"Why would you do that?" his father asks, slamming his fist down onto the aged wooden desk.

"I had to, dad! I couldn't let him go! I couldn't let him die!" Blaine shouts back, tears falling down his cheeks and onto his shirt. His mother is sitting in the lone chair in the room, weeping silently.

"For what? To get yourself killed instead?" His father is seething, anger pouring from the surface of his skin.

"Thanks, dad, I'm glad you have confidence in me! I'm glad you want me to come back alive," Blaine answers sarcastically.

"Blaine, that boy isn't worth your life! You shouldn't have done that! It was a stupid decision!"

"It was the best decision I've ever made! I LOVE HIM, dad! Why is that so hard to understand?"

Mr. Anderson lets his face fall into his hands, pacing around the small room and trying to get a grip on himself.

The moment replays itself over and over in Blaine's head. He sits on the train, head leaning against the window, pretending to look out. But he's not seeing anything. All he sees is his dad, angry and storming around the room and asking him why he would volunteer for that boy, and Blaine's blood boils in his veins. The second he'd heard Kurt's name called, the decision was obvious. He didn't even have to think twice about it, about shouting those two words that changed his life the moment he said them. But to Blaine, as long as Kurt was okay, then he was okay. He lets his mind wander to the future, to the things he's going to be facing in a mere few days. The landscape outside the train whirs by his eyes and morphs into greyness, the unnamed arena that he's heading to. Flashes of trees, bricks, ice and water zoom through his eyes as he sees himself, crazed and bloodthirsty, brandishing a large knife. The image nearly consumes him, until he sees a splash of bright blue; the colour of Kurt's eyes. It shocks him back to the present, and he promises himself to not let that happen to him. No matter what it comes to, he refuses to be changed. For Kurt.

Blaine continues to stare out the window until he feels a presence at his side. He turns his head and finds himself face to face with the other District 8 Tribute, a girl named Santana.

"Sup, Pipsqueak," she asks with a nod of her head. She relaxes back against the seat she's sitting in, her long black hair hanging over the edge of the chair and a cheeky smirk in place on her face. She doesn't look the least bit concerned about- well, about anything.

"It- uh, it's Blaine," Blaine corrects automatically.

"I know that, Pipsqueak, I was there for the whole no don't take Kurt not Kurt pleeeaaaaase dilemma," she mocks, grinning. Blaine winces slightly. "Why all the dramatics, anyways? You should've just let the kid go, we'll be dead in a week anyways." Blaine knows she's just trying to get a reaction out of him, knows that he should just stay calm, but he is just so tired of people questioning him, of questioning Kurt's worth, that it overwhelms him and he stands up before he's consciously aware of what he's doing, his chair flying back and falling over.

"I wouldn't let him die!" he yells, slamming his fist down onto the table of desserts in front of him, smashing one dish to tiny shards and causing the rest of them to rattle ominously. One of Santana's eyebrows arched to her forehead, and she nodded appreciatively, letting out a low whistle.

"Fiesty, Pipsqueak. Seems like you've got more of a shot than I thought," she says, slightly impressed. Her words seem to syphon the energy out of Blaine and he takes a deep breath, gaining control of himself. He shuts his eyes tightly and pinches the bridge of his nose.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have snapped at you like that. It's just- everyone keeps asking me that. I just love him, okay? I love him and I wouldn't be able to watch him die. I couldn't do it." Blaine rights his chair and sits in it, his outburst leaving as quickly as it came.

"And you think it's gonna be any easier for him?" she asks, sounding doubtful.

Blaine sighs, resting his his cheek in the palm of his hand. "He's strong. He has so much to live for. He'll be able to move on from me." A single tear escapes from his eye and he scrubs it away hastily. If Santana notices, she doesn't comment.

The door to the compartment slides open and Blaine lifts his head just as their mentor, the victor of the 49th Hunger Games, steps in. She's chewing on the leg of some sort of bird, tearing it from her mouth with a broad hand and tossing it to the table in front of Blaine and Santana. Blaine grimaces down as it as the woman swipes the back of her hand across her mouth and grunts, shoving her curly bangs away from her reddened face.

"Morning, kids, the name's Shannon, but you can just call me Bieste."

Ah, yes, Shannon Bieste. The name rings a bell in Blaine's mind- she was the one who killed off the last tribute with her bare hands, as she'd left her weapons back at her campsite when man-eating squirrels ran her out of her camp and straight into the remaining tribute. Brutal strength, but she was known for being a big sweetheart deep down.

"Hello," Blaine stays, standing to shake Bieste's hand. She grasps his hand firmly with both of hers before releasing it, chuckling lowly.

"Quite the show you put on at the reaping there, kid. S'gonna get you a lot of sponsors, the folks in the Capitol are huge on that whole love thing. Nicely played." Bieste nods her approval.

"It-it wasn't a show," Blaine says, tired of repeating himself.

"Even better then, now you won't have to fake it," she says, settling the matter with a smile and picking up the leg again to take a huge bite out of it.

"Well, I'm Santana and I think you should teach us what to do so we at least make it to the second day before we're slaughtered," Santana states, sounding bored and glancing at her nails.

"Well then, hun, the best place to start is by having a little bit of confidence in yourself. Going into the Games ready to die is the best way to get yourself killed." Santana at least has the courtesy to let Bieste finish before she rolls her eyes.

"Please, if we were gonna survive, we wouldn't be here. We don't have a shot, there's no point in getting our hopes up and waiting until the very end to be torn to bits slowly and painfully by bloodthirsty animals. Or mutts."

Blaine closes his eyes and shakes his head. "I'm not gonna die," he mumbles. "I'm going to stay alive. As long as I can."

"Hey!" Bieste cheers, bits of meat flying from her mouth in excitement. "That's the spirit! Now that's something I can work with!"

The three of them sit down, Blaine paying rapt attention to Bieste's every word and Santana casually waving her off, for the rest of the ride. They take a quick break to eat some more, their stomachs grumbling in satisfaction. If they weren't basically being sent to the slaughterhouse, Blaine would think it was actually... nice. Bieste really was a nice lady and Santana was funny, in her own way. He wished it didn't have to end as it did, with only two of them getting back on that train- maybe even one.

Blaine shudders and pushes the thought away. He is going to survive.


It's hours later and Blaine is laying on his bed, curled up on his side. His knees are tucked into his chest, tear tracks staining his cheeks. If he were at home, Kurt would come up behind him, wrap himself around Blaine and pulling him close to his chest, his sweet scent reminding Blaine of lilacs and warm sunshine and Kurt and home. His arms, warm and solid, would hold Blaine to him like he was holding the pieces of Blaine together, saving him from falling apart. He would kiss the back of Blaine's neck, whispering "I love you" against the skin there.

But if Blaine were at home right now, Kurt would be here instead. And Blaine would never allow that.

So for now, away from the cameras, the mentors, the watching eyes of everyone in the country, Blaine lets himself feel. Lets himself cry. He promises himself that after he gets it out of his system once, that'll be it and he'll have to toughen up and start preparing himself for the Games. There's a soft knock at the door and he sits up, startled.

"Y-yes?" he asks, clearing his throat.

The door handle twists and Bieste walks in, shutting it softly behind her and coming to take a seat on the edge of Blaine's bed. "You're not as quiet as you think, you know," she informs him. Blaine groans and lets himself fall back on the bed, head hitting the pillows with a soft thump.

"Why are you in here?" he asks her, not lifting his head to look up. "I bet every tribute you've mentored has cried on the train. Why are you coming to visit me?"

"Because none of them ever volunteered before," she answers. She scoots back farther on his bed, leaning her back against the wall. "Who was the boy, anyways?"

"H-his name's Kurt. Kurt Hummel. We're- he's my boyfriend."

"I see," Bieste replies. "You really love him that much?"

Blaine nods quickly. "More than anything in the world."

Bieste lays a hand lightly on his knee. "Then I'm gonna do whatever it takes to get you back home to him."


Bieste leaves shortly after that, Blaine falling asleep the second she leaves his room. He opens his eyes to sunlight streaming through the window, and to their escort- a put-together, dainty lady named Emma Pilsbury- swinging his door open.

"Up up, time to go time to go! Exciting day ahead of us!" she squeaks, fingers rapping on the doorframe nervously. Blaine sits up and squints, following her with groggy eyes as she leaves his room. Just as she leaves, a freshly done-up Santana appears in the spot previously occupied by Emma.

"Where are we?" he asks, rubbing his eyes. Santana smirks darkly.

"Look out your window, Pipsqueak." Blaine obeys, looking out the window. He is met with the sight of thousands of people, a blur of colour and outlandish outfits, screaming wildly and banging on the side of the train. They are surrounded by buildings, even the smallest looking more significant than the Justice Building back in District 8. Blaine can't hold back a gasp, and he waves out the window shyly, flabbergasted. Santana chuckles.

"Welcome to the Capitol."


A/N: sorry for the perspective shift, I hope it doesn't bother you too much. It was just necessary for the sake of the story. Don't forget to tell me what you think!