When Kurt Hummel had been chosen as tribute last year, he had, in fact, counted himself dead.

He was a district ten boy, and hardly an impressive one. He wasn't as strong as the boys who tilled the fields or herded cows. He hadn't spent years learning what plants were helpful and what killed, and his father had tried to teach him hand to hand combat once when he was young, but Kurt had only ended up with a bruised shin and the vehement denial to ever spar again.

He was not, in the eyes of the capitol or his district, a strong contestant.

But he did have the will to live. He had a family back home, a father who he needed to care for, a brother he'd only had for over a year. He'd seen his life fall apart in front of his eyes once, after his mother had died, and twice after his father had gotten deathly ill and had only survived by a miracle. He was almost used to the hollow feeling, the cold adrenaline in his veins and the need for control. He wasn't the best at shooting an arrow or setting a snare, but he'd made it this far in life.

If the capitol wanted to kill him, he wouldn't go down without a fight.

Most of the experience was a blur, one he chose not to try and remember. The ring had been a deathtrap of inedible plants and rabid creatures, and he'd spent most of his time avoiding other tributes and staving off hunger with the meager pack of crackers that he's snagged from the cornucopia.

The first kill he made was a fish he'd corralled in a stream, with a messy and unsure stab that had left it tasting like mud and bones in his throat.

The last kill he'd made hand been a boy from district three, who had followed the trail of hastily laid traps Kurt had made to his campsite, with a clean and precise blow between the shoulder blades that had him on the ground and bleeding out before he'd realized he'd been hit.

Three weeks he'd spent in the arena, the three longest weeks of his life. He'd entered a scared, motivated, but by all appearances helpless, teenager, and had emerged a blank, damaged, no longer helpless victor.

He'd thought the games would be over once he got home. He hadn't accounted for the taste of the arena, the sound of it; it's very essence, following him home in his mind.

Nightmares plagued him, memories he couldn't force down or forget. He'd hear the screams, the cannons. Faces would flash by him, unrecognizable with dead eyes and filthy skin. He'd wake up, shaking and covered in sweat, unable to eat or think or feel.

The worst was his family, who watched him slowly unravel and couldn't fathom how to help. They asked him if he wanted to talk about it and he said no, asked him if he could stomach a small meal, but everything tasted like capitol crackers and he said no. They asked him if he was okay, and he only swallowed the 'no' on his tongue and tipped his chin up, nodding the question away.

And after a while, he'd thought that would be his existence, living in constant remembrance, never able to get over the things he'd seen or done.

It was around his third month home when he'd met Sam.

Technically, he'd known of Sam for a while. He'd seen him around town and in school, his family had supplied chickens in trade for Kurt's father's pigs, but they'd never really talked. Kurt vaguely knew his name, and that his family was poorer than most, even by their district's standards.

Kurt had been about the town, needing to get out of the cage that he'd come to see his home as. He was weak, physically and emotionally, and not watching where he was going. That was when he'd bumped shoulders with a boy carrying a box of little yellow chicks.

Luckily the box had remained in tact, though Kurt had stumbled backward and landed on the ground with a small thud. The boy apologized profusely, putting down his cargo and helping Kurt up. It wasn't until he was grasping Kurt's hand and pulling him up that Kurt realized he didn't remember the last time he'd touched another person.

"That's, that's okay." He'd stammered, blinking the jumbled thoughts out of his mind and focusing on the boy's face. Vaguely, the name registered in the back of his mind.

"I wasn't really watching where I was going."

"No, it's fine." Sam had replied, taking in Kurt's thin, waifish frame. "I was walking too fast with these guys anyway."

It was then that Kurt peeked down and saw the box of squirming yellow balls of down in Sam's arms. They moved around impatiently and peeped their disapproval at being crowded, and a particularly bold one climbed atop its bothers and tried to hop free, only to jump into Kurt's cupped hands.

"Oh." Kurt had gasped at the feel of soft feathers and rough little feet in his hands.

"He likes you." Sam had joked, and Kurt had smiled. Later, it would occur to him just how long it had been since he'd smiled, but in that moment he wasn't thinking about anything but the ball of yellow in his hands and the boy in front of him.

"Well." Kurt had said, words having trouble placing themselves in his mouth. This was the first time in months that he'd wanted to talk, and he couldn't string together a simple sentence. "I- I guess he does."

Sam adjusted the box in his hands, smiling back at Kurt.

"Do you want it?" He'd asked, "It's jumped out like three times now and I really don't think it'll be missed."

Kurt surveyed the chick in his hands and nodded, realizing that yes, he did want this because it would make him happy, a thought he hadn't had in weeks.

"Um, sure." He said slowly. "I should pay you, though. I've got plenty at home and-"

"No, it's fine." Sam had replied with a shrug. "It's on the house."

And he'd started to walk away after that, and Kurt's stomach had lurched. No, he didn't want this boy to be gone. He didn't want the feeling the boy gave him to be gone. Pressing the chick to his chest, he followed after him.

"Wait!" He'd called. Sam Stopped.

"If you won't let me pay for this," He'd said, catching up, "Maybe I can pay for a coop to be made? And… maybe some company for the little guy?"

He'd watched Sam's face, the smile he gave at the offer and the way his hair fell in front of his bright green eyes. Sam had shrugged a little; trying to look calm despite looking thoroughly overjoyed, and replied, "Okay, sure. But I'm gonna be late so… I'll find you later, okay?"

Kurt nodded, knowing there wasn't a person in his district that didn't know where he lived. When he had turned away his cheeks felt warm and he was still smiling and his heart was hammering in his chest. But as he ran a fingernail across the little chick's soft back, he really, really didn't mind.

After that, things sort of fell into place with Sam.

First he spent long summer days constructing a well-made coop in the back of Kurt's home in the victor's village, and Kurt spent hours out in the sun with him, watching him work or reading while he listened to the methodical pounding of Sam's hammer against wood. For a while it was awkward, Kurt wasn't used to wanting to be in someone's company or start up a conversation, but Sam made it easy.

Then, slowly, they began to talk. First about safe topics. Things like the pregnant sow kept in the pen at Kurt's old house, or if the earth outside Sam's home would be healthy enough to grow a few carrots or potatoes. And when they ran out of bland, time-consuming chatter, they talked about themselves each other.

Sam loved music, and Kurt had a voice like pure silver. Together the two would carefully combine their voices, finding songs sounded better when sung by the both of them. Sam wasn't particularly well read, but Kurt had always enjoyed a good book, and would lend them to the boy without hesitation. There was a narrow margin for clothing in the agriculture and cattle district, but Sam was always happy to let Kurt fuss with his collar or style his hair, as was Kurt's passion.

Later, when Sam confessed his reading skill was lackluster at best, Kurt would read to him out in the warm summer sun.

They talked about the world outside their district, a world where the games didn't exist to leave long plaguing scars, where they could live long happy days throwing fate to the wind and watching sunsets on the beach.

Their days were spent with each other, either spending long summer days walking around town, or Kurt accompanying Sam to his home, where he'd begrudgingly agree to gather the eggs from the hens and keep watch of Sam's little brother and sister. Slowly, their worlds opened up to fit each other in, and even glances from Sam's mother or Kurt's father told them that they recognized something special taking place.

They belonged to each other. They talked, learned, and explored every part of each other's mind.

There was only one topic they didn't approach. One Kurt didn't let them talk about.

But when the time came, when someone out in the town center had felled a pine tree and the smell of its sap made Kurt's stomach lurch as the boys trekked from a sweets shop back to Kurt's home, they talked about the games.

Kurt talked, specifically.

A lot of the experience he'd shoved into the corner of his mind, unwilling to remember, but he found there were plenty of things he had to say once he got going.

He talked about how he hated the smell of pine, as it reminded him of starving alone in the woods with only pine needles and boiled water to live off of. How even using a knife to cut into a loaf of bread made his hands shake, or how some nights he would go without sleep, fearing the dreams that plagued him.

In his room with Sam next to him, he'd called himself a murderer out loud, though the word had long been stamped on his conscience.

And at first, Sam only listened, nodding occasionally and looking surprised. One or two times he'd tried to say something to offset Kurt's claims, but in the end he decided comfort was best given physically, as he moved his arms around Kurt's tense, frightened frame. Kurt felt the warmth of his lips on the shell of his ear, whispering that no, he wasn't a monster, he was human.

And for the first time Kurt felt himself lean into the touch, let himself be held as someone whispered the opposite of everything he saw himself as. Sam told him he was a person who felt guilt and remorse, who had been put through something awful and had come out alive. That he was a good person, one of the best people Sam knew, who had been put through something awful.

Kurt wanted to believe him. Just staring into his eyes he could tell the boy meant every word, but guilt and nightmares had become his constant companions, and all he could do was nod.

"I know you don't like yourself." Sam had told him, wrapping his hands around Kurt's, "But I like you. I think, I think I love you."

And while Kurt still wasn't sure if he was monster or human, while he couldn't bring himself to believe what Sam had said about his time in the arena, he knew one thing for certain.

"I love you too."

Sam called him hummingbird, and he called Sam bumblebee. And they were happy.

So Kurt guessed he should have seen it coming when Sam's name rang out into the open air and the boy looked up, meeting Kurt's eyes before he even had time to look scared.

xx

"Sam Evans!"

It's almost funny. Out all the things that could run through his mind at this moment, the first thing Kurt thinks when he hears the name called out is that it's not fair because Sam is only a year younger than himself. Not that this can't be happening, that it must be rigged, but that Kurt can't be expected to train someone who his nearly his own age.

His second thought, though, is only the piercing sound of the wind as Kurt's vision goes white and he thinks he sways a little on his feet.

There's no noise in the crowd, not even a cry from where Kurt knows Sam's mother is.

Screens search the crowd of matching blue shirts and ducked heads, but Kurt sees him first. Sixteen years old, a son and a brother. Arms strong and tanned from working with the cattle, hair that's a summer-fed blonde and a frightened face with round green eyes. Kurt tries to think of something to say, but a second later Sam's elbowed into the open air and he's looking everywhere but at Kurt.

When he begins to move forward his eyes are on the ground and his mouth forms a thin line. In the still air, crunch of his boots on gravel echoes eerily around the townspeople. Slowly, his steps take him closer and closer to the stage, and Kurt can see that he's shaking, casting glances to his right and left, surrounded by everyone he's ever known who watch him with tear rimmed eyes.

The capitol representative doesn't take notice as she grins into the microphone.

"Come on up to the stage, Sam."

Kurt's been dreading standing on this stage for months, wearing the title of "Victor" and "Mentor" like it's a thing to be proud of. Not to mention having the life of someone else tossed into his hands. Now he's watching Sam with collected, calm posture and a blank face, doing everything in his power to keep from lurching forward, reaching for the boy, taking his hand. He keeps his composure though. He can't imagine how that would look, considering he'd hardly flinched when the fourteen-year-old female tribute had started crying as she faced her district on stage.

That was different though. Kurt doesn't even know her.

She's not the boy Kurt loves.

Sam takes the stage, faring better than his female counterpart. He looks like he could be sick at any moment, he doesn't smile like he's supposed to and he shifts slowly from foot to foot, but he manages not to break down long enough so that the overzealous Capitol citizen can congratulate him on the honor, (Kurt is once again glad he's mastered the art of not batting an eyelash at these games,) and privilege of representing District Ten in the forty fifth annual Hunger Games.

She's beaming as she announces to the crowd the terms they already know. These two teenagers, one fourteen and one sixteen, will be taken from their home and thrown in a fight to the death with twenty-two other teenagers. Kurt nods when he's referenced as a previous victor. He keeps his features flat and slightly disinterested as always, and even claps politely as he'd been instructed to do.

When the tributes are escorted off stage, Kurt looks out to see the two little blonde heads of Sam's siblings turning and rushing for their mother and father, calling out to them and clinging to their legs. When they look up, it kills Kurt to pretend he doesn't know Dwight and Mary Evans, and that he's no more emotionally invested in these games then he was before the tributes were reaped. He keeps his façade until he's beckoned to leave, but before he leaves he turns back he meets Sam's parent's eyes. They stare at him begging silently. Bring him home.

Kurt keeps an eye on the swathe of people returning to their duties, peacekeepers and district folk swarming like ants, making sure no one's watching. Then he tips his chin up and nods.

They don't know how little of an option anything else is.

The only response is Dwight taking his wife's hand and leading her and the little ones away. Kurt knows they've reached an agreement. Between the Evans family and Kurt, the borders of Sam's life have been reached, and only one of them can bring Sam back.

I will. Kurt promises the family, as well as himself.

Kurt isn't permitted to see the tributes before they reach the train, which he supposes is a good thing, considering all he wants to do is find Sam, hold him, lie to him and tell him things are going to be okay. He knows that right now Sam is secluded somewhere, saying goodbye to his family, no doubt begging someone to keep an eye on his family's chickens and crops, saying he'll do his best. Kurt doesn't let himself think about Sam telling his family he'll try not to die.

The bored, detached look on his face lasts all the way to the train. Kurt keeps eyebrows perked and jaw set until he finds his cabin. That's partially how he'd won his own games, really. Every time he'd panic or want to run, every moment the audience would see him as a weakling, he's swallow his fear and tip his jaw up, and then later let it all out as he dragged one of his twin swords against another tribute's stomach. He hadn't known the trait would follow him home, but as of now he's glad it did.

When he's certain he's alone, Kurt collapses in the car and buries his face in his hands.

xx

Sam finds Kurt's train car in a matter of minutes after they take off and collapses into the boy's arms. He's shaking, his entire body shivering in under Kurt's hands. Kurt can already feel damp spots on his shoulder where Sam rests his face, can only think to hold him tight, his own stomach churning.

At first he wants to do nothing but this, just hold Sam. He wants to hold him for the rest of the train ride at least, if not the rest of his life. But he knows better. Dwelling in the terror they both feel will get them nowhere, and Kurt is tasked with teaching Sam how to survive. Coldly, he detaches himself from Sam's arms, hardly surprised at how well his face once again takes up the dry, disinterested look that comes whenever Kurt internally gathers himself up.

He looks Sam in the eyes, jaw set. The water in his eyes is threatening to spill over again, but he fights it back. Sam is having no such luck, droplets springing from the corner of his eyes with every blink. Kurt fights the urge to pull him back into an embrace.

"You're going to win this, Sam." He says, because it's the only sentence he can muster. Sam nods, but there's no hiding the utter defeat in his body. Kurt repeats himself, louder and more clear, reaching out and grabbing the boy's shoulder.

"You're going to win. I won't let you lose. I won't- I won't let them take you from me."

Kurt's resolve is hard as diamonds and he's spent months holding things inside, learning how to make it so that the world could fall around his feet and he wouldn't bat an eyelash. Now though, as he digs his nails into Sam's skin and begs him to listen, he can feel himself breaking. There's a tide of emotion spilling over in him, and for once he's wondering if he's strong enough to hold it back.

"I'll try Kurt, I-" Sam's hardly got four words out before Kurt snaps, his voice coming out a scared, choked sob that he doesn't think he's ever heard himself make. Water bursts from his eyes as he shakes Sam's shoulder, hard, and demands his attention.

"No, you are not going to try, Sam Evans. You are going. To win."

He'd hoped to sound intimidating or inspiring, something that would boost Sam's morale and convince him he's got a fighting shot, but all he succeeds in doing is collapsing into Sam, who manages a weak agreement before sagging into Kurt's arms. And they stay like that for an amount of time neither of them know, minutes or hours or somewhere in-between.

At some point they run out of tears and whimpers and just sit still, breathing in the smell of the others' skin, occasionally squeezing a hand or readjusting a head to fit better in the crook of a neck.

As time goes on though, one thing becomes clear. Neither is willing to let go of the other.

xx

It takes Kurt a little while to notice, but at some point he turns to look, and finds that Sam's fallen asleep on his shoulder.

Despite himself and the situation he's in, he smiles.

With his messy hair and tired face, Sam looks almost like a tuckered out child. Kurt smoothes his hair and moves out of the way, fingertips buzzing with the unusual sensation that Sam brings up from him. Just seeing him ignites a desire, a drive, a passion that he has for Sam's survival comparable only to the passion Sam brought back into Kurt's life. There are moments where Sam feels like Kurt's everything, and Kurt knows to lose him would be to lose himself.

Even on a train speeding towards the capitol, towards a competition where the odds of Sam coming out are one in twenty-four, Kurt doesn't let himself think about Sam dying.

Kurt pulls away gently, letting Sam fall into the soft cushioning of the cab's bed. He doesn't stir, and Kurt can't imagine how exhausted he must be, the stress of two younger siblings being up this year, and then himself being chosen. Kurt's mind ghosts over Sam's life, having worked sixteen years raising chickens and shucking corn, building a life for himself and those around him, only to have it all taken away at the draw of a name. The feeling is so close to Kurt, one he remembers so well, that he can't imagine waking him.

Kurt knows with unsettling certainty that this is one of the last peaceful sleeps Sam will get from now on, so he gently lets himself out and shuts the door behind him.

xx

Kurt's first priority is to get to a mirror. It's no secret that he's an appearance driven person, but the mussed hair and damp, pawed at clothing isn't what worries him. Sure enough, his eyes are red and puffy, his nose glaringly so. He stares into his reflection, willing his face to go back to normal, but the angry red stays. It, like everything else around him, is a constant reminder of what's going on, of what he can't escape.

He wasn't just crossing his fingers and hoping out loud when he said Sam was going to win. He knew, from the second Sam's name had been read, that he would do everything in his power to prepare him. Some mentors in the games were disinterested, or had long since given up the hopes that their tributes would last the first day, but that wasn't Kurt. He was sure part of it was arrogance, the fact this Sam was Kurt's first tribute, as well as the most important, but when he'd been drawn, Kurt knew he was going to win.

If he and Kurt hadn't been as close as they were, Kurt was almost certain that Sam's name wouldn't have been called. And if Sam slipped up in the arena, Kurt knew it would be another layer of blood splashed onto his own hands.

But he isn't thinking about Sam dy-, no, losing.

Assuring the life of his tribute means many things though. Foremost, Kurt knows he can't keep thinking of Sam as he knows him now, the boy with the golden hair and emerald eyes who talked Kurt into hanging a rope from the tree in his back yard so his siblings would have a safe place to play. No, Kurt knows that Sam too well, he loves that Sam.

The Sam that will be entered into The Hunger Games will have to be tribute Sam, the boy who has experience in craftsmanship and who can wield a sharp object at close range. The Sam who looks unassuming and sweet, and yet has been raised to snap chicken's necks for dinner and fight with steers, who is athletic and durable and all things considered, isn't the longest shot in the competition.

Kurt knows separating himself from the boy he loves will be difficult. Sam is like gravity to him most of the time. But he knows it will be worth it in the end the last thing he sees of Sam isn't his body getting lifted into the hovercraft.

He hopes Sam agrees. Turning a blind eye to him and his ways will be impossible if Sam doesn't put every part of him into winning.

It all feels so surreal, the day's events, the thought of teaching Sam of all people how to kill, the games themselves feel like one long nightmare.

Kurt checks his face one more time and deems it suitable to be seen by other people. He sighs into his reflection and the glass mists over.

If this is a nightmare, he's more than ready to wake up.