

"So you can fight?" Jorge interjected, his expression slightly lost.

"I guess," Teresa shrugged. "It was only kids from school, but yes, you could say I can fight."

"Good," Jorge nodded. "That's a start." He turned to Thomas, who had to restrain himself not to shrink back into his chair from the sudden attention. "What about you?"

"Uh..." Thomas honestly couldn't think of anything. He hadn't had bawl fights in the playground. All he did was run around with his friends playing tag.

"You can run," Teresa said suddenly, continuing when Thomas turned to her, dumbfounded. "I saw you, in the playgrounds, playing tag. You're pretty fast."

"Yeah, well I don't think running is going to keep my alive," Thomas replied dimly, feeling slightly guilty when he saw Teresa's hurt expression.

"Thomas," Effie spoke, causing Thomas' head to snap up. "Running is good."

"I guess," Thomas replied. "But running will do nothing if they throw a knife at my head."

"You're one negative kid, aren't ya," Jorge smirked, arms folded across his broad chest. "Look, you can discover other skills in the training room, that's what it's for, like a preparation so you can get the feel of weapons and skills you'll need."

When the silence falls upon, Jorge seems to finally notice the steaming soup below his nose. "How about we eat?"

"Perfect idea!" Effie chirps.

The meal came in courses, which baffled Thomas as he rarely got a full plate during dinner, let alone three! To begin with was a carrot soup and thankfully, Thomas was able to eat this comfortably despite the how strange it was. He hadn't even finished the small bowl before they brought out another set of plates, all containing a intimidating amount of fresh, boneless chicken and a range of vegetables that Thomas had never even knew existed.

"At least, you two have decent manners," says Effie as they were finishing the main course. "The pair last year ate everything with their hands like a couple of savages. It completely upset my digestion."

Thomas thought back, knowing the pair last year were two kids from the Seam who'd never, not one day of their lives, had enough to eat. In all honesty, Thomas didn't think himself much better off than the previous two, and even though he ate barely enough, he knew how to use a knife and fork.

The meal was over quickly, Teresa finishing much faster than Thomas as she basically hoovered all the food down, much to Effie's distaste. Thomas had spent years having to preserve his food, not knowing when the next meal was coming taught him to savour, eat slowly and make sure it all went in.

The food was so rich, and even though Thomas didn't finish, he still ate more than he would have in an entire week. He was fighting with his stomach to keep the food down, and he could tell Teresa was too, her face a pale green.

"You guys must have been hungry," Jorge chuckled, wiping his mouth with the corner of his napkin. "Okay, how about you guys get in some clean clothes, do something about that smell," Thomas had to bite his lips to stop the chuckle that tickled his throat at watching Teresa burn a vibrant red and Jorge's smelling declaration. "We can look at the other tributes tomorrow."

Neither object as they make their way to their small carriages and Thomas can't help but love the feeling of the soft carpet that he can easily feel it through his thin shoes.

In his carriage, the drawers are filled with fine clothes, some so expensive looking that Thomas feels reluctant to even touch them. Thomas strips off his over sized clothing, feeling the dried dirt and dust come off in flakes as the rough material drags over his pale skin and he steps into the shower. It takes him about 5 minutes, but he finally finds how to turn it on, and even how to adjust the temperature which literally blows his mind. He's never had a shower before, let alone any kind of washing in hot water. The sensation of the hot, fresh water running over his skin, washing away all the dirt and grime.

He must have spent at least 40 minutes, just standing there, treasuring the soothing feeling of hot water. When he steps out, he chooses a plain pair of dark blue trousers and a soft white top to sleep in.

It takes him a while to sleep, spending ages just tossing and turning, his mind working too fast for it to shut down. The events of the day were catching up to him, his body sinking into the soft mattress. It felt wrong, sleeping in actual bed instead of his pile of ragged blankets. He spends a good half an hour just running his hands over the material, feeling the soft silk.

Thomas peels back the covers and wonders to the train window, watching as the world flies by. In the distance, he see the lights of another district. 7? 10? He can't tell, but it doesn't stop him from thinking about all the people in their homes, settling for bed. He imagines his home, with the crumpling walls and crooked door. He wonders, what Chuck would be doing now? Did he eat supper? Did he go back with Frypan? Of course he did, Frypan and his family would have taken Chuck home as soon as Thomas was boarded onto the train.

Thomas feels himself becoming dizzy from staring out the window, the train going so fast that everything is a literal blur. He closes the soft curtains and makes his way back to bed, feeling the exhaustion finally taking him under minutes later.

Chapter Text

Newt ran his fingers over the small blade of his fathers pocket knife, the one he'd given to him after the reaping. It had been such a sentimental moment that Newt wanted nothing more than to lay down and dream it through again. His father had always been reluctant to give Newt a pocket knife, unsure if his innocent, small boy would ever need to use it in his safe home of District 7. But now, now Newt isn't going to be in his small safe home, no, he's going to be in the Capitol, and soon, it a fight for his life.

He still remembers the sight of his mother, her eyes red and slightly swollen from the mass of tears that continued to pore down her frail face. Her blonde hair had been plaited, so long it had reached down to the base of her back. The dress her friend had made her gave her a royalty look, but now, it didn't matter. It didn't matter because no matter how royal, or well dressed she looked, there was nothing she could have done to save her son.

When his family can into the small room to visit him, his mother didn't hesitate to throw her arms around him, engulfing him in a hug that did nothing to hide the tremors running through her body. Newt couldn't help it, and he regrets it now but couldn't stop the tears that started to fall. It started with a single sob, but soon turned into tears running down his cheeks uncontrollably, his breath hitching in his throat as he tried to hide the sobs that escaped him.

The moment his mother detached herself from his form, another pair of arms surrounded him. This pair, instead of slender, were strong, thick with muscle from spending hours on end chopping down trees with an axe. His father gently stroked his hair as Newt cried into his shoulder, however, the man did not shed a tear. Instead, he brought his lips down to Newts ear and whispered in a stern and serious voice, "Hold on. Be strong. Remember what you're fighting for,"

The quote was ringing around in Newts mind like a broken record. His fathers voice had been so strong, no waver or falter as he spoke the words that Newt will now live by. Because it was true. If Newt wanted to survive, he had to be strong, and he needed to remember what he was fighting for.

"Newt!" 

The loud call and bang on the door had Newt jumping out of his skin, cheeks burning red when he squealed in surprise, almost falling off the bed. He did, however, drop his fathers knife on the floor. He quickly reached down, sliding the small weapon into his pants pocket before going to his compartment door.

Behind the door, stood a peacekeeper. No matter how many times Newt had encountered them, the stupid people still had Newt on edge.

Newt walked out of his carriage, feeling the carpet on his bare feet. He followed the peacekeeper until he stopped in front on a closed door, motioning for Newt to enter. Newt felt obliged and opened the door. He knew from the look of the room inside that was laid out with various couches and chairs, that he was going to have to watch the reapings.

He sits beside Brynn, the girl from District 7 that came with him. She was small, had a round, gentle face. She spoke so quietly that Alby, their mentor, had to continuously ask her to repeat herself. She looked at Newt with her light blue eyes, they contrasted with her fair skin and long blonde hair that reached down to her hips. She looked back at the TV silently as Alby began to go through the tributes, District by District.

One by one, they watch the other reapings, the names called, volunteers from the higher districts step forward, which is expected. It was an honour to get reaped if your from the top districts. Newt examines the faces of the kids who will be in the games with him. A few stand out in his mind. A large boy, named Gally, who more than eagerly volunteers from District 1 and another boy with dark blonde hair called Ben, from District 2.

All the others go over his head, not making a mark. Alby lets them skip their reapings, moving onto District 9 instead. Newt was more than thankful, he didn't want to watch it again, not have to see the horrified look on his face when he was reaped. He didn't want to listen to his mothers strangled cries as he stepped up on stage.

Newt begins to feel himself tune out towards the end. The tributes are gut-wrenching, no doubt, but he lost interest. He wanted nothing more than to run back to his room and crawl into bed.

Until, they switch onto District 12. 

Newt had always heard tales of District 12. How it was by far the poorest district, only having to offer coal. He'd heard gruesome stories, told by kids in the playground of how if food becomes so tight, they eat the stray children. Or if you're on the streets at dark, animals come out from the woods and drag you away. Newt never used to believe them, and when he re-told the stories to his mother and father, they told him they were ridiculous.

Newt didn't pay much attention to the girl from 12, despite her fragile looking state, he knew she was going to be tough. Her eyes showed strength, her tall posture and clean clothes showed she obviously wasn't the poorest tribute they could have got.

Its when they call the boys name, that Newt finds himself leaning forward. How cruel, he thought, reaping a 12 year old. Newt watches as another boy emerges from the crowd, screaming that he volunteers. As the camera zooms in closer, Newt could see the distinct resemblance between the two and he could only guess that their siblings. Then another boy comes up, pulling the younger away as the volunteer makes his way up onto the stage. Now in the spotlight, Newt could see the features of his face, unable to tell if his skin is naturally a pale grey or simply because of the dirt. His brown hair was messy, unbrushed by still soft looking, his big brown eyes looked terrified of all the eyes that stared at him. His clothes, even though they looked too small for his age, still hung loosely on his unhealthily skinny figure.

Effie Trinket trots up to him, asking for the boys name.

"Thomas Greene," he replies, his voice deep and although he visibly trembling, his voice is level and ear twitching.

Thomas Greene, Newt thought. I'm not going to forget that name.

*

Newt wakes up from Alby banging on his door, demanding that he gets up and prepares for breakfast before the 'big day'. And Newt was not looking forward to it. Quite frankly, Newt didn't care about this stupid run way show that the tributes had to participate in. The whole thought of it made Newt feel like a prize more than a human. He shoves the thoughts away and takes a quick shower, the familiar action is no haze to him as he washes quickly and gets dressed, picking out a pair of baggy dark grey trousers and a dark blue t-shirt. Before he leaves his room, he checks through yesterdays trousers, pulling out his fathers knife and sliding into his new pants pockets. 

He makes his way to the diner carriage, finding Brynn and Alby already seated and eating. He joins them, digging into the served food, continuously having to brush back his wet blonde hair thats suddenly fallen in love with his forehead.

Newt finishes his breakfast, evidently a little too fast as he sits back, having to fight to keep the rich food down. 

District 7 was far from poor, no were near as malnourished as 12, but it still wasn't as fancy as any of the top districts. They had showers, hot water, fresh food and clean streets. But they didn't have fancy foods like this, didn't have training centres, didn't have the ultimate life goal of attending the games like District 1 and 2. 

Newt was terrified altogether. He hadn't been raised to fight, he hadn't been raised to do combat or throw knives. He hadn't even gotten in a fight bawl at school. His whole life, he'd lived in a  basic family cottage with his mother and father. His district is well known to be good with axes, and with Newt being 17, almost 18, he has been spending years training to chop down trees with his father. But there is a huge difference between chopping down a tree and chopping off someones head.

"In a few minutes, we'll be pulling into the station," Alby begins, finishing his mouthful of bread. "You'll be put in the hands of your stylists. You're not going to like what they do to you. But no matter what it is, don't resist," 

Newt tenses in chair. He's almost in the Capitol, almost coming face to face with the people he's never wanted to meet. He see's Alby reaching for another bread roll when the carriage goes dark.

A flash of light illuminates the carriage for a nano second before it bleeds black again, as if nighttime has fallen.

They sit in silence as the train drives on, speeding through the tunnel that leads up to the Capitol.

The train finally begins to slow and suddenly bright light floods the carriage. Newt can't stop himself, but both, him and Brynn, run up to the windows.

The train comes to a stop, The large crowd of Capitol people rushing towards the train, waving hands. The bright colours of their hair and clothing physically hurt Newt's eyes to look at and he's more than thankful when he's guided off the train and into the hands of his stylists. 

*

The rest of the day passed in a blur for Newt. He met his stylist, although he wasn't very fond of her, she wasn't exactly the easiest person to hold a conversation with. She also said Newts hair would look best yellow, which completely put him off her for good.

But here he was, a few hours later, standing next to Brynn, who didn't look bad dressed in a green and brown dress, her hair although messy, looked stylish with the twigs and leaves poking out. Newt however, felt more tree than boy! He knew he looked ridiculous, he could tell by the strange looks the other tributes where giving him. Of course, he felt even more self-conscious now, even more when he was caught staring at the boy from 12.

He was standing a few feet away, and Newt could only see his right side as he was talking to what looked like his stylist. From where he was, Newt couldn't stop looking. The boy had pale skin that contrasted with his dark, brown messy hair, a turned up button nose that made him look younger than he was. The moles dotted along side his face and down his neck stood out like stars. He wore an all black tight outfit and Newt could only imagine what it had to do with coal mining but he knew, for sure, that it made Thomas look incredible. He was deathly skinny, but you could see a small definition of muscle on his arms and thighs.

Suddenly, he turned, his eyes locking with Newts and it was like he opened up a whole new world. His eyes were big and brown, whiskey shade and so deep, like dark orbs that you could get hypnotised by. His long eyelashes casted shadows on his high cheekbones from the overhead lights, and then, just as quick as it happened, it was ripped away. Thomas turned around, being lead onto his horse carriage at the back of the long time and Newt was thrown back into reality. 

A pair of hands grabbed his upper arms, pulling and pushing him onto his own cart, Brynn already there, looking at him curiously.

"What?" He asked, readjusting the large blue flock of fabric that was getting in his face.

Brynn's expression stayed blank and unreadable as she spoke gently, "You were staring,"

"W-what? No I...no I wasn't! At who? Who would I be staring at..." Newt sputtered, trailing off as Brynn looked unbelievably unconvinced. He straightened his lips into a thin line and spoke firmly. "No I wasn't." 

"Yes you were," Brynn smiled. "But don't worry, it's not like you're going to have a chance to get to know him. In a few weeks, all of us will be dead but one of the careers."

Newt felt his eyes widen, but he didn't have a chance to reply before the cart heaved forward and he was plunged into the spotlight.

Chapter Text

Thomas felt his stomach lurch as the lift began to rise, so fast that he wouldn't have been effected if he hadn't been sweating with fear. His tight black suit was made with some kind of material that although was thin, somehow made him unbelievably heated. It probably didn't help from the high nervous emotions from the parade. The whole event made Thomas feel like a prize more than a person. The atmosphere had been suffocating, and Thomas had felt his hands trembling so hard he could barely hold onto the cart. Of course it didn't help that his mind was else where, on a certain blonde that Thomas had caught staring at him. The instense brown eyes belonged to none other than the District 8 tribute who had captured Thomas' attention like a moth to a flame. If Thomas hadn't been so nervous he would have chuckled at the blondes ridiculous outfit and he knew if the pair ever had a conversation before or during the games, Thomas was going to bring it up.

Thomas was abruptly broken out of his thoughts as the lift slowed smoothly and a hand clamped down on his shoulder.

"Calm down, hermano," Jorge chuckled as the doors silently slid open with a light 'ping'.

Thomas, Teresa and Jorge entered the appartment followed by a long line of workers. The appartment itself was a explosion of solid colours and square furniture. The glamour and richness of simple things were hurting Thomas's eyes. The entire floor was on large room with a corridor that lead off to what Thomas assumed was the bedrooms. To the right of the elevator was the sitting room, a large tv that was as big as a wall of Thomas's house at home was mounted to the bright orange wall. Around it was 2 large couches, one red, the other grey and both looking solid and square. In the corner, catching Thomas's delight was what looked like a very cosy chair, squishy and pooling with a mountain of pillows. I like that, Thomas thought.

To the left of the elevator was a very large and very fancy dining table, the dark wood stood out sourly against the bold and modern colours of the pent house.

"Dinner will be a while," Effie announced as she trotted in through the elevator. "Why don't you go to your rooms, freshen up and make yourselves at home."

'At home'.

The two words buzzed around in Thomas head, a headache already forming. Thomas felt a bubble of anger forming in his chest but he shoved it down quickly. Effie didn't understand how insensitive she was, she'd lived in the Capitol all her life and has never or will never understand how wrong it is to tell Thomas to make this temporary prison a 'home'.

Thomas followed Teresa and the guide down a long corridor of doors and Thomas wondered if he'd have time to explore them all before he goes into the arena. The trio stopped outside the two last doors down the corridor and the guide opened Teresa's first. Thomas caught a small glimpse of Teresa's room and didn't have time to think about how unsettling it was to know she was sleeping across the hall from him before he was suddenly being ushered into his own room.

At first, Thomas was certain he was pushed into the wrong room considering the size of it was intimidating. But then he heard the guide telling him something about a bathroom and clean clothes before the door clicked shut and he was alone. Slowly shuffling around the room, Thomas looked at the deep wood of the furniture, the large bed that seemed to be double the size of the one on the train.

An hour later, after showering, which took him almost twenty minutes to find the right leavers and buttons to push, and exploring the large draws of expensive clothes, Thomas found himself sitting on the bed with his legs hanging over the edge. His hands were fiddling with the soft material of his tight trousers that were too big around the waist and were considerably baggy. He tucked the bottom of his trousers into the thick socks he was supplied with, hopefully it would reduce the chances of him tripping over them.

"Thomas,"

The voice that called from behind the door caused Thomas to jump from his space on the bed in fright. "Come in," he called back, cheeks burning red at the voice crack.

"Didn't mean to scare you, hermano," Jorge said after he'd opened the door. "Time for food, and you look like you need it."

Thomas shrunk under Jorges sharp look of him up and down but followed his mentor none the less.

The dining table was crowded with a range of soups, breads and meats. Vegetables of all kinds were in bowls around the meat platters.

The first mouthful Thomas took was a combination of chicken, Yorkshire pastry and roasted potato, covered in thick gravy that set of a explosion of fireworks in his mouth. Shamelessly, Thomas moaned in delight on the first mouthful as his taste buds practically squealed.

The meal was more glamorous than the one on the train and it made Thomas feel slightly unsure. He'd spent so long in district 12 living off rare meals and burned bread while he was here, stuffing himself with rich foods while Chuck and Frypan weren't. The thought brought up a wave of guilt that churned his stomach, the food now looking unappealing.

Thomas quickly excused himself from the table, mentioning how tired he felt and he just wanted to sleep. There was a few murmurs of understanding before Thomas retreated to his room. The wave of nausea were becoming cramps, knotting itself in his stomach. He made a dash to the bathroom incase he threw up but he kept telling himself that it wouldn't do anyone any good if he spent the new few weeks throwing his food back up, he already has a small chance to survive as it is. Still, the guilty thoughts possessed him as he slumped against the cool bathroom wall, breathing deeply to suppress the nausea.

He didn't know how long time had pasted before he heard soft knock on his bedroom door. Scrambling out of the bathroom, he saw the door open as Teresa slipped in.

"Everything alright?" He asked quickly on pure instinct.

"Yeah," Teresa asked simply as she sat down on the bed. Confused and uncomfortable, Thomas joined her, crossing his legs under him like a 5 year old.

"You skipped most of dinner," she says gently, a tone he hadn't realise she could muster.

"Wasn't that hungry," he shrugged, curling in on himself slightly.

"Thomas, we're from Twelve. We're always hungry," Teresa looked at him, a humorous glint in her expression made him feel more comfortable.

Still, Thomas shrugs, he doesn't want to talk about home. He doesn't want to talk about anything.

They fall into a comfortable silence, hearing the Capitols people walking around the apartment. Thomas' thoughts begin to twist into more guilt, tugging at his heart strings so he pulls his knees to his chest, curling in on himself even more. Teresa seems to notice, crawling further on the bed so she's next to him.

"Home sick?" She asks, and she couldn't be more accurate.

Thomas nods silently.

"Same," Teresa sounds quiet now and Thomas can't bare to look her in the eye. "It'll get easy though, thats what Effie said."

They didn't say anything after that. Thomas having to bite his tongue not to blurt out something horrible about how of course Effie would say that. Homesickness doesn't get easier to longer your away, and this wasn't the same feeling Teresa was feeling. No. This was a bone deep guilt because his baby brother was still starving at home while he was here, being pampered with food and goods.

*

When Thomas wakes up in the morning, his head feels groggy and confused. Sleeping on a bed was still foreign to him as he spent most of the night tossing and turning, unable to find a comfy spot and shut down his manic mind.

He rolls sluggishly out of bed, not having changed from his clothes last night and cringing at the way the material had clung to his thin legs.

Today is the first day of training and the first they get to see who really is the most dangerous. Jorge gives them advice one after another and talks all the way down to the training center. He keeps advising them not to show off on the first day, try and stay in the shadows as much as possible. Thomas isn't too worried about that though knowing he has nothing to show off but he thinks Jorge was talking to Teresa more than him.

After their introduction speech, it became very clear to Thomas that he was going to die within the first 15 seconds of the games. they explained the importance of staying uninjured, which had Thomas having to bite back the scoff that tickled his throat bitterly. They also exaggerated the avoidance of infections and battling the environment of the arena.

Thomas knew he'd be spending the day in the survival area, most likely with Teresa and learning about different plants or making fires.

From his station, Thomas had a clear and easy view to observe the other tributes around the training centre.

On the wrestling station, Thomas first notices a tall, bulky teen who must have been a few years older than Thomas. The teen recognised him as Gally Hathaway, from District 1. The older male was throwing around his opponent like a old rag doll, limbs spewed as they crashed hard onto the mat. A sheen of sweat covered the tall blondes forehead, his thin shaped eyebrows furrowed in concentration.

Thomas recognised the boy on the sword station, swinging the thin weapon with ease against the trainer as Ben Lahleton, the boy from District 2. The teen was taller than Thomas and bigger built, but not as much as Gally.

Thomas began to recognise a wide variety of tributes as he looked around the training centre, each one showing off a characteristic or hiding in the shadows, much like Thomas and Teresa. Although terrified of falling on his ass, Thomas really wanted to try out the knives as he knew he had a limited time to practise and become familiar with the weapon that was certain to be very different from the ones from home.

The sudden sound of Teresa's voice snapped Thomas out of his thoughts. "Pardon?"

Teresa rolled her eyes expectedly before dragging out, again, "I said, where did you learn to do fires so fast?"

Thomas hadn't even realised he'd sparked a flame from the stones he'd hit together. The skill had been taught to him years ago by his father who warned him from a young age about the dangers of winter weather and how houses like theirs needed a fire to stay warm. And in District 12, staying warm required fire.

Slightly proud and silently thanking his father for teaching him, Thomas shrugged an answer before extinguishing the fire and moving on to help Teresa light hers.

*

Training, although flied by, still felt like eternity to Thomas who was more than desperate to get back into his room and curl up into a ball. His nerves had been on a dangerously high level that he thought he was actually going to have a heart attack at one point. Teresa had somehow been a good distraction from the intimidating tributes but nothing could distract him from the blonde that spent his entire day at the edible insect station. If someone asked, Thomas would deny that he spent the majority of his training admiring the boy from afar, but he couldn't take his eyes off the shaggy haired blonde.

The moment Thomas had a clear view of the young face, he'd recognised him as Newt Isaacton from District 7. At first, Thomas had mistaken the boy for someone much younger until Teresa told him the teen was actually older than Thomas by a few years. The few times that the pair made eye contact, Thomas had to restrict himself from running out of the nearest exit.

The familarity of the penthouse welcomed Thomas as he instantly excused himself to his room without anyone's concent.

The cold room greeted him but his mind was too focused on the blonde that it had Thomas almost ripping his hair out until a sudden knock at the door had him straightening himself up and pulling himself together.

Jorge entered without Thomas' call, but the mentor probably only knocked for his own sake. None the less, the older male demanded that Thomas attended dinner tonight as he needed to get the strength up if he wanted to stand a chance in the games.

The statement from his mentor had the brunette almost scoffing at his oblivious thoughts but bit his tongue. The dinner they ate was much less satisfying compared to the first few times they'd eaten Capitol food and Thomas knew he needed to gather his thoughts before someone noticed the unusual behaviour. Still, throughout the entire meal, Thomas stayed silent while Teresa talked about training and instead submerged to his own wilding thoughts about the blonde that had taken over his entire mind.

The image of pale skin, shaggy, dirty blonde hair and brown eyes so dark they almost looked black stained Thomas' mind until he was ripped from his thoughts by a shoulder nudging him. Coming back into the land of the living, Thomas found various eyes on him. Squirming under the pressure, he looked to either one of them looking for answers.

"I asked how you thought training went," Jorge sighed and Thomas felt his cheeks glow red in embarrassment.

"It...It was good," Thomas knew the statement was lame and quickly spoke again to cover it up. "I'd rather move onto something that doesn't include fire or traps tomorrow, actually rather get my hands on a pair of knives and practise."

"I don't think thats a good idea," Jorge shook his head slowly, chewing his bite before expanding. "You want to keep any skills or advantages a secret until the individual assessment. That way, tributes don't see you as a threat."

Thomas frowned in confusion. "Until you get a high score on the assessment, then surely they'd know?"

"But they don't know what skill you assess. For all they know, you could be an insane archer, and with that kind of knowledge, they can find your weaknesses and that is the last thing you want to happen before you enter the arena,"

Okay, that made sense, Thomas thought. "So how am I meant to practise for the individual assessment? I haven't thrown knives in years, I don't know if I'm even that good anymore,"

"That doesn't matter. If you could do it a few years ago, then after a few tries, you'll be able to do it now," Jorge answered instantly like he'd had this conversation a thousand times. He probably has.

"The point is," Jorge went on. "You don't want anyone, and I mean anyone apart from the two of you to know your weaknesses and strengths before the arena. Tributes, especially the careers will remember you training with knives and will remember how skilled you are with them. Knowing that, they could keep that in mind when they take hold of the Corpurnia and take all of the knives, knowing thats your only skill. Then what? They've taken your only weapon, your vulnerable and weak, easy easy targets for trained tributes."

"So, I'll take that as a no to training with any weapons?" Thomas asked after a moment of silence in a quiet voice that he was slightly ashamed of.

"Yes. No weapon training, stick to survival skills as they will be as much of a use in the arena as a knife would be,"

The rest of the evening was spent in the lounging area watching over old games as Jorge wanted them to see older tributes strategies. After a few games Thomas felt sick to his stomach. He knew he couldn't have the same reaction inside the arena but currently, he's struggling to keep his food down.

Jorge didn't seem to mind his departure but did say that Thomas had to watch them tomorrow if he doesn't want to be at a disadvantage.

Walking back to his room, Thomas felt the discomfort of his room as the dark walls and cold bed didn't seem inviting to him. Instead, Thomas continued down the dimly lit hallway until he noticed a glass door at the end. The need for fresh air became suffocating as he quickly opened the door and came in contact with a set of stairs.

The cold, night air greeted him blissfully as he walked up, coming on to what looked like the penthouse roof. The street lights shine from below, shining up against the building side and adding a glow against the dark night sky. Here in the city, Thomas notices the stars are showered by the lights so the sky is nothing but a dark cloud that hangs over. Back in 12, Thomas could easily lay down and look into the sky that was overcrowded with small specks of stars that glowed and shone. The thought of his District had Thomas loosing the calm sensation he'd gained from the fresh air as he walked further out, sitting down on the bench that stood a few feet before the barriered edge.

The night air was cool with a light wind, much easier to breath than the stuffy atmosphere inside the penthouse but still slightly suffocating. Like the air wasn't real and manually made, making Thomas mourn for the familiar air of the woods back home.

The teen was enjoying the peace, despite the loud sounds of the Capitol streets when suddenly, he heard a door slam from behind him and a sound of quick footsteps heading up a set of stairs.

 
Newt needed to get out. He needed air and quiet as the pain behind his eyes was growing from a full throb to an exploding agony. While Brynn and Alby were discussing the coming up interviews, Newt was finding it hard to sit still. His mind was working so fast the headache was magnifying incredibly fast that if he didn't calm down, he was most likely going to pass out and he really didn't need that right now.

After quickly dismissing himself, he practically ran down the hallway to his room only to realise it wasn't going to calm his nerves. Instead, he headed to the door that Brynn had previously told him lead to a balcony roof type of place and to Newt, that sounded a lot like a fresh escape.

The blonde found himself literally stumbling up the stairs after accidentally slamming the door behind him. The bite of fresh air pricked his lungs as the ability to breath became suddenly easier. After a few minutes, he found himself on the buildings roof.

It took the teen a moment to realise he wasn't alone when he noticed a figure sitting on the bench a few metres away from him.

A moment of silence is shared between the pair when the unknown figure suddenly asks, "you alright?"

It was then that the light from the street glow caught the familiar cheekbones of the brunette before him. Newt felt his heart speeding up as Thomas looked at his questionly. Newt figured he was probably making a fool of himself and quickly tried to fix it by nodding quickly.

"Do you... Do you want me to leave?" Thomas asked, starting to rise from the bench when Newt shouted slightly too drastically, "no!"

He thanked the dim lights for covering up the red tint of embarrassment that glowed his cheeks. "I-I mean, you can... If you want but I don't... I don't mind,"

Smooth. Newt almost winced at how frantic he sounded but the sound of a light chuckle had him relaxing. The brunette slouched back down in the bench, before quirking an eyebrow when he realised Newt hadn't made a move from his spot by the door.

"You gonna sit down?" Thomas asked lightly and Newt nodded hurridly, stumbling towards the bench that earned him another chuckle from the brunette. "Bit clumsy, aren't ya."

Only when I'm nervous. Newt chuckled hesitantly but it came out slightly strangled and he winced at how rude he must be coming across as. "Yeah, sometimes,"

"It's okay," Thomas smiled. Oh god. "I can be clumsy too. Once, at the Mayors party, I stumbled and ended up falling on the food table. Soup and potatoes were everywhere."

Thomas' laugh must have been contagious as he somehow eased Newt's nervousness into lightly laughing.

"Oh god, what did your parents think?" Newt said before he could have stopped himself and felt a sense of dread when Thomas' face fell slightly.

"They were dead by then," Thomas said quietly and Newt would have thrown himself off the penthouse roof there and then if he could.

"Oh my- I'm so sorry! I...I-"

"You have nothing to be sorry for," Thomas cut him off gently with a slightly shrug. "Don't worry about it."

Before Newt could stop himself, his mouth was ahead of his brain as he blurted out, "is that why you volunteered for that boy?"

Thomas seemed to spend a moment in his head before he replied slowly, "no. Whether my parents were alive or not, I wouldn't have let my brother go into the hunger games,"

His brother. Newt almost face palmed at how oblivious his question had been. Bringing up someone's dead family and making them talk about volunteering was not a way of making friends.

"I don't have any siblings," Newt murmered quietly.

Thomas smiled lightly. "I don't know what I'd do without Chuck," he paused for a moment, slipping inside his own head again before he came out. Newt couldn't help but find it facinating to watch the teen get caught up in his own memories. "Must suck, being an only child."

"Yeah. I got my parents though, although sometimes it gets lonely with just the three of us,"

"What are they like?"

"Who?"

"Your parents. What are they like?"

Newt was taken back slightly by the question. His mind eventually caught up and he thought about the two people had brought him into the world. His mother was older than his father, something that was often frowned upon in his district but the pair hadn't cared. His mother had long auburn hair that was often tied into a knot on the ball of her head. She wore long dresses made of cotton and lace, pale colours that didn't contrast vividly against her pale skin. Newt had often been told he looked like his mother, they shared the same dark brown eyes that were so different from his fathers pale blue ones. While his father spent days working, his mother stayed home and often tutored the children of the town who had learning difficulties. She was kind and patient, something many children admired of her and that's what made her so easy to talk to. She didn't shout, unless someone did something so appalling that shouting was the only way for them to learn although she'd almost instantly fall apologetic.

Newt's father was different. Although he was never a aggressive man, his job required a thick build and most people found that intimidating compared to his mothers warmth. His father was a man of respect, gave you what you gave him only if it was fair.

"They sound lovely," Thomas said gently and Newt only then realised that he'd said all of that out loud. "They sound a lot like my parents."

"Really?" Newt wondered, unable to form a clear picture of what his parents would look and act like.

"Yeah. My mother was a nurse but worked from home. Our kitchen table was often occupied by a dying patient. Sometimes I even helped, but I was never as patient and gentle as my mother was. She had steady hands, also why she drew a lot. She was quite the artist. Taught me a lot before she died. I always got along better with my father though, he was gentle and kind too. Worked in the mines and was rarely home. But when he was, we'd always sneak out into the woods,"

The stories Newt heard about 12 had most likely clouded his opinion of the District but being there with Thomas, listening to the boy talk about his family, Newt began to re-think his opinion.

"Do you... Do you mind me asking how... H-how they died?" Newt instantly regretted the question, afraid he'd ruined the moment Thomas had created but the teen simply shook his head.

"I don't mind," Thomas answered lightly. "My father died of a mining explosion when I was 12. My mother practically turned catatonic after that and killed herself when I was 14."

14. He was an orphan at 14. Newt felt slightly sick thinking about the teen having to raise himself along with a younger brother. Embarrassingly, Newt entirely realied on his parents back in 8 and didn't know how'd he possibly survive if one of them were to perish as Thomas's parents had done.

"'M sorry, Tommy," Newt apologised and felt his cheeks burn red at the nickname. Oh god. He'd only met this boy less than an hour ago and he'd already given him a nickname.

Thomas didn't seem to mind. Either that or he didn't realise. "Don't be sorry. It was ages ago,"

The pair fell into a silence that Newt couldn't place as awkward or comfortable. The sound of the lively streets drowned out Newt's overactive mind enough for him not to dwell on how the silence made him wonder if he'd made the worst decision of his life coming up onto the roof.

"Thank you,"

It took a moment for Newt to realise Thomas had actually spoken and it wasn't his mind tricking him.

The teen had sounded slightly vulnerable that it had thrown Newt off slightly.

"For what?" He practically squeaked shamefully.

"Keeping me company. It's easier to talk to you than try and hold a conversation with one of the Capitol robots,"

Again, Newt felt his cheeks heat up, but this time, not with embarrassment. No, this was blush! "Y-you're welcome," Newt smiled and the one Thomas returned made his heart skip and beat. Finally, Newt decided coming to the roof was not a mistake. Not at all.

Chapter Text

The few days of Newts training went much like the first. He wakes up, eats breakfast, showers and spends the entire training time trying to identify insects while keeping his eyes off the brunette that was obviously trying to do the same task. The days are getting longer, or at least, thats what it feels like. He only has the ability to speak to three people, and each of them have such bland conversations with him it makes him want to head-butt a wall.

Alby makes Brynn and Newt stick by each other during training to try and make people think they're a good working team were actually, the pair can't wait to get away from each other. Brynn is kind and shy, but she doesn't seem to understand the concept of person space and basic manners when it comes to staring. Newt very often finds her staring at him, and all in all, it makes him more uncomfortable than he'd like to admit.

Newt hissed as the rope burned against his palms. The blonde was becoming increasingly frustrated with the bare necessity of tying a secure knot that was causing him to much trouble. His hands are red and sore, the skin shredded off and uncovered a raw, tender layer that makes it ten times harder to continue the task. Newt thought about moving onto a different station but there was little he could do here that would cause too big of an embarrassing moment.

"Need some help?"

The sudden voice almost had Newt flailing in surprise but thankfully reduces himself to only jumping in surprise and dropping the length of rope in his hand. He felt his palms become sweaty at the sight of Thomas standing behind him, evidently being the owner of the voice who offered him help.

"Yeah," Newt replied quietly but quickly covered it with a cough and repeating himself more sternly, "Yeah, sure."

Thomas reached down to pick up his rope, handing it to him before moving around to the other side of the table. After finding his own length of rope, Thomas showed Newt the method of tying and the sequence to follow although Newt found himself not actually listening. Instead, his eyes steered away and became solidly distracted by the features of Thomas' face as Newt had never been so close to the teen unless it was in the darkness of the night before. In a brighter light, Newt could trace the moles that scattered along the side of the brunettes face and down his neck, somehow standing out more prominently against the pale skin now he was closer.

Thomas must have noticed his staring as he began to stutter nervously until Newt diverted his eyes, pretending to listen and instead kept his focus on the boys slender fingers that bounded the rope easily.

When Newt attempted to follow Thomas' actions, he failed miserably. Thomas, the stupid but adorable shank, chuckled at him and showed him again. When Newt failed again, his face masked with slight pain, Thomas spoke up.

"Are you sure you don't want to do something else?"

Newt felt slightly insulted. "Why?"

"I don't think you should risk wounding your hands any further," Thomas motioned to the burned flesh of Newts palms. "They look pretty sore."

Newt nodded stiffly and glanced around the training room. Each station was occupied at the moment which made Newt more conscious to move from where he was. His eyes subconsciously moved towards the sparring mats where two careers were throwing each other around quite viciously. Newt involuntary shuddered when a bulky, blonde haired teen slammed his opponent down with a hard thud.

Thomas blew out his cheeks with a pained expression. "Not very comforting."

Newt laughed way too loudly at that and flushed a crimson red.

The pair spent the rest of training on that specific station, tying knots and other things to do with ropes that would be necessary in an arena before they all got sent back to their floors.

Newt entered the apartment that made him morn for his home more than any other place. The wide windows that gazed out over the capital was a constant reminder of how he wasn't home. All he wants is one phone call, just to phone his parents, to hear his mothers calming voice and for his dad to give him some advice.

Newt stopped wishing for things that were never going to happen.

"Newt,"

He turned around at the sound of his name to see Alby standing there.

"Tomorrow you have the test whete they give you the scores. Do you know what you're going to show them?"

Newt felt his heart begin to pound. He couldn't do this, he wasn't talented. He couldn't throw an axe around the training room, that wouldn't give him a high score. "I don't...I-"

"Calm down, kid," Alby approached him, resting a heavy hand on his shoulder. The action seemed to pull out some of the tension straining his muscles, but not a lot. "You've still got tomorrow. We'll discuss it at dinner, alright? There's always something you're good at."

*

The girl for district 6 just went in.

Newt felt his palms dampen, his heart racing at impossible speads. He couldn't calm down. He felt like there was a clamp on his head, just tightening, and tightening. The ache behind his eyes wasn't helping, caused by the sleepless night before where he'd laid in bed, twisting and turning before he fell into the mess of sobbing and punching his pillow in frustration.

Albys pep talk before they got sent down there wasn't at all comforting. Nothing, anyone could say right now could calm down the Brit who was becoming a ball of nervous energy.

Brynn wasn't helping. The silent tribute beside him was giving off a uncomfortable feeling as she kept her hands clasped loosly in her lap. If she was nervous, she was doing a good job at showing it with the lax shoulders and tension-less muscles.

"Newton Smoake,"

His head snapped up so fast, Newt was surpised he didn't get whiplash. His stomach was suddenly in his throat, the contents of his breakfast threatening to make their reappearance. He was worried that if he stood up, his stomach would flip and the waves of nasuea would spill out onto the floor.

"Newton Smoake, you're up,"

Newt rose to his feet despite himself. His legs beneath him quaked under his frame, threatening to give out. He kept his mind focused on making it into the training room without any further embarrassment.

He made the mistake of glancing behind him. All the tributes were staring, looking at him like he was a boring lecturer at the front of a classroom. Newt's eyes automatically went to the back corner, where he made contact with a brunette. Thomas smiled after a moment, it didn't reach his eyes, but it was genuine. Somehow, the small, barely noiticble action sparked something in Newt, giving him a confidence boost. He spun on his heel and strided into the training room.

*

Thomas and Teresa were the last ones left in the waiting room. Thomas feels the energy running through his veins like a second blood. One by one, the tributes around them had entered the room, most walking with a sense of confidence that Thomas didn't have.

The last days of training, Thomas hadn't touched a knife like Jorge had advised. He'd spent each day at the calmer stations with Newt, stupidly avoiding any fighting training like Teresa had done. He knew he was at a disadvantage now.

As soon as Newt entered the training room, the door slamming behind him with a metallic ring. It was like a gunshot, echoing in the nearly empty room. His heart was set off with rocket fuel, racing in his rib cage like a cornered animal. He was strung with fear, nerves locking his muscles. The sight of the training centre was strange, seeing all the furniture and stations cleared, the only thing standing in the room was a knife stand and a dummy. Thomas swallowed thickly when he saw the glass box containing the audience, Capitol officials and celebrities.

It was the glare from the guard passing him that brought Thomas back to reality. He crossed the room, repeating the mantra to himself to not look at the audience and their judgemental eyes. The knifes looked like they've never been used before, not a single scratch or spec of dirt on them. When Thomas pick one up, the handle felt heavy and cold in his hand. He flexed his wrist, trying to get a feeling of the knife that felt too strange and foreign in his palm. It felt nothing like the knives he used back home.

He lined up against the stand, looking at the dummy that felt too far away. It was like his vision was drifting, the dummy suddenly zooming miles away. He closed his eyes and shook his head, demanding himself to take a deep breath and calm the hell down.

If he screwed this up, he was dead meat for sure.

He held the thin blade between his thumb and forefinger. He drew his hand above his shoulder, hovering just beside his eye.

Without a second thought, he swung his hand and released the blade.

*

Jorge called Thomas for dinner. The boy had been sitting in his room, staring out the window over the Capitol when the knock rasped against his door. Despite feeling nauseous all afternoon, Thomas still went to dinner. The sight and smell churned his stomach even more and it got to the point that he was tempted just to ask for some plain soup and bread. Instead he nibbled on a roll and avoided everything else.

Jorge and Teresa managed to fall into some small talk, but Thomas just tuned out. He didn't want to hear the pathetic conversation that would do nothing but agitate him more than he already is.

"Right," Jorge said, voice snapping Thomas out of his daydream like a breaking twig. "Enough with this chitchat. Anything you two want to admit before the scores are announced? You have fifteen minutes to get it out."

Thomas' eyes instantly zeroed on Teresa, who looked just as nervous as he felt. Over the past days in the Capitol, Thomas had to go know Teresa, and realised she was actually an alright girl. Despite growing up in the richer suburbs of District 12, she still seemed to be completely down to earth and the gratitude of riches. She was also really easy to talk to, and being the only physical thing here from his home, apart from his old clothes that had been whisked away the day they arrived, Thomas was grateful she was an easy conversationalist. He needed something easy.

"Well?" Jorge pressed.

"It could have gone worse," Teresa shrugged. She used her fork to stir around the contents on her plate, her eyes downcast.

"Could have gone worse? You've got to give me more than that, hermano,"

"Okay," Teresa dropped her fork with a clatter. "It went terrible! They weren't even paying attention to me. I basically just stood there for ten goddamn minutes until they realised I was there and told me to leave!"

Jorge's expression was neutral, but Thomas could see the surprise in his eyes. The older man was silent, as if he was contemplating what to say. Instead, he turned to Thomas, brown eyes sharpening on him. "What about you?"

"Basically the same thing," Thomas said with a jerky shrug. "I threw around some knives. They didn't watch, after ten minutes or so, they told me to leave."

"Did you hit the target?" Jorge asked.

Thomas nodded. "Everytime," he said the word with a hint of pride. He was proud that he didn't miss, especially as he was working with new knives and was seriously out of practice.

Jorge breathed heavily through his nose. "Okay," he nodded. "Good. You're right," he motioned to Teresa , "It could have gone a lot worse," the words he said sounded fake and unsaticfied.

Thomas resisted the urge to tell the guy to go and shove his disappointment up his ass. They haven't even got their scores yet. Anything could happen.

He was a ball of energetic nerves when they settled on the sofas and couches fifteen minutes later. The screen playing the scores was large and impossibly thin, like a sheet of paper. Thomas was incredibly intreaged, but also too nervous to form a coherent thought. Thomas can imagine metaphorical rolls of anxiety rolling off him.

Teresa looks just as nervous as he is. Sitting on the opposite sofa, hands tightly clasped together, knees pulled up to her chest like she's trying to make herself impossibly smaller. Despite this, her face holds a solid guard of determination and confidence. Thomas is almost envious of her ability to portray such opposite emotions at the same time, giving off a contrasted presentation while Thomas is a jittery mess.

The scores begin appearing on the screen, the tributes picture next to it. Thomas heart is hammering when they show the careers scores, flashing numbers from eight to ten in sharp silver font.

Thomas would be lying if he didn't tense up when the photo of Newt came up on screen, the number 7 flashing. Thomas feels a well of pride swell in his chest, imagining Newts happy reaction to getting a decent score. Thomas wonders what Newt must have done to get a 7, but then he realises he's missed the other scores and suddenly his photo is on the TV.

Nine.

Thomas doesn't realise his mouth has dropped open until a hand slaps his back.

"Nice one, hermano," Jorge is cheering, his face beaming with glee and satisfaction. "Looks like they did notice you."

Thomas can barely register his score. Nine? Nine! He got into the same score band as a career! The number is bouncing around in his head, repeating itself like a strung guitar string. He's contorted between excitement, pride and fear. Fear that now he's got a noticeable score, does that make him a target?

The thought is flown out of his mind when Teresa scores a 8 and the room is filled with another round of cheers.

*

Newt looks down at the black suit and checkered shirt he's been forced to wear. The tie around his neck is too tight and he can feel the leather shoes squeezing his feet uncomfortably, but he doesn't complain. Alby had explained that looking presentable for the interviews was one of the most important things before the games, it was basically the main way to get sponsors. Alby had also counted Newt lucky - at least he didn't have to wear heals like Brynn.

The interviews were flying past and Newt found himself suddenly at the front of the line. The girl in front of him was sweeping through her interview, pleasing the crowd with laughs and coos and suddenly, Newt is being ushered onto the stage.

The lights are bright and blinding, but that doesn't deflect Newt's eyes away from the prying crowd beneath the white rays shining into his eyes.

Newt is snapped out of this thoughts when his name is announced again, and he walks across the stage on auto-pilot, shaking Caesar Flickerman's out stretched hand while all Newt can do si stare at the sparkling blue hair and eyebrows.

"So, Newton, hows the capitol serving you?"

Newts mouth is dry, and when he responds, he tries not to wince at the rasp of his tone. "The showers are much nicer here than the ones in seven,"

Caesar laughs like Newt told the best joke in the world. Somehow, Caesar manages to drag out the interview despite newts lack of appealing responses. The whole fiasco of the stage, the lights, the audience, is somehow overwhelming Newt to the point of barely being able to hold a conversation. He also cheers in relief when the buzzer goes off and he's lead to the back of the stage with the rest of the tributes.

Brynn soars through her interview, cooing the crowd with annoying ease. She smiles sweetly and answers innocently to the point that Newt can barely believe she's the same age as him.

Newt tunes out the rest of the interviews until they come up to 12.

Thomas walks up on stage in a mess of limbs and a flurry of royal blue. The colour is vibrant and attractive, the trousers tight enough to show the thinness of his legs but also hide the malnourishment. Newt doesn't think he's ever been so in love with a colour in such a short period of time.

Caesar guides Thomas through his interview, who seems to be just as nervous as Newt was, except Thomas seems to have some buried humour that seeps through with his awkward answers. The crowd loves him, laughing and cheering at his confused expressions and remarks. Caesar brings up his reaping, when he volunteered for his younger brother which seems to attract the crowd like moths to a flame. The audience croons and sympathises, cheering for the boy and his brother. The crowd love him like candy.

Thomas' partner, Teresa, breezes through her interview as if she's talking to a close family member. She walks on with a strut, her gold dress shining in the stage lights. Her raven hair tied in a gracious bun. She answers with a passive confidence, laughing sweetly at Caesar and encouraging the audience. Her answers are both blunt and serious, yet also funny and steamy. She holds herself high, almost like she's got a plank of wood tied to her back, keeping her shoulders straight.

At the end of the ceremony, Newt is half sure he's gone partially blind from staring at the lights for too long, and he practically trips off the stage when they are guided off. He finds Alby, who congratulates them on doing well, and how they both appealed to the crowd. Newt nods, accepting the compliments with a half-sharp mind. He's ushered through the Training Centre and into a lift with Brynn and Alby.

Back in their apartment, Newt makes beeline for his room, stripping his suits and getting into some baggy silk trousers and bottle green top. He leaves his suit on the bed before he makes his way up the stairs onto the penthouse roof. He's in a desperate need to see Thomas, to speak to the boy before they'd shoved into their graves tomorrow. The interviews had opened up a whole new level of vision in Newt. He'd seen Thomas under pressure, the true Thomas who was dorky and awkward but kind and adorable at the same time.

The roof was empty when he got up there. The air was cold, a harsh chill. Newt debated going back downstairs, that maybe Thomas wasn't coming out tonight, but Newt stayed up there. Even if Thomas didn't come up, Newt needed the fresh air. The suit he'd been in was suffocating, and the fresh air was clearing his cloudy head.

Newt knows he's missing dinner, but he's gotten to know Alby enough that the mentor understands Newt's need for privacy. Him and Alby had managed to bond slightly over the course of the time here in the capitol. Alby was impulsive and slightly infuriating, but Newt knows everything he's going is for the best of him and Brynn. Alby, unlike some mentors, has made a true effort in helping them, Newt especially.

It's about half and hour before the top floor door opens and Newt hears approaching footsteps up the metal stairs. He turns in time to see Thomas appear, dressed in a pair of black trousers that are practically falling off his hips and a long sleeve blood-red top. His hair is wet, sticking to his forehead and glistening in the Capitol lights. His pale skin is practically glowing in the dim light as he wonders towards Newt with a sense of both uncertainty and eagerness.

Newt smiles when Thomas is close enough to see. "Hey,"

He almost curses himself for the lame attempt at a conversation starter.

Thomas doesn't seem to mind. He returns a crooked smile, coming to lean against the metal bars that surround the outside of the roof with a relaxed posture. "I don't think I'll ever get used to this view,"

You don't need to. This is the last time you might see it.

"Same. Quite a difference from seven," Newt chuckled.

"If you think its different to seven, try coming from twelve. We barely have actual light, let alone this," Thomas replies, motioning to the city of light and life.

"What is twelve like?" Newt asked, only just realising he might be over stepping the boundary.

Thomas takes a moment to reply. "I'd rather not talk about it. Not tonight," Newt is about to reply, when Thomas starts talking again. "What do you think its going to be like? The arena, I mean."

Newt is sightly blindsided by the question. No ones ever asked him that before, nor has he taken the time to properly wonder. "I-...I'm not sure. I don't think I want to know,"

Thomas let out a heavy sigh. "I keep wondering if this is all a dream, and I'm going to wake up tomorrow back in the scrub I call home, with Chucks heavy breathing beside me and my rage blankets,"

Newt chuckled. "If only,"

Newt looked at the younger teen, who's face was soft and elegant. The high cheek bones shadowed by the lights below, the flashing reflections in the whiskey eyes that settled over the city. It was breath taking, seeing someone so innocent yet so haunted.

"Do you miss him?"

Thomas frowned and looked at him. "Who? Chuck?"

Newt nodded.

"Of course, but I'm also glad its me here instead of him. I don't know how he would have been able to do this. He's too young, too innocent. He's brave, don't get me wrong. So damn brave, but he's also been through a lot. He's had enough damage done, and I don't want to add anymore," Thomas paused for a moment. He was talking with a tone that dripped with emotion, misery and heartbreak. "I think thats why I'm so scared. Its not the concept of dying that terrifies me, but the fact that Chuck is going to watch it. He's going to watch his last family member get killed on a TV screen. I feel like I'm abandoning him."

"You know its not like that. You aren't doing this to Chuck on purpose," Newt says. He's trying to choose his words carefully, but since Thomas is being truthful with him, he wants to be honest back. "Look, you volunteered, you sacrificed yourself for your brother. I could never imagine doing that, for anyone. I cried when I found out, but you came out steel faced and ready to fight. Even if you don't win, you'll still make Chuck proud- you already have. You don't have to worry about hurting Chuck, because he won't see his dead brother, he'll see a hero."

Newt didn't intend to say so much, but the words kept spilling out like vomit. He was worried he'd said too much, words too strong, until Thomas smiled.

"Thank you," he whispered, the word broken and cracking. "I needed to hear that."

Newt rested a hand on Thomas' shoulder. "I meant it,"

"You don't even know me," Thomas said softly. Newt felt like he was going to melt at the words.

"I know enough," he replied, dropping his hand. "The crowd sure seems to love you, anyway."

Thomas scoffed. He turned around, walking to the bench behind them and sitting down. "That crowd loves anyone. They just like the drama, and a twelve tribute volunteering is drama for them,"

"Thats not the only reason they like you," Newt mumbled. Damn, more word vomit.

Either Thomas was completely oblivious, or he didn't mind Newts awkward blurting - because he laughed softly.

"They like Teresa more than me. Who know overconfidence was attractive?"

Newt snorted. "Thats the Capitol for ya'. Bloody savages,"

Thomas laughed loudly, a true laugh that rumbled deep in Newts chest. He realised he liked making Thomas laugh.

They settled in a comfortable silence.

Until Thomas breaks it.

"I don't want to kill anyone,"

Newt almost missed that he said anything. His words were spoken so softly, with such delicacy that they were almost carried off in the light breeze unheard.

And Newt wasn't quite sure how to reply. "You don't have to,"

"I don't think anyone can survive the games without getting blood on their hands,"

Newt is still thinking about those words when he goes back to his room hours later.

*

Thomas shouldn't have eaten so much. His stomach is still adapting to proper meals, let alone actual sizes of food in one go. When he got to his launch room that morning, there had been breakfast laid out and not knowing when his next meal is going to be, Thomas had eaten as much as he possibly could.

And he was regretting it now. As the stylist dressed him, he could feel his stomach churning, waves of nausea crawling up his throat like a colony of ants. The suit is comfortable, at least. And its the first thing since he's got here that hasn't been overall large or in need of urgent re-adjustments.

He ends up sitting, gnawing on his nails down to the wik until the speaker bleeds woman's voice, announcing the launch.

Thomas is about to step onto the silver disk, when the door behind him opens and Jorge steps through.

"Thought I'd come and wish you good luck, considering I didn't do it this morning,"

Thomas couldn't seem to form the right words. So instead, he breathlessly nodded.

"Come on, hermano," Jorge helped him up onto the disk, and moments later, a glass cylinder was surrounding him. Thomas was thankful he wasn't claustrophobic.

Thomas looks at Jorge in what he can imagine as a look of need.

Jorge sends him a true smile, warm and genuine. "Good luck, kid. I believe in you,"

After getting to know Jorge, Thomas knows his words are special, and he's grateful Jorge is there.

The cylinder begins to rise and Thomas keeps eye contact with Jorge until the worlds turns black and all he can hear is the deafening timer, counting down. Each tick is like an individual gunshot, striking his chest with growing pressure.

It feels like hours before the cylinder is suddenly flooded with light. When Thomas can finally see, his heart sinks at the sight.

They're in a field, with four huge walls surrounding them.

Chapter Text

His feet are moving beneath his so fast he's barely touching the floor. He can feel his heart beating against his rib cage almost painfully, his breath is barely reaching his lungs. He's in full panic mode, his life barely trailing behind him as he sprints through the tall grass, heading towards the gap between the two large grey walls.

Thomas can hear the screams behind him. He doesn't dare to look back. He keeps his eyes focused on the target in front of him. If he just-

He's suddenly on the floor, a heavy weight on top of him as they roll through the grass. He can feel the tough ground bruising his bones. He stops on his back, a figure pressing heavily against his chest. His vision zeros on the face inches from his, hard lines defining the tension snarling down on him. Thomas doesn't recognise the boy, but judging by the crushing weight and hungry look in his eyes, the boy is a out for blood.

Thomas squirms under him, fingers scrambling for purchase on the bag a few inches from his finger tips. The tribute on him moves, his weight still fulling on Thomas, who catches a horrifying glimpse of a metallic reflection being pulled out of the boys back pocket.

Oh god, ohgodohgodohgod.

Thomas was panicking. The thought of being stabbed to death only three minutes into the games made him feel sick to his stomach - not being helped by the oaf adding pressure to his already unsteady gut. Chuck flashes into his mind and its like a fountain of determination has bee thrown over him.

The knife swings down just moments after Thomas gets a grip on the backpack. In a blur of motions, he's thrown the bag over his face, feeling the knife stick into it. He doesnt waste a second, he moves the bag, slams his knee into the tributes back, knocking him off guard with a groan. Thomas leans up enough to jut his elbow hard into the tributes head, causing them to topple off Thomas' torso. He's up in a flash, sprinting back across the green and into through the doors, rucksack in hand.

He doesn't know how long he's running, and he can't remember which way he came. Everything looks the same. Its all grey. Grey walls, grey floor, grey sky. Its terrifying, almost as if he's in a dream. He doesn't understand what this is. Everything is beginning to blur into one smear of grey. His mind is whirl pooling with wonders of what the hell he's in. This arena . . . is nothing like he'd seen before. The only green salvation with water is by the corpurnia, in a large field. Thomas had seen a forest over to one side, but that was it. Other than that, the rest was all grey wall.

A maze, Thomas realised when he passed a wall he was sure he'd seen before.

He stops sprinting when it feels like his chest is going to burst. He comes to a complete stop, huffing and panting. He bends over, resting his palms of his knees. His eye catches the glimpse of the knife, and the sickening feeling of almost dying is back in his stomach. He doesn't get much warning, and he barely manages to stumble to lean against one of the walls before acid is burning his throat and he's vomiting. The smell and taste brings tears to his eyes, but he blinks them back. Vomiting is bad enough, he will not cry about it.

Thomas looks up when he's finished. The walls look impossibly high, but theres green vines weaving down the cracks of the walls. He feels vulnerable on the floor, suddenly feeling small. He slings the backpack over his shoulder, tucking the knife into his boot, before he attempts to climb. The vines is strong, not threatening to break at any point, but they're also thin and sharp, the strings cutting into his palms slightly.

When he reaches the top, he's scrambling for purchase on the rough stone. He heaves himself up, sitting on the wall with his legs hanging over while he catches his breath. He checks his hands, thankful just to find them red and slight sore. When Thomas climbs to his feet, he wills himself not to look down. The height of the walls are daunting enough, let alone the thought of falling off one. There's a slight breeze up there, but not strong enough that Thomas is worried about being blown off balance.

Its the view that has his heart pounding. Rows upon rows of stone wall, just as high as his, stand around him, reaching as far as he could see, disappearing into the distance. He turns in a circle, seeing the exact same thing. To his right, he can see the corpunia in the middle of the green field, but he's far out enough that he can barely see much.

His heart begins to pound in panic. What kind of an arena is this? He finds the air suddenly gone so he sits - tumbles - so he's sitting down. He takes a few deep breaths, willing himself to calm down.

A maze. He can handle a maze.

Thomas spends sometime trying to see if he can jump from each wall top to another, but after some judgemental measures, he's five hundred percent sure he'll become a dead pancake on the maze floor. Not pretty.

He can feel himself becoming frustrated, confused as to why the game makers would dump them in a maze. What threats could they possibly encounter? Starvation? Death by insanity? Thomas can see them both likely, but hardly appealing or entertaining for the audience. He can't figure out what the Capitol could have up their sleeve, but he's sure its going to wish he'd never wondered.

He settles on top of the maze wall he'd originally climbed, finding the only way off, is down. He'd seemed to overcome the overwhelming sensation of being hundreds of feet in the air, and instead decided it was probably best to stay there as he has a clear view of the floor. After being high up, and seeing the perspective and vantage point he's got, he thinks he'll feel vulnerable on the floor, being under god-knows who's watchful eye.

He sits with his legs hanging over the wall, his butt firmly on the top of the wall. Thomas pulls the rucksack into his lap, unzipping it to look inside.

One thin black sleeping bag. A pack of crackers. A pack of dried beef strips. A box of wooden matches. A small coil of wire. A pair of sunglasses. A container. Thomas takes the lid off, putting it to his lips to find the bottle drained dry. Empty, of course.

He pulls the knife out of his boot, running his fingers along the brand new blade, silver and sharp. Apart from the bottle and the sleeping bag, this is the only thing that will be useful in Thomas' survival. The thought terrifies him. But he only has one knife, so he realises he shouldn't go around throwing it, otherwise he'll be defenceless. He'll have to put up with hand combat, being close to the other tributes to kill them.

Thomas re-packs his rucksack, throwing it over his shoulder and standing up. He walks along the top of the walls, but when he gets to an edge, he discovers he won't be able to jump from wall to wall. The distance between each top is far too far for him to reach, and he will most likely splat on the floor like a red pancake. The maze seems to go on forever, the top of the walls disappearing far into the horizon. It makes Thomas wonder just how big the arena is, and how lost he will become if he wonders out too far.

He wonders how many people are already lost.

Looking over the grey landscape, Thomas wonders about food. Normally, Thomas would hunt, but there seems to only be one patch of green, which is in the centre by the Corpurnia, which is more than likely going to be labelled as career territory. Thomas remembers seeing a small forestry area, but the likely-hood of there being animals in there is slim, and also the task of getting there, catching them and getting out without being killed.

So, food is going to be a concern, Thomas notes.

He walks some more, circling on the wall top he'd climbed up onto. He can't see anyone else on the wall tops, so he assumes he's got the best vantage point. Although, every time he's looked, there have been no one walking along the floor beneath him either. The maze is so large he's unsure if there are going to be any chances of even bumping into someone.

Night crawls in like a switch has been flicked. The arena become dark within a matter of seconds, so Thomas decided to climb down from the wall and find somewhere to settle for the night. He'd learnt, from watching previous games, that walking around every night is a bad idea, and the action of sleeping is actually essential to his survival.

Thomas feels suddenly small once he's back on the ground. The hairs on the back of his neck standing up as the eerie maze walls tower over him. He keeps his knife in his pocket, worried that if he has to make a sudden break for it, he may drop it if it's in his hand.

Thomas had barely taken two steps forward, shoes silent on the concrete, before the sky lit up. Thomas craned his neck back, watching as lights projected across the black sky, and faces began to appear with the sound of firing cannons.

Thomas only recognised two of them as Clint, from district 5, who Thomas had never spoken to, but recognised from the reapings he'd re-watched, and also Brynn, from district 8. Thomas couldn't place the other five who'd died, but the thought of seven tributes knocked off the death list made his heart speed up.

7 gone. 17 left.

A part of Thomas couldn't help but feel relived that Teresa's picture didn't appear. The thought that someone else from his district was still alive, still out there made him feel slightly whole, not so alone. The other part of Thomas wonders if Teresa has even bothered about the deaths, about whether Thomas was still alive. He wonders where she is, how she's coping, if she's killed anyone. Teresa is strong, she's fierce and on many occasions since the reaping and before, Thomas has been slightly scared and intimidated by her. He wouldn't deny that she could beat him up, because she could totally kick his ass if she really wanted to, which is what has Thomas wondering if Teresa would kill him if they were the last two.

Thomas pushed away the thoughts. They were unhealthy, and would only fill him with paranoia and fear. That was the last thing he needed.

Brynns photo flashed again in his mind and all Thomas could think about was Newt. Again, the whole sequence of where is he, is he okay, has he killed anyone ran through Thomas' mind like a mantra. Worry gripped at his limbs like vines as he pondered if the blonde boy with the strange accent was okay, or if he was slowly dying in a ditch somewhere and his photo would appear tomorrow night.

Thomas wanted to go and find him, there was nothing more he wanted to do in that moment. He wanted to find Newt, see with his own eyes that the boy is alive and well. But he knew he couldn't. Finding him would be hard enough, but Thomas had, yet again, no idea if he could trust Newt.

A sharp crack echoed through the maze, followed by a horrible sound of crumpling metal that snapped Thomas out of his thoughts. He jumped, mouth opening in a silent scream that he managed to swallow down at the last moment. He hadn't moved since the cannons, and he was suddenly frozen. His eyes tracked the top of the walls, behind and in front of him, trying to see if there was anyone there. But all he could see was darkness and the shadows created by the moon catching on the high maze walls.

The maze was suddenly filled with whirls, buzzes, moans and scrapes. The sound of nails grating against a chalk board shifted through the air.

Thomas felt his breath quicken. He began to move, feet light and soundless on the floor. He kept looking over his shoulder, looking above him. The sounds got louder, bouncing off the maze walls like cruel laughter. Thomas felt trapped, claustrophobic. Clamps tightened around his lungs, constricting his breathing. A sweat was breaking out on his neck, dampening his t-shirt and jacket. He checked over his shoulder again as he turned a corner, and when he looked ahead again, he stopped short.

Before him, barely visible in the shadows, was something. Thomas could barely believe what he was seeing. It looked part animal, part machine, like something gone wrong out of a science lab. It was huge, towering. Its body resembled what Thomas could only describe as a giant slug, the slim coating it shined in the white moon light, lines of hair stuck through the grime like giant whiskers. It looked like it was pulsing, the whole body shifting as it breathed in and out. Metal arms stuck out in random places, some had red lights on the end of them, others had long, sharp needles. One of the arms had a three-fingered claw on the end, the fingers twitching as it stood. Thomas couldn't detect a specific head or tail, but the thing must have been at least two metres long.

It moved suddenly, curling in on itself and Thomas lurched. He stumbled backwards, feet scamming over the dusty floor until he stumbled back around the corner. He pressed his back flat against the wall, chest heaving silent breaths that he willed himself to control. After a few moments of more whirling, creaking and groaning, the thing went silent, and Thomas risked a look around the corner.

The thing had moved about a meter closer to him, but now it was standing the same as it had before. And then it moved again.

Thomas watched as sharp metal spikes popped through its flesh before the whole creature abruptly curled into a ball and rolled. The arms that produced out of the body moved, avoiding getting crushed. It only spun a few meters again, before it stopped, uncurling as the spikes receded back into the bulbous flesh with a sickening, slurping sound.

Thomas suddenly understood the sounds the thing made. The metal against stone, the whirling when it rolled. But the only sound that physically shook Thomas to the core, making the hairs on his arm and neck stand up, was the dying moans it made as it stood stationary. The sounds hit Thomas hard, reminding him of the deathly cries the mine workers had made when it blew up. The sounds his dad had made.

The thing continued to roll and stop, about every ten seconds, gradually getting closer and closer to Thomas.

Thomas could feel his heart hammering in his chest, beating against his ribs like a trapped bird. He was worried if the thing could hear it, but at that moment, frozen stiff with his head just around the corner, Thomas could barely think a coherent thought.

And then a moan sounded on the corridor opposite to Thomas. He felt his heart drop when another one of those things rolled out of the shadows, and even though Thomas couldn't see eyes, he knew the thing was looking at him.

Everything seemed to slow. Time had stopped and all Thomas could hear was the blood pouring in his ears. All he could feel was the tremble in his hands as they clutched the wall with white fingers. His eyes were wide and locked on the thing just ten meters away from him.

And then it let out a dying moan, the sound shrilling through Thomas' ears. It was so loud he felt it shock through his legs. It was like an electric shock, jolting him into action, and then he was running.

He was sprinting, feet flying over the dirty floor. Behind him, another inhuman shriek sounded before the ground shook. The maze was full of the loud whirling and creaking. It was so loud Thomas would have been worried other tributes would be drawn to it if he wasn't so terrified of the two creatures following him. He rounded a sharp corner, barely managing to stay on his feet as his shoes slid across the floor. With his balance barely maintained, continuing his fast sprint down the corridor, Thomas spared a look over his shoulder just in time to see the things roll around the corner, close on his tail.

He continued to run. His mind was too frantic to find another escape route.

Left. Then right. Left again, down a corridor. Sharp right, then another left.

He made another right, feet sliding on the floor to the point that he did actually slip. He skidded, skin scraping across the stone painfully. But he was on his feet again in seconds. The things were close behind, gaining on him dangerously. All hope was running out and Thomas was about to stop, until he saw a pile of broken stone at the end of the corridor.

Dead end.

He felt his breath come short.

Shit. Shit shit shit shit!

He made quick calculations, mind screaming at him not to do it before he sprinted with all his savouring energy. He jumped onto the bottom of the broken wall, climbing up and up. He leaped the last obstacle, grabbing a string of vine. His body crashed against the wall roughly, but the sound of loudening moans and groans coming around the corner made him move. He climbed, hands burning against the vines but he didn't stop.

He finally reached the top, hands scrambling for something to pull himself up with. His fingers gripped around a slab of leverage stone and he hefted himself up. A single glance back down the wall confirmed his designated doom.

The things were below him, their spikes tearing through the stone. Thomas barely caught a breath before one of them was climbing over the ledge. The sudden company had Thomas stumbling backwards and initially falling, landing on his ass. He turned over and pushed himself to his feet, running along the top of the wall. He knew the thing was following him, and his plan of survival was brutally cut off by him suddenly being on the edge of the wall, feet barely stopping him from toppling over.

He spun around, but the things were gaining behind him. He couldn't go back.

So he went forward.

He turned took a few steps towards the things, before he turned on his heel and charged towards the edge. He jumped at the last minute, and for a split moment, he wondered if it was the end. But then his outstretched hands caught onto the vines on the opposite wall. He fell, vines breaking underneath him as he slide down the wall. His hands burned, knees and arms scraping painfully against the stone wall until finally, he managed to find his grip and he was hanging in the vines.

He took a breath, around him finally silent.

And then something crashed into the wall above him. Shredded rock and ivy fell down on him, and he looked up to see one of those things a few meters above him, pincers deep into the wall.

Oh shit.

Thomas let go of the rope he was using to stop him from falling after he heaved his body to the left, scraping along the wall. He reached out of another vine, catching a thick one before he swung again. He grabbed another, swinging again. He glided across the wall, like some tree-climbing monkey. The thing above him moved as he did, and with every sound that cried above him, more determination swam through his veins. Thomas didn't need to look up to know it was gaining on him. And somehow, he realised he needed to make it back on the ground if he ever had a chance of living through the night.

On the next vine, he let his hand slip. The burn was like a sharpener to his senses, and he'd slipped a few meters closer to the ground. He did it again, each time getting closer. Scorching pain flared up in his arms and hands, stinging the raw flesh.

Out of the corner of his eye, Thomas saw a clawed hand reaching for him and he panicked.

He let go of the vine he was holding, dropping a few meters before he grabbed onto a vine. His shoulders almost ripped out of his sockets at the sudden stop. He pushed off the wall with his feet, swinging away from the wall just as the thing slammed one of its sharp pincered arms into the wall - just where Thomas was. The thing charged at him and Thomas kicked out with his right leg, connecting with one of the arms with the claw. The sharp crawl was a small victory, until Thomas realised that his kick had steered him into landing right on top of the creature.

With his mind racing a mile a minute, Thomas drew his legs into his chest, and kicked them out as soon as they made contact with the things body. He sunk disgustingly into the mushy flesh, before he pushed up with both feet, squirming to avoid the swarm of needles and claws flying at him in all directions. He outstretched his arms as he swung his body to the left, grabbing a vine at the last minute. His muscles screamed at him, but the things vicious tool snapped at him and he felt a flare of pain spread as the claw scratched deeply into his side.

He lost his grip in the mist of sudden pain. Thomas found himself falling, flailing, grabbing a vine at the last minute. He slid down it, ignoring the pain in his side and hands.

As soon as his feet touched the floor again, he was off, sprinting despite the pain and ache. Exhaustion screamed at him but the adrenaline pulsed through his veins like a drug. His legs moved on pilot beneath him, gliding him through the air.

He didn't even look behind him. He could hear the chaos behind him, the havoc as the thing crashed on the stone floor and began to chase after him again. Thomas didn't even have time to think about where the other thing went, because he saw a wall up ahead beginning to close on itself. He ran, sprinting as fast as his tired feet could carry him. The thing was close on his tail, and hopefully wouldn't think twice about following him into a trap.

He ran through the closing walls. They inched closer, darkness closing in around him like a blanket. He kept his eyes on the way out, just a few meters away-

Behind him, a dying shriek echoed between the walls before the gruesome sound of crushing metal and scraping sounded. Thomas didn't look back. He kept running. So close. The edges of the wall were just brushing against his shoulders as he bursted out. He stumbled, feet weak beneath him. He dropped to the floor in time to hear the sound of the walls smashing together behind him, the cries of the crushed thing behind him stopping with the bang of the stone hitting each other.

*

Thomas didn't sleep that night. He didn't stop moving once he'd caught his breath and pulled himself together. He pushed himself up off the floor, legs weak underneath him. He checked his side briefly, but he worry about it. It wasn't anything more than a wide scratch, just broking through the skin. It had bled, his shirt smudging it across his torso even though the cut only reached from his last rib to his hip bone and had stopped bleeding by the time he'd calmed down enough for his hands to stop shaking.

He shuffled through the maze corridors until the sun came up, and by then, he could barely lift his feet off the ground.

He was exhausted to the bone, and he's sure he's never felt such a strong, un-ignorable urge to drop and sleep. His side was stinging, as were his hands. The exposed raw flesh of his burned palms stung against the cold air. By the time the sun came up, Thomas was moments away from bursting into tears.

Thomas doesn't know how he's supposed to protect Chuck like this. Falling apart, in the middle of a damn maze, under 24 hour cameras who are most likely capturing his every move. He can't imagine how hard this must be for Chuck, to finally see his brother in a weak light. Thomas, who Chuck had always relied on and looked up to, is moments away from a fucking break down. His bones ache, his muscles are screaming with every step he takes. His body is lagging, emotions draining him. He's sure the fatigue is obvious, defined at every angle of his appearance.

Better then that, how is Thomas meant to protect Chuck if he dies tonight? Or tomorrow?

Anger gets the best of him. With a quick flick of his wrist, Thomas launches the knife in the direction of the opposite wall, closing in eyes just in time to hear it crash into the concrete. Suddenly, all the sudden adrenaline anger washed out of him like a tap and he was hit with another wave of exhaustion. Pressing his back against the maze wall, Thomas slides down till he hit the floor. He dropped his head in his hands, leaning his elbows on his knees that were bent upwards. He let out a scream of frustration, muffled by his hands so it wasn't that loud, although it still echoed some what through the maze.

He couldn't do this. He couldn't spend another day in this godforsaken hell hole.

Thomas felt his chest begin to tighten, his throat clenching and his breath cutting off. The bubble of panic rised in his chest, his heart pounding painfully against his ribs so hard that a whimper escaped his lips. His mind was racing, but the continuous repetion of Chuck scorched through his memories. He couldn't leave him behind. Couldn't leave him alone. Chuck was too young, too fragile to loose Thomas after loosing the rest of his family. Chuck was already an orphan, Thomas refused to let him be the last Greene.

The thoughts of Chuck began to help Thomas calm down. He felt the pain in his chest lessen and his breathing becoming clear. His mind was still running a mile, thoughts coming up in a mess that he couldn't organise. He had to find a way out, that's all he knew clearly. But how? He was alone, he was tired, without food or water and his only damn weapon was a knife!

The thought of the knife brought Thomas back to the realisation that he never heard the knife hit the floor. Slowly lifting his head, Thomas looked across the corridor to see the knife. But it wasn't laying on the floor. It was deep with in the wall, a few cracks spewing off around it like a spider web. Thomas was shocked that even though he was angry, he was able to embed a small knife into a concrete wall.

Thomas was jerked back into reality when a scream ripped through the air, echoing with such force that he knew it was close.

Leaping to his feet, Thomas closed the distance between him and the knife. Clasping the knifes handle, Thomas began to pull. He felt his already raw hands burn against the roped handle from the friction. His shoulders felt like they were about to pop out of their sockets, again.

Just when he was about to give up, the knife came loose so suddenly it sent Thomas staggering backwards, almost tripping over his own feet. He caught his balance at the last moment, falling into a drunken crouch. He looked up just in time to see the careers round the corner a few yards away from him. It was silly, ridiculous even, but Thomas had a spring of hope that if he stayed low and still, they would round another corner without noticing him. But that idea was out the window when one of them pointed him out, face lighting up with such excitement that the kid could have been bouncing off the walls. It took a matter of seconds for each career to see him, eyes glued like a hawk.

"Get him!" Gally's voice was like a gun at the start of a race, it was all Thomas needed to make him spin around and break into a sprint.

Chapter Text

When Thomas was thirteen, he got into a fight with an older boy on the way home from school. He'd been sticking up for a small boy, who the bully had initially been beating on in the first place, but a surge in Thomas had made him protect the boy that reminded him so dearly of his little brother. Thomas had stepped in, squaring up to the bully that was so impressively larger than Thomas in both height and weight. It was unusual to see a kid so well built, but it happened occasionally in District 12. So there was Thomas, dragging the attention away from the boy in the dirt and angering the bully more and more by the minute.

Thomas had been easily beaten up. He'd been on the floor after the first punch, kicks and beats pounding his frail body into the soggy dirt. But the whole time, Thomas hadn't thought about the pain he was in, or the possible chance of those bullies beating him to bad that he wouldn't even be able to drag himself home. His thoughts were on Chuck. On how Thomas needed to cover this up, to make sure Chuck didn't find out and to make sure the bullies wouldn't go after the small boy himself.

Thomas is thinking that now. As he sprints through the maze, once again running for his life, he remembers that Chuck is watching all of this. Everything he'd tried to hard to protect him from, to hide him from, Chuck was now seeing with his own eyes.

It was his knees going weak that jerked his abruptly out of his thoughts. He stumbled, very nearly dropping to the floor. His hands, the skin still raw and sore, scraped along the stone floor and pushed him back onto his feet. 

He dared a glance over his shoulder, and was thankful to see the careers had only just turning the corner Thomas turned moments before. They weren't as fast as the grievers, but Thomas was also being weighed down by a bone deep exhaustion that was eating away at his muscles like a parasite.

He needed to stop running, and he needed to stop quick.

Turning a sudden corner, Thomas spots a wall covered in curly strands of ivy. The green plant had also built a pile on the floor, blocking the connection between the maze wall and the floor from view. Thomas pushed into one last sprint, before he slowed down, sliding down and skidding across the sharp stone floor and rolling under the ivy, ignoring the sting of his skin scraping on the floor. It was tight and for a moment, when the careers ran around the corner to follow him, Thomas thought it was finally the end. 

But then the careers ran past him like he wasn't even there. Literally, they ran straight past, not even thinking about looking down at the pile of ivy sitting right before their very eyes.

Thomas waited a few moments, and then some more. His heart was pumping fast and heavy in his chest, ears muffled by the sound of his throbbing blood. He could feel his hands shaking where they were tucked against his chest. He felt dizzy and if he had anything in his stomach, he's sure he would have thrown it up by now. He waited until he was certain he was alone, listening into the silence before he finally crawled out from under the ivy. He looked around, skittish and anxious. His nerves were on fire, senses on hyper-alert. His muscles and bones were screaming at him, mind clouded and exhaustion gripping him.

Something creaked behind him and he spun around so fast black spots danced in his vision. He caught a glimpse of long brown hair before the world was tipping and he stumbled into the stone wall. 

"Crap! Thomas!" Someone shouted and ohmygod that hurts. His head was throbbing to a steady pulse now, his vision cloudy and he could only imagine how pathetic he looked, sliding down the wall while someone crept up on him. He decided he didn't give a flying fuck if someone killed him now, he just wanted this headache to go away.

"Thomas? Shit, buddy, come on," someone was shaking his shoulders, a hazy figure crouched in front of him. He recognised the high pitch of a female, putting it together with the brown hair and—

"T'resa?" He slurred, tongue heavy in his mouth.

"Yeah, it's me," she sighed. His vision was already clearing from sitting down, though his headache didn't ease at all. "Shit, Tom, what the fuck happened to you?"

There was some rustling and next thing he knew a bottle was pressed to his lips and a hand was tipping his head. His mouth filled with cold, fresh water and Thomas barely had a moment to think before he was swallowing greedily. It stung his sore throat, but also soothed it and instantly, the world was clear again.

His head felt heavy on his neck, so when Teresa pulled the bottle and her hand away, it lolled against the wall like a ball.

He sighed, catching his breath. "Fancy seeing you here," he whispered.

Teresa glared, but it held no heat. "Shut up, Thomas," she spared a glance each way down the maze corridor. "We've got get out of here. Before they come back," she looked back at Thomas, "Do you think you can walk?"

Thomas nodded, head thumping like a ball was bouncing inside it. "I'm fine."

Teresa snorted, but didn't point out his lie. Instead, she gave him a hand standing up, steadying him when he swayed. "Heavens, Thomas. Have you slept at all? Did your mother ever teach you to look after yourself?"

Teresa seemed to have realised the impact of her words when Thomas stiffed like a scared animal and shot her a blank look. "Shit, Tom— I didn't—"

"It's fine," Thomas said, quietly. It wasn't fine, but it was a simple mistake and Teresa was helping him. "Where are we going?"

"Back to where I'm staying with Winston and Jeff. Don't worry, you'll be safe there,"

"No where in here is safe," Thomas said, and Teresa slapped him before she pulled him into a firm hug. 

"It's good to see you alive and kicking," Teresa murmured, and Thomas felt something inside him warm, knowing someone in this God-forsaken arena had his back. "Saw you out run those careers, by the way," Teresa said, pulling back and grinning, "told you you were a fast runner."

Thomas rolled his eyes and ignore the way it hurt the pressure in his head.

They began to move through the maze, Thomas' movements embarrassingly sluggish but Teresa didn't moan or comment on the slow pace. Thomas was just proud he was still standing. 

He doesn't know how long it took them to get to Teresa's camp, but by the time they got there, Thomas was ready to pass out. Teresa had lead him further into the maze to the point that the corridors had gotten massively wider and each wall had a printed 7 on it. Thomas didn't think too much about that and instead focused on the back of Teresa's head and staying standing.

Teresa's camp was small and quite frankly, shit. But Thomas wasn't going to complain because it's more than he's got. It was tucked in a small corner, only a box about 7 feet wide and long. Two sides of the small area were covering in blankets and sleeping bags, all their supplies tucked at the back of the camp and a small, unlit fire in the middle of it all.

Winston and Jeff lit up when they saw him, patting his back and giving their weak gratitude as to his still fighting existence. 

"Glad you're alive, Thomas," Winston said, giving him a toothy grin as he sat back down on the blanket they had laid out. Jeff joined him, sitting back and leaning on the wall. 

Teresa guided Thomas over to her own blanket on the opposite side, practically pushing him down and going over to the supplies. She came back with a granola bar and another container of water. 

"Eat and drink, you should feel better," she said, dropping them in his lap. Thomas nodded, digging in while Teresa scavenged through his own bag, pulling out his belongings. It wasn't much, and looked pathetic compared to what they had, but he hadn't eaten any of his food yet so that was a comforting pile.

"Sorry," he apologised after he swallowed down his food. "I don't have much."

Teresa shook her head. "Every little helps. You should sleep," Teresa said. "You look like shit."

Thomas snorted, drinking some more water before fastening the cap. He had no idea what the time was, but the sun was directly over head, so he assumed around midday. Thomas felt a strange vulnerability sleeping during the day. He felt like he needed to help, to do something. He'd been running on fumes, but he still had some left and if he wanted to survive, he needed to be awake.

"Thomas," Teresa interrupted. "Get some sleep."

Thomas, reluctantly, nodded and laid down on the lumpy blanket. Teresa passed him his sleeping bag and he shimmied into it, jacket and all. He was cold, skin tingling. He was asleep the moment his head rested on the plump on Teresa's blanket.

*

When Thomas woke up, he had to blink a few times to realise the darkness he saw was because it was night. It then took him a moment to register the hand gripping his shoulder and shaking. His mind finally caught up with him, and then he was jackknifing up, looking for danger and automatically reaching for his knife—

"Calm down, Tom," someone - Teresa - whispered into the darkness.

Thomas let out a relived breath. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah, everything's fine. I just need you to keep watch," Teresa replied, and Thomas understood.

"Oh," he said, sitting up. "Yeah, sure. Okay."

He couldn't see very much, but he's pretty sure he saw the ghost of a smile on Teresa's lips before she was moving away, blankets and sleeping bags rustling under her feet as she moved back to her own bed. 

Thomas slapped his cheeks lightly to fully wake himself up, propping himself up against the maze wall. He felt refreshed and new, the small hours of sleep doing him wonders. He looked up, eyes finding the black sky. He knew it wasn't real, knew the stars weren't actually there. But he couldn't help but wonder if someone, maybe Chuck, were seeing the same stars, maybe if they're real, just taken from somewhere else. The thoughts of Chuck made his chest ache.

"Teresa?" Thomas said into the darkness.

"Yeah?"

Thomas licked his lips nervously. "Who died today?"

Teresa is silent for a long moment. "Five. Five tributes. It was no one we know, though. None of the careers, just a few no bodies no one but their families will remember."

Thomas nodded, though she didn't see. Five tributes. Five people. Five children. Sons. Daughters. Friends. Brothers. Sisters—

Thomas forced himself to stop. He couldn't think this way. He knew, before he even raised his hand to volunteer, that people were going to die. That was the point of the games, that was the rules. People had to die to feed the Capitols hunger for blood and entertainment. Sick entertainment.

Thomas kept his eyes on the sky, eyes jumping from the dots of stars. He wondered who were the 'no bodies' that had died. That had lost their short and precious lives. Who would it be tomorrow? Or the next day, or the next. When will his own time come? When will it be Teresa? Or Winston? Or Jeff?

His mind jumped to the blonde on the roof top, hair long and shaggy. Thomas had resisted for days not to run his hand through the gorgeous locks, to feel them for what could by the first and last time. Newt was branded in his mind like a disease, sweet and sour, whole and broken, completely devouring him. He didn't want Newt to die, possibly more than he wanted Teresa and himself to live. Newt, for some strange reason, felt like home to Thomas. He couldn't bare the thought of leaving the arena, if he wins, and not taking Newt with him. He would no longer hear the sharp accent, see the sweet babyface.

Thomas closed his eyes to contain the tears.

*

Newt was cold. He was tired, scared and alone. The maze floor disappeared under his feet as he walked sluggishly, limbs slow and uncoordinated. He was still shaking from the earlier attack.

He'd managed to team up with a guy called Clint from District 5. He'd spent the first day with him, and the first night. But today Clint had gone to get more food, considering it was only Newt who had a pack and their supply was pretty much gone. Clint, much to Newt's worry, had gone to centre of the maze where the careers apparently gathered all the supplies and put them into a ready-built building. Newt had to watch as Clint went in, successfully getting the supply pack and made it back into the maze. Darkness fell minutes later and suddenly, a large machine-like bug had attacked them, taking Clint completely. Newt had been so struck he'd barely moved to help Clint as he dragged away, kicking and screaming until he was completely engulfed by the darkness.

So Newt had a pack, he had food and water, but he was alone again. He was a coward, selfish and weak. He's pathetic, even if he does make it to the end, he doesn't deserve it. The pack is heavy on his bag, but Newt thinks it's weighing with more than just the weight of food. It's Clint's life hanging over him, pressing on his shoulders and his conscience.

Newt wonders if he ever will get out. Could he survive this? He remembers a game, a few years ago when someone won by literally staying in the shadows. They shed no blood, made no fights. Simply slinked in the darkness and let everyone else fight. Newt couldn't do that, though. He had no skill to stay alive and hidden at the same time, hell, he could barely do the first thing. His mind was plagued and hyperaware, cautious and nervous with every passing corner incase one of those things came after him. He had no idea what it was, nor did he want to get a second look and find out. 

Somewhere deep and dark in Newt's mind wonders if his parents are watching, and if they're disappointed in him. If they think he's a coward, an embarrassment. What does his district think? If he does get out, can he ever go home?

He lets out an uncontrolled sob, the sound echoing in the maze.

He feels even more alone.

Chapter Text

It's been a week since the games started. 7 days of hell. 168 hours and counting.

Thomas feels like he's loosing his mind, like he's on the brink of insanity and one more small thing going wrong is going to push him over the edge into oblivion. He's stayed with Teresa and the others, agreeing with them that it would be safer to stay in a group. They sorted their supplies, mixing them together and splitting them evenly. In the end, Thomas actually thinks he was worse off, but the company is worth any food or blanket he could find. He was worried he was going to go insane from the isolation of the maze alone, the constant four grey walls and endless corridors with no company or companion to keep him in reality.

In the whole six days Thomas has been with Teresa and the boys, they have been moving from safe corner to safe corner. Avoiding careers in the day, avoiding the mechanical creatures night. So far, they have been lucky not to find any more grievers, managing to find a small camp area so disguised and hidden from plain eye. They still have someone keeping watch, of course, because anything can happen and none of them trust the game makers not to pull a stunt when they're all vulnerable.

Avoiding other tributes has been more of a task. Not only are they fighting against the tributes, but they're also fighting against the game makers that are persistently trying to lead them all together like cattle in a field. The moving walls - which Thomas still can't believe because they are solid stone and moving! - have been cutting them off more often than not, cutting their path short and making them have to backtrack. That was how they lost Winston. It was horrific and scarring, making Thomas traumatise for lift - which he has come to realise may not be that long.

It happened the night before, moments after dark fell and a monster found them. They had used the closing wall to their advantage, but Winston just wasn't fast enough. His dying screams had echoed around the maze like a hysterical laughter, bouncing off the walls and ringing in their ears as he was crushed to death.

Despite their luck of having been able to stay out of weapon range with other tributes, and have seen no sign of the career pack, Thomas still felt like his life was currently counting down on a clock. He could imagine the game makers, sitting at their high-tech desks, staring at a hologram of the arena, a small notepad at their side with the tribute names jotted down. He could imagine them crossing them out one by one, like it was only a word and not an actual human, a irreplaceable life. Thomas wondered how long it would be until his name was crossed out like a item on a shopping list.

It was early morning when they stumbled around a corner, the morning after Winston's horrific death. Their mouths were dry, lips crackled, stomachs growling and painfully empty. Their supplies had run out that morning, the last of the water and food gone completely. They couldn't stretch it further, no more rationing, it was their last meal they had. Thomas' feet dragged on the dusty ground, kicking up the sprays of white that clung to his boots like ash. He swallowed, throat dry and scraping. He blinked up at the beating sun, knowing it wasn't real but still wearing down on them like a heat lamp. It was almost unbearable, their backs aching and bodies so dehydrated they couldn't even sweat.

When they turned the corner, Thomas expected to see more endless grey, another long corridor of deja vu, but he stopped short as soon as his eyes focused on the form a few feet away from them. It was a crumpled body, limbs spewed across the concrete floor, spread out. Thomas couldn't see the tributes face as their head was lolled to the side, facing away from them.

Thomas walked closer, curious and possibly idiotic because this could easily be a trap. He didn't care, though, because if this kid was hurt then Thomas needed to help. Thomas was about five feet away when he noticed the stillness of the forms chest, his short shorn hair dusted in dry blood, caking his forehead. Thomas stuttered to a still, heart plummeting.

No matter how close to death Thomas has been before, it has never been something he's gotten used to seeing on other people. Thomas knows the fragility of life, the concept and value of a beating heart. All Thomas could think about in that moment was how his family at home must be feeling.

He was snapped out of his thoughts when Teresa brushed past him, approaching the body quickly and going straight for the rucksack at the boys feet. Thomas' legs moved automatically, getting closer to the boy until he was practically towering over him. He crouched down, feeling physically dizzy from looking down.

The boys skin was white, drained of colour and eerie. His eyes were still open, a empty, piercing blue staring unfocused at the sky. His forehead was crusted in the dry, rusty red blood from a head wound.

Thomas felt like he was going to vomit. He turned his head to the side, covering his mouth with the back of his hand. He took a shuddering breath, turning back to the form and placing his fingers hesitantly in the junction of his throat and jaw. There was no pulse, and Thomas wasn't surprised. It was a long shot anyways.

The skin was ice cold under his finger tips and he wretched them away as if he had been burned. Thomas' eyes roamed over the dead body, stomach twisting uneasily until he noticed a red patch on the other side of the boys abdomen.

Pulling up the blood stained shirt, Thomas gasped.

The entire of the tributes stomach and chest was covered in blue veins, spidering across his skin like shattered glass. There was what looking like a small puncture wound in the middle, all the veins scattering from it.

"What the hell is that?" Thomas breathed. He could feel the blood drain from his face at the sight, horrified and scared.

Teresa looked up from where she was rummaging through the dead tributes back. "He was stung."

Thomas' eyes widened. "Stung? By what?"

"A griever," Teresa replied. "That's what you saw in the maze the other night. It's called a griever."

Thomas felt like he'd been sucker punched. His eyes drifted down to the puncture mark, scanning and following the individual veins that stood out like blood in a porcelain skin. That's what those creatures did. They stung people, injecting them with some kind of poison. Thomas shuddered involuntarily.

"How do you know this?"

"I overheard some capitol officers talking when we were pack at the training centre," Teresa shrugged. She stood up, brushing off her dusty trousers. "Take this, he's got stuff we can use."

Thomas didn't have a chance to respond before Teresa was throwing the bag at him. He fumbled for it, nearly dropping it on the body. Thomas slung it over his shoulder, a pang of something twisted and dark swarming in his stomach at the thought of stealing from a dead boy. He reached up, fingers trembling and ever-so gently closed the open eye lids. It was respect, he knew. It it was him, he'd be grateful.

*

The image of the dead body was burned into Thomas' mind for the rest of that day. The dead eyes, white skin, blue spirally veins. It was haunting and spine chilling. Thomas was worried he was starting to get paranoid. Every spec of sound or movement had him jumping, he was terrified to turn corners, always looking over his shoulder. He knew the grievers only came out at night, but he couldn't help but be shook by the fear and danger of them. He didn't want to die like the other kid - he didn't want to die at all.

They settled down that night, laying out the supplies Teresa had taken from the boy. He had a full container of water, a packet of crackers and a sleeping bag. It wasn't a lot, but it was enough to tide them over. Dinner was served as two crackers each and a few sips of water.

Thomas curled up into a tight ball that night, scared and vulnerable. His brain was a live wire, body tense and on edge. Fear was a understatement as to what was buzzing through his mind. Bone deep terror was clutching him at every limb, straining his every breath.

He couldn't tell if he was thankful or not that Teresa had relieved him from watch that night. The logical part of him was thankful, because he was exhausted from his lack of sleep the night before and the hard days walking. But the other part of him was terrified to even close his eyes.

He tried to think of happy thoughts, think of Chuck and Frypan and his mothers steaming hot soup. He tried to think of the friendly, familiar faces of the hob, the gentle smiles they gave him and the comforting hands on his shoulders when he passed. He tried to think of before his father died, when his mother was a functioning human and Chuck was a baby. Thinking of home hurt more than the hunger pains in his stomach. It was like a punch to the gut, knocking the air violently out of his lungs.

He wondered, once again, if Chuck was currently watching, and what the hell was he thinking. Would he be proud?

*

Thomas didn't remember falling asleep, but he remembers waking up to darkness and screams.

Someone was shaking him, hands roughing slamming his shoulders continuously into the ground below him. He was momentarily deaf, stunned and confused until the shining moon above them showed him a glimpse of the form above him.

Teresa's face was illuminated white, stark and shadowed. Her eyes were wide and full of terror.

Everything came slamming back to the present all at once.

"Thomas!" Teresa hissed. "Wake the hell up!"

She climbed off him when she noticed his eyes were open, grabbing a rucksack from the floor and going to stand by Jeff, who was looking around the corner.

Thomas sat up, groggy but quickly coming online. "What--"

"The careers have found us," Teresa said shortly, voice short and quiet.

Thomas froze as if he'd been electrocuted.

Suddenly, there was a shout from around the corner and then Jeff was being tackled to the floor by a fast blur. Jeff cried out, and it took Thomas a moment to react to the career straddling Jeff's waist, a knife drawn back in his hand, ready to strike.

Thomas launched himself to his feet, flying across the distance between them and violently kicking the career off Jeff. The career, of course, was quick to get back up, but Teresa had grabbed a small slab of fallen maze wall, cracking it over the careers head with a brutal thud. They didn't wait to watch him fall before they poured out of the hideout, finding themselves in the maze corridor.

Barely a moment later, there was a shout from behind them.

The career pack were barely a few meters away.

"Run!" Teresa screamed, and Thomas didn't have to be told twice before he was sprinting.

He took no consideration as to where Teresa and Jeff were going, he just ran down the additional corridor, sprinting for his life. He knew by the gaining footsteps behind him that he was being followed and he guessed by the fact that they were fast, it wasn't Teresa or Jeff.

Thomas turned a sharp right, sparing a glance over his shoulder to see who was behind him and found his assumption confirmed - it was a career.

His feet stutter underneath him, legs almost giving out. He stumbled, catching himself quickly and pushing harder. He ran, just like he had done when he'd first entered the maze and when he was being chased by the griever. He was running for his life, again.

Thomas was so distracted with the thought of running then he didn't notice the career had caught up with him until a hand was grabbing his back, taking in a handful of his jacket and knocking him. Thomas stumbled, a small hitch in his running and suddenly, his ankles were swept out from underneath him, a body crashing into his back and knocking him to the floor.

They fell down, hard. Thomas' head slammed down on a rock, vision blinding white. He's pretty sure he blacked out because the next time he opened his eyes, he was on his back, eyes blurry and unfocused. Black dots danced across his vision and his head throbbed viciously. He could feel something hot running down the side of his face and he didn't have a moment to wonder if it was blood because someone was straddling his stomach, pressing a heavy, suffocating weight on him.

His vision was still swimming but he could make out the career above him. He could see the sadistic grin on his face.

"Oh, this is going to be so fun," the career snarled, breathing heavily, chest heaving. He pulled a knife out of his chest pack, slow and obvious like a proper psychopath. Thomas closed his eyes, willing the pain in his head to stop for a moment so he could escape.

When he opened his eyes again, vision unfocused, the career had his knife above his head, holding it with two hands as if he was about to plunge in directly into Thomas' chest.

"Please. . ." Thomas whispered, but he knew it was futile. He didn't want to die, and he didn't want to go out like this. Chuck was probably watching, Chuck was going to see this.

The career only laughed, shaking his head and grinning.

A sudden screech had the career's grin dropping off his face. He looked up, beyond past Thomas' head at something in the distance. Thomas could see the fear filling the careers eyes, dread consuming his face.

A metallic skid filled Thomas' ears and suddenly, the career was scrambling off him. Thomas barely had time to roll onto his side before a griever was above him and his side was erupting in immense pain.

His vision went white again, a scream tearing from his throat. His veins burned, whole body shaking. He felt drugged, mind going hazy. He could barely keep his eyes open, body going lax and limp. He couldn't move, he could barely breath. His head lolled to the side, darkness clouding his vision.

The last thing he saw was a griever towering over the career further down the corridor, a piercing scream filling his ears before everything went dark.

Chapter Text

Newt had felt a horrid pang of guilt and despair when he watched Brynn's face shine in the sky that night. He threw up, mostly bile and half digested food, because his stomach swam violently with nausea. He couldn't even imagine going home now. Even if he did survive, he would never be able to step foot in District 7 again. Brynn was a sweetheart, known by everyone and hated by no one. She was a kind, gentle soul who volunteered to do anything and was almost always positive. Newt had deprived District 7 from that, he was too weak and pathetic to stay with Brynn.

Guilt and his hungry conscience ate at Newt throughout the whole night. He'd gotten better at hiding, finding places to sleep and stay out of the way of those monsters. He didn't want to be like Clint, didn't want to be dragged into the darkness, kicking and screaming and dying.

Newt spent his alone nights on the top of the maze walls, having finally grown the courage to climb them. The ivy was harsh and raw on his hands, but he still climbed up every night and sat on the wall edge, looking down. He was getting barely any sleep, but at the same time, he wasn't surprised and couldn't complain as he'd chosen to stay solo.

But solo was lonely. Newt was partially worried if by any miracle he got out he must have already lost his social skills just from these days of isolation alone. He was scared of his own freaking shadow, he could never cope in the real world anymore.

Newt rounded a corner that looked identical to the last uncountable ones he'd turned before. Judging by the location of the sun that was barely visible behind the projected clouds in the sky, Newt was assuming it was past midday. Which meant he had

Thomas was laying on his side, skin white and blue, icy to touch. His eyes are closed, stained with purple half moons under the sunken skin. A blue vein was curling around Thomas' exposed collar bone, and Newt frowned, heart pounding as he assumed the worst. He rolled Thomas onto his back, skinning limbs lax and lolling. He pushed back the flaps of Thomas' jacket and pulled up his t-shirt, revealing a small puncture mark just under his last right rib. Newt's breath got caught in his throat.

Thomas had been stung.

Utter panic was probably the most accurate word for how Newt felt in that moment. His own hands shook in fear and worry, eyes scanning over the blue veins coming off the puncture mark like a spiderweb in shattered glass.

Newt cups the boys cheeks, thumb resting over the prominent cheekbones that stuck out with visual malnourished.  Thomas' head in slack in his hands, heavy and lifeless. It makes Newt feel sick to his stomach. His lids are moving, eyes shifting under them frantically as if caught in a nightmare. Newt didn't want to think about what Thomas must be seeing right now.

"Thomas," he tries, shaking him a little bit. He know's his attempt was futile, as Thomas didn't even twitch in recognition, but he had to try. Small shakes were actually plaguing Thomas' body, barely noticeable tremors. Newt needs to get him somewhere safe, he only had a few hours until night fall, and then he would have more to fear than the other tributes.

Thomas' dead weight was heavy, but his lack of muscle and fat made up for it. He was disturbingly slack against Newt's side, arm snaked around Newt's neck and head lolling on his shoulder. Newt wrapped a hand around Thomas' small waist, fingers looping in the belt loops of his trousers to hoist him up straighter.

The first step was the hardest, like a child riding a bike for the first time. Newt had to balance Thomas' weight with his own, supporting him as well as carrying him. Thomas was small, but so was Newt.

He doesn't know how long it takes, but eventually Newt manages to drag them both back to the whole-in-the-wall shelter he found a few days in.  By this point, Thomas is completely lax, feet dragging on the ground and Newt struggles to hold him up as he resembles a wet noodle. His strained breath wheezes in Newt's ear where his head rests on the blondes shoulder, small puffs of cold air ghosting a brush over his skin.

Newt can feel the tremors shaking through the sick teen, his jarring bones digging into Newt's flesh as they stumble along the endless corridors.

Thomas let's out the first on many shrieks when they reach the entrance to Newt's. It surprises Newt so much he yelps, jumping. Thomas slips out of his grip with a moan and Newt barely manages to catch him before his head richoetes off the maze floor.

"Tommy!" He cries out, hands cradling the sickly pale teens head. Thomas shakes and jerks as if he's having a seizure, eyelashes fluttering. Gurgled sounds and moans spill from his lips, gasps of of shaky breath.

Newt feels tears prick his eyes like small, hot needles. He feels so ridiculously helpless and he has no clue how to help Thomas or what to do because Thomas is dying.

He moves from cradling Thomas' head to pulling his body into his chest, his arms going under the boys knees and around his lower back. Thomas is lighter than he looks, but still heavy in comparison to Newt's heavy-weighting ability so lifting the boy completely is just as hard as Newt expects it to be.

He grunts as he steps up into his cave shelter, Thomas still groaning and jerking in his arms as the seizure reigns on. Newt knows it's not wise - in fact counter productive - for him to move Thomas while he seizes, but he has no choice. Thomas' abrupt cry could have alerted anyone nearby that they were there here and neither of them are in any shape to fight off any attackers.

The shelter is literally like someone has taken out a collection of bricks in the wall. Newt has covered the ground with the sleeping bags from him and ..., making a makeshift bed and somewhere to sit. He has piles of ivy he uses to cover the door, keeping them hidden.

He puts Thomas down on the sleeping bags, brushing the sweaty bangs out of his eyes. The tremours have died down, his body motionless apart from the occasion shake and groan. Newt isn't sure if he wants to know what's going on beneath the restless eyelids or not.

He sits back on his hunches, staring at the sick teen for a moment longer and ignoring the pooling emotion in his stomach before he gets up. The height of the depression in the maze wall is tall enough for him to stand with his head ducked and shoulders bent a fraction and the width of the hole is long enough for him to lay down. He heads to the large hole in the wall, taking out the hooks that held the ivy and vines up, letting them fall and disguise the makeshift shelter from peering eyes.

*

The fever comes later.

Newt is going through his supplies and the bag Thomas was carrying, looking at what they have put together and to be honest: it's not a lot. There's barely enough food to last them a few days, only a few bottles of water. Newt knows just from that that they're screwed. He can't hunt. He has no weapons and Thomas is looking a day away from death.

The sick teen is murmuring nonsense by sunset. His eyes are darting underneath the lids, body shivering and twitching despite his burning hot forehead. When Newt rests the back of his palm against the clammy skin, he hisses at the heat he's met with.

He unzips the sleeping bag Thomas is sleeping in, cringing when he finds the fabric already damn with sweat. Thomas' clothes are sticking to his skin but with the dropping temperatures, he doesn't want to risk taking any clothes off, despite his fever. 

Newt slips the last of the water into his mouth, some it sputtering out when it hits the back of the sick teens throat. Newt strokes his neck, gently guiding the water down like he saw his mother doing to other sick children when he volunteered in the hospital when illness struck the district. He caps the bottle and chucks it violently at the cave wall. It's useless now.

Thomas needs more water, Newt realises, and he needs food. If Thomas' fever continues to spike and rise, he needs to be kept hydrated, and Newt can't remember the last time he ate, head spinning and stomach a constant tight cramp of pain. But it's not like he can go out. He can't hunt, he never has and he has no idea how to. He sit's beside Thomas' trembling body, watching fearfully as the chest rises and falls with short, jerky motions.  

Newt feels like the clamp around his own chest tightens and tightens every time Thomas lets out a weak whimper, or his breath hitches like it's going to be his last. His complexion becomes more and more washed out, cheeks becoming gaunt like the weight he barely has is literally dripped off of him like melted butter. 

Dusk falls and night rolls in, the arena falling dark and quiet. Newt pulls Thomas further into the cave, away from the mouth and away from the monsters that come out. It feels like a nightmare, Newt has realised, how the creatures only come out when it's dark. Only problem is this isn't a nightmare. Newt is awake, and he can't get his mother to help him out of this one with warm cuddles and soft words.

He's living it, and he's more alone than ever. 

*

Newt jerks awake with a gasp, not even realising he'd fallen asleep in the first place. He feels disorientated, thoughts crawling through mud to catch up with him. It's then that he realises he didn't just wake up, he'd been woken up.

Thomas is screaming on the floor, withering and thrashing in the sleeping bag. Newt is up in an instant, scrambling across the concrete floor of the cave to Thomas, who's screams and shrieks grow louder. Each one is like a punch to Newt's stomach, so filled with pain and fear and hysteria. 

Thomas' eyes are closed, and when Newt tries to wake him, he's out cold, not even a twitch or a fragment of consciousness coming back, yet he screams on. Newt is riddled with fear, every muscle tense with it. Fear for Thomas, for what his closed eyes and trapped mind are making his see, and fear for who or what is going to find them. Thomas' screams are like a calling, going to attract tributes and predators like a flashing sign signalling where they are.

He's thrashing like he's being attacked, kicking the sleeping bag and thin arms flying around. The worst is the screaming, drilling right to Newt's core. High and long and loud that bounce of the cave walls, ricocheting back and echoing like mad laughter. 

"Thomas!" Newt cries helplessly as he tries to hold his arms down, to stop his body from being thrown around. He's hurt enough, and Newt doesn't want him to make the sting area any worse. He continues to wail bloody murder, and Newt can feel the tears rolling down his cheeks.

"Come on, Tommy," he sobs, because Thomas is still screaming just as much as before, as if his body isn't getting tired or his throat isn't getting sore. He imagines the sound of voices, probably his paranoia misting his mind, and he instinctively clamps a hand over Thomas' mouth. It muffles it considerably, but Thomas continues to wail into his palm without resentment.

It feels like hours, and it probably is as the sun is beginning to rise when Thomas' screams finally drift to a stifled cry. Newt's muscles are cramping from holding him down having moved so he was straddling Thomas' stomach to keep his arms down with his legs and use his hands to mute Thomas' screams somewhat. The mouth of the cave becomes light with the morning sun when Thomas finally falls slack.

Newt slumps in relief, for both him and Thomas. The body beneath him goes limp apart from the continuous course of shakes and trembles that rack his tired bones and muscles. 

Newt realises then, as he slowly climbs off the sick teen, that he has never felt as truly helpless as he did last night. With no way to expel Thomas out of the nightmare he was trapped in, Newt felt like his heart literally shattered in his chest, and he had no way to stop Thomas' suffering, to stop his screaming as his pain. 

*

Thomas is sick for days before things go from bad, to worse.

He screams every night, thrashes like he's being attacked but refuses to wake up. Fever rages through him, making his sweat and shiver and shake. His skin is an ashen grey, loosing it's colour completely. His eyes look like they have sunken completely into his skull, ringed purple and red. His lips are chapped and white, camouflaging into the colourless skin of his gaunt and hollow face. Newt can see him loosing weight he can't afford to loose.

Newt can see him dying, and it scares him more than anything.

They run out of water first, then food the following night. Newt doesn't know how long he's kept them collared up in the cave for, but the lack of food and water soon gets to Newt, and he can't imagine how Thomas must feel - if he can feel anything.

Newt can feel himself going mad, and as the darkness of nighttime draws closer, he feels dread bubble in his stomach for what's coming. He wonders if this going to be worth it. What if Thomas never wakes up? What if he's going through all of this pain and misery, only to die in a few days time? What is there is no cure to what the griever has done to him?

Is Newt cruel for keeping him alive?

He peels back the sweat-slick top by the hem, cringing when it sticks to Thomas' clammy skin. The sting site is a sight for sore eyes, purple and blue, veins spiralling off it like a spiders web painted onto a porcelain white skin. Newt runs his fingers along Thomas' prominent ribs that stick out of his skin, heart aching.

If the sting doesn't kill Thomas, the fever and starvation might.

Newt cries that night, sobbing as the sun falls and the moon takes it's place. He doesn't go outside to see the tributes in the sky, just listens to the booming canons. He's lost count now, doesn't know how many are left or how many have gone. All he knows is him and Thomas are here, and very soon he might be alone again. 

Newt is waiting for the screaming to start when he hears a small chiming outside. He frowns, crawling to the front of the cave and peering through the strands of hanging vines.

A parachute floats from the sky, drifting down until it finally drops on the stone floor, meters away from the entrance to the cave. Newt is itching for it, leaning closer. It's so close, just a few steps. He looks around, heart beating so fast he fears anyone around might hear it too. He feels dizzy as he looks back at the tub on the floor, taunting and teasing him.

He looks back at Thomas, who continues to lay on his back, head to the side. His complexion is like a mirror in the low light, so white and so pale.

Thomas needs him to do this.

He counts back from three, and then he's diving through the vines, and running towards the parachute. He snatches it off the floor, not waiting to see if anything was waiting for him as he spins around and runs back as fast as his unsteady feet can take him. He crashes through the mouth of the cave, dropping the tub and quickly scrambling to put all the vines back in place, to keep them hidden and safe.

He's panting like he's run a marathon as he sits in the cave, head in hands as he shakes and trembles. Black spots dance behind his closed eyes as he tells himself to calm down.

He did it. He got it. He's okay. Thomas is okay. He did it. 

It takes him a minute to catch his breath, limbs loose and tingling as he crawls back to the back of the cave, next to Thomas with the parachute in his hand. He opens it, fingers trembling and unsteady as they unclasp the hooks and the parachute pops open.

A white slip of folded paper sits atop of two large containers.

Newt picks it up, unfolding it. It reads,

'You're not as useless as you think you are, Newton.

— Alby.'

Newt finds himself smiling, tears sprouting in his eyes as he laughs lightly in relief. He feels like a weight on his chest has been removed and he can breath a little bit easier. 

He opens the first container, almost drooling there and then when a warm cloud of steam rises from the pot, the smell of chicken soup reaching his nose in white swirls. The other pot has water in it, so Newt doesn't wait to give Thomas some, slowly so he doesn't choke or sputter, wasting it. He eats some of the soup, moaning slightly when the taste hits his tongue. He feeds a little to Thomas, knowing it probably won't do much, but it certainly won't do any harm.

Newt falls asleep that night, curled into Thomas' fever-warm side, and he wakes up to the sun rising and bleeding into the mouth of the cave.