day three, part one: weakness
I'm sick and tired of holding everyone at arms' length...
It's our weakness that connects us; it's our strength that tears us apart.
He's dead.
Ardelis can't make sense of it; any of it, really. One moment, Sylvain's at her side, his sword raised in preparation for combat, nudging her shoulder and clapping her on the back in a show of solidarity as Ambrosia and Angelo split up, running in opposite directions away from the courtroom, disappearing into the bowels of the arena.
"I'll take down Angelo. You handle Ambrosia," he'd told her, gearing up and setting off in the direction he'd indicated, leaving Ardelis gripping her daggers and gritting her teeth, so incensed she could hardly think. But she'd had enough mind to do what he'd asked. Enough mind to go after the wrong One, because it wasn't any time after that before she'd found him lying in the hall with his throat torn open and two fresh stab wounds in his chest, his blood spilling across the floor and staining the wood beneath his body.
Ardelis had been crying as she hooked her hands beneath his arms and started to drag him, stumbling and cursing and screaming bloody murder. She didn't let go even when Aitana tried to pull her away, tried to tell her to leave him, because I already left him once, I watched some idiots that didn't even know him stuff him in a box and seal him up in the dirt and Mom didn't care, Mom didn't give a shit, she cried but it was crocodile tears, I'm the only one who really knew him, who really saw him, you don't get it. He was mine, and they took him from me, you took him from me. I'm sick of the Games and I'm sick of losing and I'm sick of this entire fucking world that only exists to crush us and make us miserable. I'm sick of watching everyone I've ever given a damn about be torn away from me and made a useless, worthless sack of bones, because they aren't dead, they can't die, I can't die, I won't let them go -
"He's mine!" She'd shouted, and stubbornness helped her see it through, because she didn't let go until she had Sylvain back in the courtroom, until she'd laid him down and heard his body hit the floor with a dull smack, not right, he isn't a body, he's my brother, stop it, stop it NOW.
"Okay. Okay, he's yours," Aitana had tried to appease her. Ardelis wanted to get up in her face, wanted to shout at her, berate her, murder her, it's your fault he's gone, he trusted you to protect him, he…
Trusted me. He trusted me. But I trusted you. And you failed me.
"SHUT UP!" She remembers screaming, hitting at Aitana's shoulders, but none of her blows actually connecting. "Shut up shut up SHUT UP!"
She remembers the anthem. It started. And it went. Then she was staring at Aitana again, head on, still shaking with sobs as Aitana asks what can I do, what do you need, and Ardelis can't tell her because it sounds crazy, she sounds crazy, but I need Alec back, I need my brother, you can't help me, nobody can, but don't leave me alone, you can't die too, you're so strong, you're strong and honest and I need you right now, I need you.
She doesn't know what possesses her to do it. Grief. Pain. Loneliness. One moment, Aitana's standing in front of her, talking to Ardelis in the way one might a child, attempting to console her while she fumes and weeps without any semblance of control. The next moment, Ardelis is on her feet, surging forward and throwing her arms around Aitana's back, one hand tangling in her blonde hair as she crushes her lips against the Four girl's. It's rough, uncoordinated, messy in every possible way - just Ardelis mashing her mouth to Aitana's, her own lips rough from how often they've been bitten, how much of the skin she's worried with her teeth. Aitana's still as a statue, and when Ardelis withdraws, her ally's just standing there, blinking in shock, arms at her sides and eyes boring into Ardelis' own, wholly confused and yet not judgmental, even for as shaken as she seems to be.
Dammit, Ardelis thinks. Shouldn't have done it, didn't mean to do that, shouldn't do that, fuck, what's wrong with me, what's she gonna think's wrong with me, I'm losing it, I can't even keep my head on straight… Sylvain, where the fuck are you? Alec, I need you! I need help!
"Ardelis -"
Ardelis steps back, nearly tripping over her own feet.
"I shouldn't have. Didn't mean anything by it. Swear."
Aitana steps forward, her jaw tense. but her gaze concerned. "Ardelis, wait, we should talk abo-"
"No!" Ardelis snaps back, her eyes wide. "It's over and done with, okay? I'm sorry. I'm just fucked up cause Syl's gone, and - and you're here, and I don't know what's wrong with me, he's dead, they're all dead, I'm dying, Aitana, I'm dying and I didn't wanna leave with a question!"
She's practically sobbing as she sinks to her knees on the wooden floor, bowed and clutching at her head, tugging on her hair as she shudders in the cool air of the courtroom.
"I wanted… I wanted you… I want him. Anything… anyone, anyone at all, Lazaro, Ambrosia, even fucking Angelo, I can't take it, you can't go too, you can't look like that, so empty, Aitana, he's empty…"
She leans forward, practically on her hands and knees, the top of her head touching to the ground as she lets out another frenetic shriek. She brings her head back, slams it against the floor until her skull's aching, I want the thoughts gone, the ghosts, they're ripping me apart, get them out of me, get them out of me now!
"No, Ardelis, stop -"
Aitana's hands are on her arms, her body braced against Ardelis' back, and Ardelis shoves at her, wanting her off, wanting her gone. You're too good for me. You're too good for me and I want you, I want you because you're out of my reach, because I can't have you. Just how it's always been, with Mom, with Syl, with life in general, everything is shit, people are shit, they use you up and twist around your feelings and hurt you, Aitana, I'm not gonna hurt you anymore, not gonna hurt anyone.
I can be better. I can save you. I can make you real.
Am I real?
"Am I real, Aitana?" Ardelis voices aloud. "Am I dreaming?"
She sits up, turning back to face her ally, so pale in the dim lighting that her skin's almost translucent. Ardelis can't help but imagine it covered in red, slick, dripping. She'd make a beautiful sculpture. Maybe one day…
Aitana's saying something, but she can't make out the words. She's speaking without talking, silent, too ephemeral. Ardelis shakes her head, using her arms to drag her own body away from Aitana and her wordless speech, something she can neither hear nor see when she feels so undone. She pulls herself across the floor toward Sylvain's body, lies down beside it with her legs stretched out and her head pillowed on her arms, looking at his cold, pallid face, the blood staining his lips, he's gone, they're all gone. Alec, let me come with you… I want to drift away, I wanna dream. I'm not meant for this world and this world's not meant for me.
Ardelis shifts, reaching for Sylvain's arm and wrapping it around her shoulders. She presses her face into the fabric of his uniform, inhales deeply.
Is this death or is it just pain?
Pain. Suffering.
Living is suffering.
Her eyes close tightly and she doesn't open them.
Aitana's still thinking about Ardelis long after she's gone to sleep, her back to the wall and her arm tangled around Sylvain's body, head resting on his shoulder. She can't shake it from her mind - what the Two girl said, the desperate intensity when she'd sealed her lips over Aitana's in a kiss, leaving her unnerved and confused and utterly incapable of articulating herself. Ardelis had a panicked, desperate look in her eyes that didn't seem all there, and Aitana's sure it was mirrored on her own face because she doesn't know what to do with that, and when she tries to comfort her, Ardelis just shoves at her, shakes her head in panic as her unfocused eyes dart around the room, her voice breathless as she asks over and over again, Am I real, Aitana, am I real, is this real?
It was a relief, almost, when she'd turned around and gone to Sylvain, curling up at his side and pulling his arm around her shoulders. Unnerving, but a relief. Though Aitana thinks maybe she should be disturbed by the sight, her ally clinging to a corpse as she drifts off to sleep. Most people would be.
It's not as if anyone's ever really prepared to deal with a decomposing body in their space. Normally the Gamemakers engineer it so the tributes don't have to, or at least Aitana thinks they do. She knows they usually pull out the bodies and send them back to the districts in coffins after a tribute's been killed; the Academy in Four explained it before she'd volunteered, and she'd committed it to memory, same as her weapons training, her knowledge of previous games, her survival tactics. She doesn't know why it's different now - why they've chosen to leave the corpses lying around rather than collect them. The arena, maybe. The fact that it's indoors rather than out. No hovercrafts to maneuver through the ceiling for body retrieval. And no sky… not even through the windows.
She misses the sky.
One of the special things about Four was that no matter where you went, the sky was there; bright blue and well lit, or overtaken by the roiling grey of angered stormclouds. It was such a prominent part of the world, even more than it was in the other Districts - strong winds bringing forth the tides, and carrying the smell of salt in their breeze, the sun beating down on cobbled brick and bleached wood down by the docks, contributing to Aitana's frequent summer tans. To be in an arena without a sky feels wrong… no sun, no breeze, no rumbling clouds or soothing rain. It's like a part of her is missing, a part that's all too delicate for how wrapped up it is in nostalgia, but one that's also chock full of spirit, carrying with it the warmth of summer, the buoyancy of the breeze and the ferocity of Four's rainstorms. She's lost something.
"It's kinda sad, don't you think?" Lazaro asks, taking a seat on the bench beside her. Aitana raises her head.
"What is?"
"Ardelis."
Aitana raises a brow, turning her focus back to their sleeping ally; with her face settled into some state of restfulness, she looks almost innocent. Nothing like the brash, rowdy Two girl that Aitana's gotten to know over the last week. Nothing like Ardelis, who's only grown more unstable since she entered the arena, and whose instability's just been amplified by the loss of Sylvain. Aitana frowns, pressing her lips together.
"She seems lost."
"Aren't we all?" Lazaro asks, kicking back on the bench and making himself comfortable, atms behind his head for the time being. Aitana shrugs. She supposes that's true enough, but…
Well. It's difficult to admit. Especially for herself.
"So," Lazaro breaks the silence, though his eyes stay trained on Ardelis, unsure. "Why Two?"
Aitana sighs. She knew the question was coming - they could only put off discussing it for so long. And given the tension between Ardelis and Lazaro, that was probably for the best; if it hadn't come up in this context, it would have in another, sooner or later.
"I know you don't approve." Aitana says. Lazaro shrugs.
"Sure, I mean, Ardelis hates my guts. She'd probably be more than happy to jump me and stick her daggers through my back the next time I crack a water joke. And Sylvain… well, I never really liked him either. Would've preferred the Ones. Don't really see much point pretending I wouldn't."
"Why'd you stay?" Aitana asks, her head turned away from him as she leans forward, arms resting on her thighs, shoulders slumped a bit as she surveys the bloodied courtroom - some nightmarish version of her lifelong dream come to life. She didn't want the Games… didn't want this. She wanted fulfillment.
And murder isn't fulfilling.
"Aw, Tana, you really have to ask?"
Lazaro's trademark smile, somewhere between childishly naive and goofy-gung-ho, stares back at Aitana when she turns her head to face him. Her muscles tighten. She didn't want that, either. His friendship. His loyalty. His devotion.
"I'm sorry," she says, and means it. "I didn't intend for it to happen this way. I didn't intend for the Careers to fall apart like this. On the second day." She lets out a short, bark of a laugh, shaking her head. "So much for being a good leader. Everyone was looking to me for a resolution. I needed to stand up. And I did, but…"
She swallows, her throat scratchy, too tight.
"Not the way I should have."
"What?" Lazaro nudges her shoulder as she turns away, trying to regain her attention. "Hey… Aitana, hey. Hey. Look at me - just look at me."
Aitana finally looks up.
"What?"
Lazaro seems crestfallen… if only for a moment. He reaches up and thumps her shoulder with his fist, straining for levity in circumstances where there's none to be found.
"Don't be gloomy. I hate stormy weather." He sighs when she doesn't even try to jest back. "Listen, I trust you. And I trust what you chose to do, I just… I wanna know why."
Aitana covers her face with her hands, fingers pressing circles against her temple to try and quell her mounting headache.
"I don't know anymore, Laz. I really don't. I thought…" She purses her lips. Bites down on one, rolling it between her teeth, before lowering her hands and exhaling in a huff. "I was being pragmatic. At the time, I…"
Her voice drops to a whisper. She sighs as she leans in closer to Lazaro, almost conspiratorial.
"I thought about who was more of a threat to me. To us. One, or Two. Angelo, or Ardelis." Aitana closes her eyes briefly, brow furrowed. She opens them again. "Ardelis is too unpredictable. If she's going to attack me, I want to have eyes on her when she does it. I want to see it coming."
Lazaro's eyes narrow. His mouth closes as he turns away and positions himself in a fashion mirroring Aitana, hands in his lap, shoulders slightly hunched. After a couple moments, he nods.
"Okay."
"Okay?" Aitana asks. "That's it? Just 'okay?'"
"Yeah," Lazaro shrugs. "I agree. You're right."
"I am?" Aitana questions again. "I thought you'd…" She trails off. Shakes her head, fondly. "You really are like a puppy. Sails and hooks, Lazaro."
"I meant what I said, before the Games. District Four the win." He blinks at her, the somber, more pensive look that he's been wearing sporadically since the bloodbath surfacing again. "You're my friend."
Friends. Aitana's not sure if she'd rather smile or cry. So she smiles, naturally; easier to explain. And easy enough to force.
"I wish I'd met you back in Four," she tells him, honestly. Lazaro chuckles.
"Nah, you don't. We woulda driven each other crazy."
Aitana smiles, unable to disagree. The loud, carefree guy she'd met at the reapings - overdramatic, impulsive, and admittedly a bit wayward - wouldn't have fit easily into the life she'd cut out for herself back in Four. Less serious than she'd have liked, especially when she'd been at the Academy originally. She hadn't had much of a tolerance for nonsense, then; her approach with training had been one of adamant determination. You're either working hard or you're hardly working; productivity is better than passivity. You don't have time to focus on yourself. You can't focus on yourself. You have to see the bigger picture. Have to make the cut. Have to, or…
Or she would've been worthless.
She'd felt worthless, when she left. What she'd seen in the eyes of her parents, her friends, her former trainers… all she'd seen was disappointment. Shame. Frustration, over the fact that she'd given up. Anger, because she'd failed.
A year passed before Aitana realized she'd been projecting, not perceiving. Everyone back home had only wanted the best for her. And she'd wanted it for herself, too… to the point where she'd thrown herself off the deep end, without even realizing.
"I wasn't cut out for the Games," Aitana says aloud. "Not the way I thought I was. For me, this was always about finishing something I started - winning to achieve a goal of completion, not a goal of glory. I don't think I was ready for the arena, really. I mean… hell, is anyone? But if I hadn't volunteered, I never would have known."
She tuts, pressing her tongue to the inside of her cheek, caught up in a tangent of catharsis.
"I needed to know."
Lazaro inclines his head to show he's listening. Aitana smiles wearily, shrugging at him.
"Anyway, I didn't mean to start rambling on you."
"Please, I can handle a bit of rambling. Basically a pro at it, myself."
"Oh, that you are." Aitana says, the weight on her shoulders feeling a bit less heavy. She watches as Lazaro bounces back up on his feet, clapping her on the shoulder playfully.
"Hey, you love me and you know it."
"Most of the time, anyway. You're good company."
Aitana licks her lips, thoughtful.
"You know, what you said to me at launch. About if I made it home?"
"Yeah?"
Her smile this time is genuine. Calm, at ease and accepting, even with the sensitive issue of the subject at hand, the sobering tone of her thought.
"If you make it home… will you do the same for me?"
Lazaro's grin softens around the edges, his gaze filled with empathy.
"Yeah, Aitana. Of course I will."
Cal hasn't had many interactions with the boy from Six.
The most he knows about them is that, one: they're Madigan's district partner, and two: they pretty much never shut up. Which seems to ring true even now, as they wander about the cellblock singing and cracking jokes to themselves, taking their sweet time to settle down.
If Cal weren't so preoccupied with keeping quiet, he thinks he'd probably have groaned and facepalmed at least three times over by now.
Truly, he thinks, they never shut up.
"- beautiful, beautiful Panem, home of the assholes who bash in children's heads. Myself, I'm among them, but better off dead. Am I better off dead? I'm better off dead! Not bashing -" something smashes against one of the cell doors, causing the bars to rattle through half of the block, "- or smashing -"
They throw themselves down atop a bunk and the stiff mattress groans beneath their weight, letting out a short whoosh with the impact.
"- or caving with dread. Everything's red. And fuuuuuuuuuuuck me, my head."
Cal peers around the wall from within his own cell (a sentence he'd never pictured himself saying, but the Games are full of surprises, aren't they?), watching Six - Scrim, he thinks their name is. Like scream. Which fits their personality to a T - as they huff and roll onto their stomach in the bunk across the hall. A myriad of supplies are scattered across the ground next to them; not just one bag, but three or four.
How? Cal thinks, disbelieving. Did they pull all of that out of the cornucopia in the bloodbath? Without attracting attention? Or…
Or did their horde accumulate from the supplies of other tributes? How many people have they killed? How much danger am I in right now?
He can feel his heart beginning to speed in his chest, but he swallows down his fear, dropping back into the safe cover that his jail cell provides and moving away from the bars to the side, so his back's pressed against the cement-brick wall, shielded by the cover of shadows.
It doesn't matter - where they got their stuff. I need supplies. I need them badly. I can't just hold out forever.
A slight groan from his stomach serves to emphasize that statement. Cal shrinks in on himself, sinking to the floor to sit, arms clasped around his torso, nails digging into his skin as he tries to distract himself from the hunger.
He'd read in school at some point - probably in one of the health or biology courses he'd taken, it was certainly a science - that most people could actually go for days weeks without food and still survive. It's not ideal. In fact, it's pretty detrimental, from everything he can tell; he's already low on energy, and his focus… well, he's not focused. But water's a different story. And he's parched. His throat's dry. His tongue's been sticking to the roof of his mouth since yesterday. And he feels so utterly worn down that so much as moving's become a little straining. He needs water. To survive.
If Six has that many supplies… they've got to have something, right? At least a canteen or a bottle. It shouldn't be too hard to swipe while they aren't looking. Or maybe it will be - probably it will be - but Cal's running out of time and options. He hasn't found anything in the cellblock remotely drinkable, and going back up to the cornucopia… going back up to the Careers… is something he's not willing to do. Something he can't bring himself to do.
Six it is.
He stands back up, making sure to keep as quiet as possible as he does so, his shoes discarded on the floor under the bunk, his jacket zipped up so the zipper doesn't rattle. Once he's on his feet, he slowly creeps back over to the bars and peers around the corner again, trying to make out where Scrim is.
… still on the mattress. Still lying on their stomach, their face turned toward the wall, head at the opposite end of the bunk from where Cal is.
Alright, he tells himself. Alright, focus. Focus. All I need to do is get in, grab a water bottle, get out. Even if they wake up, I can maybe - probably - possibly outrun them. Possibly. But I need the water. Water's the priority. Find water, leave immediately. Find water… water, I need water, I'm so thirsty, I'm…
I need something else, first. In case… just in case.
There aren't many options, so he reaches under the bed and snatches up one of the boots he'd discarded earlier, figuring it's as much a weapon as anything could be. Enough for defense at least, should he need it. If he's lucky, Scrim won't wake up. If he's lucky, they won't even notice him, but…
But I'll do what I have to.
He'd already made that call in the bloodbath.
He steps toward his own open cell door, slipping through the gap with his weight on his toes rather than the balls of his feet in order to make less noise. It's easy enough to cross the hall and peer into Scrim's cell, and Calvin tries to do so quickly, wanting to size up their supplies to see if he can figure out what bag might contain water, if they have any at all.
But it's not even in a bag. It's just out. Two clear bottles sitting on the floor, right out in plain sight. Cal can feel his throat ache, his palms starting to sweat even as his mouth runs drier.
Right there. Right there, so close, right there.
He doesn't think about it anymore than that. He just goes. Right through the open door and for the supplies on the floor, dropping to his knees and scooping up the water bottles, cool to the touch and a pleasant weight in his arms, he's so thirsty, but he needs to go, needs to go first, before Scrim sees. So he stands up again, gets back on his feet and turns -
To meet a fully awake and cognizant Scrim Aarifi, sitting up in the bunk next to where he's standing, caught red-handed in the act of stealing.
"Well, well," they say. "Look who we have here? If it isn't my good friend, Calvin Kelvin. You picked a grand time to show up, didn'tcha?"
Cal, wide-eyed and caught off guard, can't immediately find it in himself to speak. His fingers loosen around the shoe still in his hand, back ramrod straight as he tries to gain control over his erratic breathing. He wasn't supposed to wake up. I made sure to wait until I was sure he was asleep. He was asleep, right? Had to have been, I'd have seen -
"Oh, don't look so shocked. I'm a thief. I got my own stack of tricks to pull from, and you ain't as sneaky as you wanna be." Scrim chuckles, sitting up fully, stretching their arms up over their head. "What's with the shoe? Plan to pound me to death?" They snort. "Whoops, sorry. That came out wrong. Oh dear, what will the children think?"
"Do you ever stop kidding around?" Cal asks. He's genuinely curious. They're in the middle of the Hunger Games, and Scrim's treating the whole thing like it's some kind of blithe joke. Has been since training. Cal doesn't get it.
"Nope," Scrim grins, sitting up fully and crossing their legs in the bunk, leaning back against the dank wall of the cell. They stretch their legs out in front of them, hands braced on the back of their head, a picture of total nonchalance. Cal balks.
"What are you doing?"
"Watching," Scrim says, nonchalant. Their eyes are focused on Cal as he stands rooted to the ground over their small pile of supplies, every bit the scavenger he looks. It's obvious what he was doing - nabbing the water for himself while Six couldn't defend themselves, armed with something that could be deadly if wielded with any degree of force. Scrim has every right to be angry. Every reason to attack Cal, run him off or even kill him given what he'd planned to do. But they don't seem to care enough. Don't seem to care at all, really, they're just...
"Why aren't you angry?" Cal asks. Scrim shrugs.
"Why'd you go straight for the supplies?"
"What?"
"You coulda killed me first. Guaranteed your safety, knocked out another tribute early on. Even if I was pretending, you didn't know that. So why creep past, all stealthy quickfoot? Why not off me and be done with it?"
"I didn't think I'd have to," Cal admits with a shrug. No point in lying. "Didn't come in here looking for tributes... just water. After the bloodbath..."
"Ah," Scrim nods, as if that explains everything. It does, in a sense - Cal didn't have time to rush for supplies without endangering himself, but without them he'll probably die. He wants to survive, not fight. (At least, not if he doesn't have to. Fighting's not the priority, but Cal isn't going to delude himself into thinking he can play pacifist in the Hunger Games. If conflict finds him, then...)
"Where's Madigan?" Scrim asks, glancing toward the door curiously (almost hopefully), like they expect to see her playing lookout. Cal just shakes his head.
"I don't know."
Scrim's lips purse. "She dead?"
"No," Cal answers. "Or - I don't know. Don't think so, though. She's... tough."
"Yeah," the Six kid shakes their head wryly. "No shit." They nod toward the second, empty bunk in their own cell, totally amicable. "Aight, go on. Get comfortable."
"What?"
"You heard me." They seem amused. "Ain't got all night, Five, sit down."
"You're letting me off?" Cal questions. It doesn't make sense. Do they want an alliance?
"Well, you need supplies and I'm not gonna let you make off with any. But if you stay here, we can share." Their eyes glint playfully, mischief and mirth radiating from their body. "I don't want another fight today, kay? I mean, after earlier? Ugh. Everything aches like a bitch and I'm over it. So like, I won't attack ya if you stay, I just ain't givin' you an out. Wanna keep an eye on you, see."
Scrim tugs up the side of their uniform jacket, revealing the pair of knives hidden under their shirt, flat against their abdomen. "Us thieves should stick together. But if you object..."
They're shiftier... more clever... than Cal gave them credit for. Not someone to have as an enemy. Not someone I want as an enemy, especially right now.
If they're willing to make nice, I'm better off going with it than trying to protest.
"No," Cal swallows, shaking his head. "No. I appreciate it, actually. I'm just... surprised."
Scrim chuckles, shaking their head. "So am I."
They drop their shirt, obscuring the knives as they give a nod to the water bottles.
"You take one. Other goes back now.
Cal obediently drops his shoe, and leans down to set one of the two bottles back on the floor, then stands up again, keeping the other clutched to his chest. He's still nervous. Still scared, despite what Six has said, because they could kill me, they could kill me right now and I couldn't do anything to stop them.
But Scrim just keeps grinning.
"There, that wasn't so hard, yeah? Now sit down." They wink at him, then stretch back out, resuming their previous position in the bunk, head pressed into the mattress and eyes turned away. "Nighty night, Five. Enjoy your drink."
Ambrosia had been an outsider when she first started at the Academy. She'd also been an outsider when she left it; some things never really seem to change. There are always labels and… ill-directed opinions, wherever one goes in life; Ambrosia probably knows that better than anyone. Her life is one that's been defined by labels, marked by opinions, since before she can remember, everything drawn out and planned by her mother for the better part of sixteen years. The accident had changed everything.
But it was the accident that had shaped her into a Career. It was the accident that led her here, to the arena, living out a reality that most trainees in One only dreamed of.
For all that Ambrosia regrets about that match, and her last day on the ice, she doesn't regret that it led her to the Academy. And she doesn't regret that it led her to him.
It was only her second week of training when she met Galen Belfleur, the twenty-three year old trainer with the missing fingers on his left hand. Shame about that one, she'd heard some of the other trainers remark in passing, idling about while discussing their colleague as if he weren't even in the room with them. Would've volunteered if it weren't for the accident. Could've been a great Career, if he hadn't injured himself. Top of his year… so full of potential… never seen anyone so skilled with a javelin as he was at eighteen…
It's not an exaggeration to say that Ambrosia felt drawn to Galen practically from the moment they'd met; she'd been endeared to him, in spite of his taunting and his temper and his occasional caustic remarks that had left more than one trainee fleeing from the training centre in tears, overcome by a flood of emotions. He was harsh, and he could be grating, but she'd gotten on with him nonetheless. Not just because of his age - they could've been peers, practically - but because of what he symbolized. A failure, like her. Burnt-out, like her, a dead star, a fucking had-been. Injured in a way he'd never wanted to be, by something beyond his control.
She knew what it was like to be brought down by extenuating circumstances. She knew what it was like to fall.
Sometimes her ankle still twinges with pain, and she finds herself instinctively reaching down to try and loosen the ties on her non-existent skates, terrified to see the extent of her injury, but desperately needing to, if only because it's defined her for the better part of two years. The pain of the injury - mental as much as physical - has never disappeared.
If Angelo makes it out of the arena, Ambrosia's not sure his pain will ever fade, either; the psychosomatic pain left behind from his concussion would stand as a visceral representation of the Games, a reminder of the lives he's taken as much as the shame heaped on him by the other Careers. It's a pain he doesn't deserve, but a present one nonetheless - genuine, and all the more devastating for it.
That's one of the reasons why she'd chosen to stay with him, when it came down to it. Her decision wasn't simply one guided by District loyalty, it was borne of familiarity, empathy for his situation, concern for his well-being. She's felt connected to him since they'd first spoken on the train, when she'd had a chance to see the insecurity and self-doubt typically hidden behind his mask of discipline. They're connected, she and he; by their roots and by their insecurities.
"You don't have to…" Angelo starts, then winces as Ambrosia's fingers prod at the cut on his back, not deep enough to warrant serious concern, but certainly not shallow enough to be scoffed at. She smears the disinfectant salve along the split skin, thankful that he'd at least been compliant enough to discard his jacket when asked. Made the work easier, even if he'd only agreed to hike his shirt up to his neck for Ambrosia to patch his wound.
"I know." Ambrosia says, shutting him down as she reaches for a roll of gauze, wondering how exactly she's going to manage to wind it around his body enough for his back to truly be bandaged; she sighs, setting it to the side instead and motioning for him to pull his shirt back down.
"Can't do anything else for it. You'll just have to let me know if it starts to itch or if the pain worsens. Okay?"
Angelo shrugs. Ambrosia rolls her eyes.
"Don't be stubborn. I've been there. It doesn't do you any good."
"Alright," Angelo says, not bothering to look up as he pulls his uniform's top back into place, then resumes his seated posture, head turned away from her.
Ambrosia sighs. "You shouldn't think so much, you know. It's bad for your health."
"Oh, so you're an expert on health now?" Angelo retorts, wryly. She sits down at his side, shrugging one shoulder carelessly as she bends her legs slightly, knees pressed together.
"Just yours."
She surveys the room in front of them - white walls, white ceiling, white table and chairs. Compared to the rest of the courtroom, it's so… stark… and clinical… that it feels almost out of place. Oddly fitting, really. She's pretty out of place in the Games, herself.
But no more out of place than she was at the Academy. Than she was with her mother.
"I'm a disappointment," she says, not entirely sure why. Angelo shifts beside her. "All the while, when I was growing up in One, I wanted nothing more than to escape it. Escape everything. And yet… being in here… seeing… the reality of being a Career…" She presses her lips together. "I want to go back. I want it so badly I can taste it, Angelo. And I never thought that was possible. This place…"
She trails off, not sure what she's trying to say. Angelo's shoulder brushes against hers.
"For my whole life," he says. "I never really existed. I'm still not certain I do. Not certain of… anything. This. You. Palmer. The Academy. The Games…" He lets out a short, shallow breath, the final word practically inaudible. "Me."
Ambrosia closes her eyes.
"Sometimes," she starts, "you wear a mask for so long that you forget who you were beneath it."
Sometimes you wear a mask for so long that you no longer think of yourself as a person at all.
Angelo quirks his mouth, but keeps his head turned away. In the darkness of the witness room, amidst their monotone white surroundings, everything about him is too present, his shifting, his breathing, his body in general. Ambrosia thinks she must be the same; too present, enough that little else exists beyond their two bodies, sitting next to each other, outside of time and space.
I never really existed, Angelo said.
Do either of us? Ambrosia wonders.
"I killed two people," Angelo whispers. "In a single day. Today. I've killed two people."
He finally looks at her.
"What does that mean, Ambrosia?"
I don't know, she thinks, but licks her lips and opens her mouth, her voice made up with the falsified composure that she'd been accustomed to using with her mother.
"It means you did what you had to," she tells him. "You're a survivor. Both of us are."
"It should have been me," Angelo replies, reverting to distance. "Would have been me, if you hadn't stepped in. Why did you interfere?"
"District loyalty," Ambrosia says. But it's more than that. They both know it.
Angelo's lips quirk.
"Loyalty," he says. "It was loyalty. I see."
"Angelo, I…" Ambrosia trails off, straightening up. "I see myself in you. And maybe it's strange of me to admit it, but I think that means something. That you mean something." She pauses, regathering her wits. "I'm with you until the end."
"Why?"
"Because," she continues, "I know you. And you know me."
"I do?" Angelo faces the ground, but there's something fond in his visage, something that lingers even after he speaks. He nods. "Yes. Perhaps I do."
The two of us, until the end. Until there's only room for one.
And that's a promise.
No deaths.
A/N: Weakness by Zeromancer.
Hope everyone's faring well on this lovely Monday! Another pleasant no death chapter, but it can only last for so long. Thanks again to everyone leaving comments or hitting me up about the story! I love hearing your thoughts. Also please let me know if you have any qualms with how I'm writing your characters, I wanna do everyone justice.
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