Sam

There are a lot of things he should be doing today—herbs to be gathered and ground up for his mother's medicines, and the counters and backroom need sweeping—but the only thing Sam can think of is Quinn.

Besides, it's not like any chores are actually getting done today. Everyone has somebody to say good-bye to.

He ducks out of his house while his family still sleeps, carefully pulling the door shut behind him so that the click of the latch doesn't alert either one of the twins. Their tiny bodies are curled together on a single pallet by the door, huddled underneath the softest, thickest blanket in the house. Neither one of them is old enough to be reaped, but he knows they're afraid for him.

It's a beautiful day, almost an assault to his senses, as if nature is trying to be as insulting as the Capitol that has taken control of her. The sky is so blue that it makes the back of his throat ache, a soft breeze winding temptingly from the river, the sun sending golden spokes above the trees.

If they lived in a world that was completely fucked up, he and Quinn would be by the water today, maybe with a small picnic, her head resting his lap as he wound lacks of her golden hair around his fingers like rings. He would steal a few kisses at her temple, her cheeks, the nape of her neck, until she melted and fell back on the grass, pulling him on top of her with that knowing smirk which always sets a fire in the pit of his stomach.

She's waiting for him outside the apothecary shop, wearing her reaping day best—a yellow dress with a white collar, her hair gathered up in a white ribbon. Her fingers play with the hem of her skirt, and her head is bowed. If Sam didn't know her so well, he would think she's praying, but he remembers what she told him once.

"There's no place for faith here, Sam. Not anymore."

Gently, he cups her elbow, and she looks up at him. Her smile is tentative, but still striking.

"Hi," she says, and stands up on her tiptoes for a kiss.

Her lips are a strange, intoxicating mixture of familiar and foreign; there have been a thousand little moments like this, some snatched by the very tips of his fingers, and others more slow and sweet. And still, each time, he can't believe that this is happening to him—that someone like Quinn would even give him the time of day, let alone press her body against his like this, her hands gripping his hips to pull him closer.

The kiss becomes fierce, almost painful, Quinn's teeth sinking into his lower lip until he feels a small pinprick of heat flare up as the skin breaks. Sam pulls back, his tongue flicking out to nurse the sore spot.

"I'm sorry," she tells him, lifting her hand to her own mouth. "I'm just—"

He nods, because she doesn't have to say the word for him to know. There isn't anyone in Panem today who isn't afraid.

"I know."

Sam rests his forehead against hers, his arms linking around her waist. In a few hours, they'll be standing in the town square with the rest of their district, the Capitol representative standing on the podium, hand fishing into one of the glass bowls that have the power to end a life.

He doesn't think he'll be able to stand it, watching her out of the corner of his eye, standing with the rest of the seventeen-year-old girls, the ribbon starting to fall out of her hair because she always forgets to tighten it. It's tradition to choose the female tribute first, the representative's long, expertly manicured fingers swimming through the slips of paper.

Last year, it was Adalee Mayde, a soft-spoken slip of a girl who had sat behind Sam in one of his classes. He remembers her screams; the way a Peacekeeper lifted her over his shoulder as easily as if she were a cloth doll, her fists seeming incredibly small as they pounded with useless, raw grief against his back.

Quinn wouldn't be like that, if they call her name. She'd be stoic, walking with her head held high like she's a queen among her subjects. She wouldn't look back at him, for one last glimpse of his face, his eyes, his lips mouthing I love you.

Somehow, Sam thinks this might be worse.

"I think they're going to pick me," she whispers, her fingers curling into the material of his shirt, and she dips her head to press a kiss against Sam's throat, just over the hollow between his collarbones.

His arms tighten around her without his permission, and he swears he hears the small of her back pop in protest. "No, they won't," he says, his tongue suddenly unwieldy in his mouth, like he's been punched in the jaw. "They won't, Quinn."

He bites down the rest of his sentence—I won't let them—because he knows, of course, that there isn't a damn thing he can do to protect her. The thought alone makes him so angry that he feels like he could tear their whole district up board by board and stone by stone.

"You don't know that," she says, looking up at him. "It could be me—"

"It could be anyone," Sam interrupts. "And a lot of people have their name in more than you do."

She looks at him, catching her lower lip between her teeth. "How many times is your name in, Sam?"

For a moment, he considers lying to her, but the impulse is gone almost as soon as it occurs to him. No one knows him better than Quinn does, and even otherwise, there's no point in softening the truth, especially when it's one of the few things the Capitol has left them with.

Even so, he doesn't want to tell her the specific number—thirty-seven—so he just says, "Too many."

When she kisses him for a second time, it's soft, tender. Her hands frame his face; one moves through his hair, delicately cupping the back of his head. Sam tries to keep his eyes open, wanting to see her golden-tipped eyelashes, the freckles splashed across her knows that are invisible until you're this close, but sensation pulls him under. The only thing he can do is lean into her, holding her as close as physically possible, hungrily moving his lips with hers.

"I love you," Quinn murmurs, her mouth still against his. "I love you so much, Sam."

"I love you, too."

He squeezes her gently around the waist, pressing his lips against her forehead, inhaling the scent of her skin that is so essentially Quinn. "We're going to get past this," he says. "We only have one more year, and then we'll be ineligible."

"And then what?" she asks, and he thinks that she doesn't intend for her voice to be as harsh as it is. "Do you want to have kids, Sam? So they can be in the Games, too?"

He doesn't say anything, because there isn't really anything to say. Sam does want kids, especially with Quinn, but the thought of bringing them into a world like this turns his stomach. The fear he has for her, for his brother and sister, would be a thousand times worse with children of his own.

Still…he can't help but picture a golden-haired child with Quinn's delicate features, nestled between them in bed, tiny fingers curled sleepily around his. If there was some way, any way, they could survive off the grid, he would go in an instant; he would take Quinn away from here.

But she wouldn't leave her family, and she would never ask him to leave his. And it's not like he really could, anyway; his parents rely on him, the twins look up to him. He couldn't just leave them behind.

After a while, she sighs and drops her head to his shoulder. "I'm sorry," she says. "It's not—it's not like you asked for this."

Sam turns his face into her hair, nuzzling. "No one asked for this."

He closes his eyes, just holding her on the street corner, and then there's a soft mm-hem behind him. He doesn't turn, but Quinn lifts her head, and he feels her body tense with an audible click as her teeth come together.

"Daddy," she says, and she takes a step back from Sam, her arms falling away from his waist.

Mayor Russell Fabray wears a black suit and charcoal-grey shirt, as if he's going to a funeral, and in a way, he is. He's always reminded Sam of a lion—bold, leonine features, tawny hair brushed back from his face. Sam keeps one arm tight around Quinn's shoulders as he moves to stand beside her, lifting his chin to look her father in the eye.

"Happy Hunger Games, sir," Sam says coolly, and the mayor inclines his head.

"Happy Hunger Games."

To his daughter, the mayor says, "It's time to go, Quinn."

She shakes her head, minutely but firmly. "I'm going with Sam."

Something inscrutable moves in her father's eyes like a predator through tall grass, but he doesn't argue with her. "Fine."

Abruptly, Russell turns on his heel and walks away, toward the town square where the people of the district gather for the reaping. Sam pulls her against his chest again, kissing the top of her head. "He's right," he says. "We should go."

Quinn nods, and they follow her father up the street, Sam's arm still firmly around her waist. She leans her head into his shoulder as they walk, and he thinks about how normal they look—two young lovers, walking through town on a beautiful summer day, wrapped around each other.

They reach the square just as the rest of the crowd begins to trickle in, and even though he knows they have to separate, it doesn't make letting her go any easier. "Everything is going to be fine," he says, his lips by her ear. "We're going to get through this reaping, and I'll meet you by the river after dinner tonight, okay?"

She closes her eyes for a second, and then looks up at him. "Okay."

Sam kisses her briefly, chastely, because he refuses to believe that this might be the last time.

"I love you," he tells her. "I'll always love you."

"I know." She reaches up to pull his face down, placing a kiss against his forehead.

It feels like he's stretching a cord to the limit, straining against an inexpressible weight, as he walks away from her to join the group of other seventeen-year-old boys. A few nod to him, some even manage a grim smile, and Sam nods back at them.

On stage, Russell Fabray sits next to Saxby Grrifin, the Capitol representative whose hair looks as though it was molded out of plastic, moving in a thick black wave away from his forehead. His suit is crisp, clean, and the most horrid shade of pink Sam has ever seen.

There is a third chair, but its occupant is so slight and pale that the eye almost skips right over her.

Judy Fabray, Quinn's mother, and the only victor their district has ever had. Sam has never heard her speak above a murmur, never seen her display any sort of emotion at all. He thinks she's part of the reason Quinn always asks to meet him at his house or the river, but every time she talks about home, her eyes go cold and she pulls away from him; so Sam eventually learned to stop asking.

Saxby stands up, tapping on the microphone a few times, and a screech of static makes the occupants of the square flinch. "Sorry, everyone," he says, his voice smooth, mellifluous. "Well, I wish you all a Happy Hunger Games!"

He spreads his arms wide, as if he wants to embrace the lukewarm applause from the crowd. Smiling so hard that he shows every one of his astonishingly white teeth, Saxby dips his hand into the bowl containing the girls' names. "And now, our lady tribute."

Swirling his fingers through the slips of paper, Saxby seizes one and pulls it out with a flourish. Sam closes his eyes.

"Quinn Fabray!"

Judy screams.