It had been the worst five weeks of my entire life.

Only everyday was harder than the one before, as I was forced to watch him kill and be killed.

But he was never killed. And it was as though every time he managed to escape, every time the knife or sword or arrow missed him, brushed just barely against his skin to leave bright red marks that even now won't fade, I died a little inside. It was like I could feel another bit of my hope escape me, but instead of leaving me lighter, it only seemed to add to the weight that was a constant burden on my shoulders.

I know it doesn't make sense. I should have felt happy that he was alive, cheering along with the rest of the people from my district.

But I didn't. All I felt was desperate. After all, how many encounters with death can one survive?

I felt like the Capitol was dangling his life in front of my eyes, daring me to reach out and hold him and keep him safe and hidden away forever. I felt as though they were mocking me, killing me without even laying a single finger on me.

Their silent laughter would seep into my nightmares sometimes, consuming me.

I don't know how I made it out alive.

I don't know how Sebastian can survive days in a desert with no one to keep him company and stroke his hair like he secretly loves at night but those 24 tributes whose only wish and hope and dream is to get him out of their way, but I can't make it five weeks without him.

It's scary.

And I remember the reaping day as though it were burnt onto the front of my head.

It had been sunny, but, as always, the trees and what little grass we could afford had still been covered in the lingering snow of winter, giving it a sullen, cold and grey appearance from where the mud had stained the milky white of the ice.

We had walked hand in hand towards the field where the cameras where already set up, and a large crowd that is never seen in District 9 except for on this precise day was already gathered around the podium.

I wasn't scared that day. It was the first time I had him there for me—the first time I had someone there for me—and I wasn't scared.

"I'll meet you back here when it's through, okay?" He had said, giving my hand a reassuring squeeze and waiting for my nod of agreement before retreating to his place with the rest of the eighteen year olds.

I tuned out Effie Trinket as she gave her well-known speech. The brightness of the sun was burning into my eyes in a manner I wasn't used to, and I was starting to feel a little dizzy and tired.

All I wanted was to go back home and lie down for a while. Sebastian would be there, of course, he always was. We could make something for dinner and just talk before he had to go look after his sisters. Maybe I could go with him, watch the festivities at his house, which is larger, and have turkey.

I was just about to turn and smile at him, when—

"Kurt Hummel."

And that was that.

I don't even know whether it had been seconds or hours before the proclamation, but then I felt something pushing me towards the stage, the white suit of a peacemaker barely registering into my brain before the realization of what has happening distracted me.

I had just been called at the reaping. I was going to the Hunger Games. I had to fight for survival in an arena with another 24 tributes that were also fighting to kill me. I had to leave District 9. I had to leave Sebastian.

And what dazed me even more than those slightly intimidating facts was the thought that whenever I had imagined being called—whether it be during a nightmare or while watching the tributes who would yell and scream and kick, anything before surrendering to their newly found reality when they were chosen—I never expected it to be like this. Me, trying to remember how this had even happened. If it weren't for the fact that Effie used an exaggerated microphone and that the Peacemakers were ordered to escort us up the stage, I'd still be staring at a nondescript spot on the dusty floor, oblivious to the fact that my name had been called and still thinking about what would happen later on in the evening.

I had been reaped and I wasn't even there to witness it!

I thought, what would I tell Caesar when he asked me what I felt the moment my name was called?

I never needed the answer to that question, because at that moment, a voice I knew only too well claimed my ears, bringing with it dread and fear like I'd never felt before rather than the sense of security and calmness it usually provided me.

"I volunteer!" He yelled.

The rest is all just a blur of tears and cries and yells, a hand clasping sharply around my arm and pulling me back from where Sebastian is already moving towards the stage, but I suppose it's easily imagined for those who didn't see the tape.

The peacemaker, later on when I was allowed to see him before he left, said we could only have three minutes, but it felt like a lot more as I sobbed onto his shoulder.

"Don't go! Please," I cried, unaware of whether or not he could even understand me, and not caring either. All I wanted was for him to stay. "Don't go, please, please, don't go, just stay here with me, please? Don't go."

And all I could feel was his fingers stroking at my hair like I used to do those nights and a hand holding my waist, holding me close as if he was scared I would try to run away.

But I wouldn't. Not without him.

"It's okay," He was mumbling harshly, "Kurt, listen to me. Just listen to me. It's okay, it's alright, I've got you. Listen to me. Listen to me, are you listening?"

I wasn't. I was still pleading and begging and crying, but some of his words still managed to register into my mind.

"I'll come back for you, I promise, I will. It's okay, I'll be back. I'll win," He said.

"Please," I answered him, only now I didn't even know what I was asking for.

"I promise," He said.

And then I was being pulled away.

I didn't even get to say 'I love you.'

I can only hope I didn't sever whomever was ordered to take me from that room too badly, because suddenly, I couldn't breathe and I needed to feel those arms around me. I needed to hear his whispers, and that everything would be okay. And I'm glad that didn't get recorded because I caused quite a scene there.

When I woke up I was at home. Maybe someone carried me there, I don't know. I woke up to him sleeping on a tree. I had missed weeks. I had missed him entering the arena for the first time.

The doctors said I hit my head really hard, and that the shock of the reaping nearly killed me, if that is even possible.

I almost wished I had died right there, because then I wouldn't have to witness the rest of the games and what they did to him.

But his promise was still fresh on my mind, and every once in a while, when it was all feeling like too much, I could almost hear his voice saying, "I'll come back for you."

And then he was back. I can honestly say I don't know how it happened, but then he was there, standing in front of me.

We moved into a larger house, and slowly, I started breathing again.

Until two weeks ago.

I'm not as shocked, now though, but he probably is. He's probably feeling just like I was when he was gone.

"Do you think you can win? For him?" Caesar asked. His voice was gentle and sober.

"I'm not saying no. Because if he's watching, that would brake him. But I can try," I answer.

"How did you feel upon watching his reaction to the reaping?" He asked. A video played in the background, showing said reaction.

I turned away quickly, but not quickly enough to miss him desperately fighting against the crowd of people that kept him from where I was already standing at the podium. I didn't want to see that again. It was enough to have his screams and pleas replaying and echoing against my head, and I had to refrain from shaking it to will them away.

"I don't know. I've tried not to think about it too much."

I ignore the little voice that tells me I shouldn't have pulled away at that question, the monologue—which leaves me exhausted and numb—already enough for a lifetime.

"Well, Kurt Hummel. We wish you the best of luck. To you and your Sebastian. Isn't that quite the story he's got there?" He asks at the crowd.

And then the interview is done and people are cheering as though what I had just said was a fairytale and not a tragedy.

Because that's what it is. He risked his life for me, he left me, we found our way back to each other, and yet here I am again.

It would almost be funny if it weren't so sad, because my name's only been there eight times now, not like those who take the tesserae and have their slip duplicated countless times.

It's probably a record. The same boy being called twice in a row. The same boy volunteering for me twice in a row, even though the second time he's over eighteen and already a victor.

I should definitely win a reward for that. It's the least they can do, after sending me off to my deathbed twice, after giving people so much entertainment.

Oh well.

A/N: so I found a bunch of old things I'd written in my computer and when I read this I already felt like breaking some hearts so I was super inspired to finish it and this is how it turned out. Firstly, I must say I have no beta. I never beta anything I write. I want to but I don't know how so if anyone would like that job they could let me know :D Because I really think I need one. Second, all my titles are corny. I'm working on it. And third I hope you liked it! Please review i love constructive criticism and I love when people talk to me. Lots of love! 3