A/N: Possibly a very slight AU. For the Caesar's Palace monthly challenge prompt: Lost. I was going for a lost mind, but I deviated and it didn't follow the prompt very well, sorry.
―
She's six― bright eyes, brighter smile― and he's eight― perpetual frown, bitten nails― but there aren't too many children attending school in District Three, contrary to common belief, and even less in her age group. So in August, they move her and three others up into his class. It doesn't bother him unduly: what difference does it make? He'll be bottom anyway.
(But when his report comes home at the end of January― he's twentieth out of twenty four, now, instead of eighteenth out of nineteen― his parents exchange the disappointed smile they reserve for his schoolwork, and the hurt turns to resentment.)
At the start of spring, they're studying multiplication tables in class, making a competition of it. The teacher splits them into groups to answer the questions; he's last in his, she's first. Then they have a knockout round to determine the winner. She answers everything correctly―
"Twelve by eight?"
"Ninety-six."
―but so does another boy, Kes Mitchell from the other side of town. The two of them are called up to the front of the class, and he slouches down in his chair at the back of the room.
She's nervous, worrying her lip incessantly with her teeth, but Kes is all confident smiles; maybe he's won it already in his mind. "Three three's?" their teacher asks. It's easy, and takes them all by surprise.
"Six!" she stutters, too quickly; moments later she widens her eyes in consternation, gaze darting to her opposition to gauge his level of comprehension.
She opens her mouth to correct herself, but, "Nine," Kes answers, smirking, and the little girl standing across from him seems to shrink.
Later, on their lunch break, they corner her in the playground. There's a teacher patrolling the yard in case of fights, but he's on the far side and old to boot, and anyway the noise from the factories a few blocks down is loud enough to mask their retribution. She stands up when the first few children approach, but she's six years old and barely four feet tall, and if it was meant as a deterring gesture, it fails. They punish stupidity in District Three— and even he knew the answer to that question— but he's been on the receiving end of the taunts more than a few times, so he trails slightly reluctantly after the others, and he grins only half-heartedly when Kes smirks and asks her whether she'd like him to teach her multiplication.
She bites her lip and stares at the twelve of them like she's seeing right through them. He stares at her and it strikes him that maybe she's done this herself to equally unlucky children in the lower grade.
("How could you mess that one up? You're crazy," he says scathingly when there's a short silence. Before the bell rings and sends them back inside to their studies, when she'll no doubt best him again, he ignores her expression and adds to the mocking laughter.)
—
She's thirteen— crinkled forehead, worried eyes— and he's fifteen— messy hair, confident smile. He's doing better in school now, but she falls down in the more practical classes and no one picks her up like they did him when he was six. He finds he's good at the science subjects in particular, and suddenly his parents aren't so disappointed when his report comes home each semester.
(Hers turns up one night in a pristine white envelope with creased corners, and for the first time, she worries in anticipation. Her parents aren't pleased; she's only tenth in the class now and there's talk of moving her back down next year.)
In their science class, they're given a project, told to design a machine that could be made in the factories. At the end of their first lesson on it, she takes her plan up to the teacher, who stares at it for a moment and then sends her to him, saying something about impossible ideas and wasting time.
His designed machine is practical, helpful. They really could use it in the factories, his teacher says, and gives him full marks.
Hers is dainty and pretty and silver all over so it'd glitter in the light. "Are you mad?" he asks incredulously. "What would you do with that?"
She says it's for children, and he agrees that yes, it would be fascinating to a seven year old, but how will it work without something there? He points and she listens and fixes it, and he thinks maybe she isn't too bad after all.
(She gets almost full marks too and ends up fifth in the class that semester. He's fifteenth, but not very jealous anymore.)
—
She's seventeen— nervous laugh, darting gaze— and he's nineteen— worry lines, set jaw— and they've both won games no one wants to play.
He's found desirable by some of the Capitol citizens and in due course, the President invites him to his office and shows him footage of his family and friends. He promises anything, but loses his parents anyway for refusing to help upgrade a dangerous firearm.
One of his dates is scheduled for the night after she wins. The woman asked especially for him, which he finds odd, because even at nineteen he's got a reputation for being a bit of a genius and not much else. But he thinks the woman isn't too bad, as Capitol people go, until she asks him about the Victors at the end.
He has to be nice, so he talks about Woof, the one she has her eye on for her next booking, and Seeder, two of the newest Victors. When she drags the conversation to his newest (only) Victor, he stiffens.
"But she's crazy, isn't she. You mentored her, you were wonderful, but I think she was mad before she went in the arena. Don't you?"
He has to keep her happy, so he smiles and nods and agrees, though the smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Of course."
(The next morning, it's headline news across Panem.)
—
It's hard to remember your age in the arena, he decides a few days after the launch. And the only way you see yourself is the lopsided, glimmering reflection in the sea; it's not good for much more than washing in, really, and even that's uncomfortable, since the sand has a habit of replacing the dirt you were cleaning off. But he'd washed in it to get the blood off, even though when the wind blows in a certain direction he can still smell it.
It was worse for her then, though, he thinks, and worse for her now. He lies in the sand for what feels like days because he's too weak to get up, and they move around him. They're misty shapes at first, blurs that slowly start to separate into people: Katniss, Johanna, Peeta, Finnick. From what he can see, she spends most of the time sitting in the sand and muttering to herself, but he's not close enough to hear the specifics. He's almost not sure he wants to; they've been Nuts and Volts, the odd Victors from District Three for so many years, and if she's talking only senseless gibberish he doesn't know what he'll do.
A few days later, his allies decide to go to the Cornucopia, and even if he wanted to, he's in no position to argue. He resists long enough to make sure they take the coil of wire he rescued from the golden horn, then Peeta lifts him, putting him down less than fifteen minutes later in the little shade offered by the Cornucopia. He calls her over to wash the blood from the wire for him, and for a while it's almost peaceful there. He watches her washing the coil in the salty water and tries not to think about whether he'll be able to blow the forcefield as well as get them all out alive.
It happens so fast. One moment there's only the sound of his allies discussing the arena— tick, tock, it was obvious, he's so stupid— and then Brutus is behind him with Enobaria on his right, and Johanna's axe is a blur of burnished metal, silver in the sunlight as it seems to almost bury itself in Cashmere's chest, and he doesn't even notice she's not singing until the rock starts spinning. He spots her in the water and relinquishes his grip on the rock instinctively, but it's too late to save her. He nearly drowns himself, and he's not convinced that would have been the worse option.
(It rains a bit later that night. He welcomes it, and the raindrops settle on his glasses and hair and cheeks, but strangely, Beetee notes that some of them taste of salt.)