Maybe it was the ticking of the relentless clock that sat like a fat mouse on the side-table, or maybe it was just the restlessness in the air, but something definitely woke him. It wasn't that Grantaire wasn't used to sleeping in beds that seemed more to envelope than support you, good heavens no.

The hangover thundered through his head like a train, more or less deafening him and making him squint. He squinted about trying to work out what had happened, feeling a lot like a mole.

The shadows seemed almost smoky and the room was decidedly dark. He wasn't in the cells anymore, which his back certainly approved of; rather he was in one of the real tribute's old rooms. More specifically the bedroom of the final District 9's girl. Whatever they had done to at least half of the real tribute's rooms had been deemed unsalvageable and they had been forced to share. With Enjolras no less.

When he finally spotted him, Enjolras was at the window. A large one, almost as if the builder having forgotten to build a wall and had to put a window in instead. The dim light of what could be the moon but most likely was a hovercraft, Enjolras's hair looked greyish white, his eyes an off-black, what he could see of them.

Grantaire cleared his throat. "Enjolras what are—"

"Adrien."

Grantaire squinted some more but it didn't seem to help it make sense. "I—uh?"

"My name is Adrien. Enjolras is my family's name."

"Uhuh." Grantaire tried to remember what he'd been asking. "Uh—um, what are you, doing?"

"Thinking?" Enjolras turns.

Enjolras is squinting. Grantaire manages to swallow down the slightly drunk girlish giggle and all he has to show for it is a wide grin. "Any thoughts of interest?"

Enjolras shrugs and looks back at the maybe-moon. "I was thinking about Panem. If we are anything to show for it, Panem is not changing. It is just... reversing itself."

"Ah." Grantaire says, trying to sound like he understands. Well, he does understand, Panem is just as Grantaire always knew it was, he just doesn't understand the half-bitterness as if he has been sorely disappointed. Grantaire had only known the guy for a day and a half; if he's this easily disappointed all the time he really needed to loosen up.

Enjolras stares at the city in a sort of sullen silence, which is really getting on Grantaire's nerves. Oh come on, did the guy really think the districts aren't going to act like some wounded half-dead animal and given the chance at revenge, are instead going to rise above everything like some sort of saint? This guy really did put too much faith in people not to act like people.

"Hey," Grantaire croaked, sitting up and immediately regretting it. "I think that window doubles as a TV." The wave of nausea made him want to puke but all he really did was grimace.

Enjolras sighed and shook his head, crawling back under the covers of the bed they'd wheeled in.

Grantaire rolled his eyes. This guy's Holier-Than-Thou attitude... if the districts didn't kill him that would.

Breakfast, and it seemed as if the districts had run short on squirrels and had ended up serving them Capitol food; in both meanings of the phrase. For pretty much all of the tributes, this was heaven-sent. A little because it was a taste of home and familiar in this hellhole, but mainly because a lot of them had been sick on the squirrel and bread from yesterday. Grantaire had skipped being sick on squirrel in favour of being sick on cheap wine, a spectacle he intended to replicate, having gotten his hands on the wine jug again.

Only Enjolras didn't feel like eating. When pestered he said he didn't feel sick or ill, he just wasn't hungry. Grantaire suspected he had reached a divine state where food wasn't needed, but instead of feeling annoyed or bitter, he just felt exasperated with the tiniest trace of respect at Mr. Disappointment's devotion smearing into even his eating habits at a time like this.

Everyone ate a comfortable amount more than their full, still half afraid it might disappear on them, and they were led back to the Training Facilities for one last time before the exam at their chosen skill.

Alas, for a lot of people it seemed their chosen skill would be looking an awful lot like lost puppies trying to act like capable humans. Grantaire decided to wander around and try to make a few friends.

A young, calm man was carefully trying to settle a frightened teen with blonde sticky-up hair like a porcupine. The calm one's brow was creased slightly, but he had a comforting air about him as he quietened the porcupine kid, reassuring him it was only a burn and nothing to worry about.

"Hello." Grantaire said bluntly. The calm man glanced at him and smiled politely.

"Hi. You're... Gran... Gran something. Sorry." The calm man said.

"Grantaire." He paused and hesitated. "Actually, Grantaire's my family name. My name's Nicholas."

The calm man smiled distractedly. "Joly. Uh, I mean, my name's Joly, sorry—" He stopped the porcupine teenager from picking at the plaster. "Hey, Marius, it's fine, god, you're worse than me!" He half-teased, jabbing Marius in the ribs.

Marius looked a bit taken aback. He slunk off somewhat awkwardly.

"God, I keep forgetting he's not my brother." Joly said, shaking his head.

Grantaire frowned. "Are you... related?"

"Uh, no. Um, he reminds me a lot of, uh, my brother. I mean, when Combeferre was..." Joly sighed a deep, weathered and weary sigh that seemed to come from the depths of his very soul.

Grantaire shifted about on his feet. "What did—I mean, if you don't mind me asking—what, um, did he die from?"

Joly bowed his head into his hands and shook his head. He rubbed his eyes and breathed deeply. "Combeferre isn't, well, he's not, um, he's not dead yet."

Grantaire thought it best not to ask him any more questions, but couldn't think of anything else to say, so he backed down from the awkward silence, moving off to the rest of the room.

For such a big room there is little distraction from things that might actually help prolong his life, but he's reluctant to do that since he's done nothing but try to shorten it his entire existence.

He sighed and resigned to not being a pathetic numbskull and did something useful.

His chosen skill was nothing, it seemed at first. He took long looks around the room to avoid looking in the judging victor's faces. Poor Mr. Ms. Mockingjay was pacing with his hands knotted in what was left of his hair, done with shouting.

Grantaire needed to do something. He couldn't prove to them he was completely useless. But he didn't want to start something and fail.

He picked up the wood left from training. Not even meant to be there.

The paint. He tossed it about in his hands.

He wrote in the paint, silver against silver, invisible, but large enough to be seen.

The wood struck together. Sparks leapt and danced and he hoped to god the paint was flammable.

It caught.

WHERE ARE YOUR MORALS NOW

Morning reared its ugly head, and Grantaire was surprised that they were getting prepped for the interviews.

The last he'd heard the sole prep team that hadn't been picked off by the districts when they got bored of killing the capitol, was one man down due to mental trauma and the other two were reluctant-going-on-suicidal about the idea that they had to prep some more people to be sent off to the slaughter.

But either they'd taught the masses their skills or the masses had taught themselves, because here they were. Two big burly men and a big burly woman here to strip him and whip him into shape.

They looked at him distastefully, and the woman circled him with an air of someone told to make a wedding cake out of mud. Eventually they just shaved some stubble from his face and washed and tied what scraggily black hair they could into a pony tail and called it even.

The suit was nice, he'd give them that. Midnight blue-black awash with shimmering stars, long white puffy sleeves and black trousers. To their credit, he didn't remember a tribute wearing this one before, but it didn't mean this one wasn't one someone'd waltzed off to death in.

Grantaire stroked his smooth chin, looking in the mirror critically. He was better, even bordering very slightly on decent, but it seemed even the expertise of couldn't make him look anything like Enjolras. For one thing, his facial structure didn't make him look like a marble statue, so there you are.

Grantaire was politely but forcefully led down the corridor and into the wings of the stage. Enjolras was talking was a weathered and beaten-looking Caesar Flickerman.

Poor Flickerman's impeccable hair was threaded with grey and his eyes darted everywhere like a cornered animal. He suit was creased and his glaringly white teeth didn't have a time to shine expect for quick, nervous and forced grins.

He was, however; seemingly glad to have someone as chatty at Enjolras to talk to. The other tributes likely were scared witless and wide-eyed and desperately wanting someone to take the spotlight from them. It had only been two days past from when they had been reaped having never thought it possible they could have been.

Enjolras smiled a little hollowly and Grantaire blinked himself awake from the daze he'd been in as Apollo himself walked past him.

Enjolras looked... good. They'd managed to tame his somewhat curly hair into a soft braid, his eyes seemed shockingly clear. A deep red jacket and long puffy white sleeves to match Grantaire's and dark trousers adorned his already far-too-good-looking-to-live figure.

Oh, shit.

Oh, shit, He thought, moving as if suspended like a marionette towards Caesar Flickerman. Oh, shittiest of shits.

He had a crush on Adrien Enjolras, a guy he'd known for two days whilst they whiled away their time moving towards an inevitable and brutal death.

Seriously.

Caesar asked him a question and he replied automatically, and nobody fell over in shock so it must have been the right or at least an acceptable answer.

Caesar struggles to keep the conversation going. He asks about the other tributes. Grantaire shrugs, and manages to keep a straight face, but he is extremely close to exploding.

How does one fuck up so tremendously.

A/N: This is the end of my bit for now. The next chapter's Courntey's. Reviews would be p cool, thanks.