Mischief: Hello everyone, and welcome to the new collaborative project between me and Oldlflowers! Some of you may know her as the creator of Caillou and Thorn from Ultraviolence, as well as Magic from Honeymoon. She is also my beta and the creator of the Honeymoon website. She is a woman of many talents, and she is a writer herself. Such a talented writer, in fact, that her story Fantasy inspired several storylines and characterizations of the victors in my SYOT 'verse.
The victor and mentor POVs are incredibly fun to write, since they give some more insight into the metanarrative of the 'verse, as well as just giving some more detail about what's going on outside the arena during the Games. So, we decided to create a separate project for these kinds of POVs.
Thus the creation of Much Ado. Much Ado will run concurrently to Honeymoon, so chapters that are posted here should be happening at relatively the same time as the events in Honeymoon. This chapter is set around the D1 Reaping.
This chapter was written by Oldflowers. We'll always let you guys know who wrote each chapter beforehand. Thank you all for reading!
CW: Brief mention of suicidal ideation.
AUGUSTUS BRAUN
D1M, 30, VICTOR OF THE 67TH GAMES
TRIBUTE CENTER, CAPITOL — JULY 6TH, 2315, 12:01 AM
Lavish Crystalbone lives in a world of her own imagination, buried deep in abstract thoughts. Deep enough to ignore the world; deep enough to have given up on it a long, long time ago. She's stuck in a trance right now, sprawled across her favorite loveseat and buried in a mountain of pillows. Only her head and toes peek out from the pile as she gazes at the Capitol beyond the window. Her brilliant blue eyes are open but blind, lost in a dream. An illusion. A fantasy.
Augustus remembers her as a fighter. A victor. One of the kindest students he'd had the pleasure of meeting. He doesn't treat her any differently than he did before. She's the same girl she was, just hurt. Bruised in places no-one can see; concocting her own medicine with fantasies of a utopian world in which everything is fair.
She deserves better.
Augustus knows better than anyone how dangerous fantasies can be.
Celsius waltzes into the sitting room smelling of flowers, his blue hair glittering much in the way the sky does on a night like this. He's their newest escort — an arrogant, oblivious one with very little experience in reading others' emotions. Surely, that's why he seats himself among the small arrangement of couches, a wine glass in one hand and a reading tablet in the other. Like he hasn't invaded their quiet place, he loudly sips his wine with all the casual vapidness of a Capitol teenager.
It isn't entirely negative in and of itself; it means most of the team is asleep, the stylists are winding down, and the tributes — the fucking tributes — have been sent to bed in the quarters they don't belong in. Augustus feels his jaw twitch and half expects Gloss to ghost his fingers over the back of his hand, subtle, quick, so no-one will notice.
It's Celsius' trained friendliness that does it.
"How are we doing tonight, friends? Quite a parade, wasn't it? The stylists outdid themselves—"
Augustus snaps to his feet and levels the man with a firm glare. "Make sure this never happens again."
Celsius sputters, a small river of wine dribbling from the corner of his lips. "What? Goodness, do you mean Miss Mavros? Is this because she—" he cuts himself off and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand before looking back up with worried brown eyes. "She volunteered of her own accord! There is nothing anyone could've done about it, much less myself!"
"Then you should have found something! You're Capitol, you're the one with connections," Augustus snaps. "We're losing tributes. We're losing resources. Do you have any fucking idea how much our students pay to enter the Academy? Thousands. Tens of thousands. And if they don't have that, they take out loans. I know you've never gone without, but even for people in District One, that's often money they don't have. Think a house, Celsius. A career. An education. They could have spent their money on anything other than a pipe dream made worthless by parasites like Passion," Augustus grits.
Augustus takes a breath, pacing, then turns sharply on a heel. "This isn't a very good look for the Academy, Celsius. Do you know what happens when people realize that their time and money could be made worthless by blind brats like Passion Mavros? We fucking lose tributes," he snaps. Celsius flinches in his chair; his wine sloshes dangerously.
"We need rules," Augustus says. "We need order. If Lavish and I aren't guaranteed to mentor District One's best students, then what the hell are we doing here, Celsius? Waiting to die? We've played our Games. This is about going home and staying home."
Celsius sits frozen, shaking, eyes wide and pale and terrified. In a small voice, he asks, "Why? Why are you ready to retire so soon?"
Augustus' expression changes. Lavish shifts in her pillow nest and the fine fabrics whisper. Even buried among pillows, Lavish's eyes manage to give Augustus pause, knowing him, seeing through him. Of the many tributes that came before her, she was among the brightest. Brighter, perhaps, than Gloss and Augustus themselves. She could even hold a candle to Cashmere.
Gloss wrote a song about her, if memory serves. Something cheery and catchy; something that was the opposite of her actual personality. It reflected the character she displayed in public.
Gloss has a habit of that. A habit of crafting characters for his tributes. Augustus has never seriously considered doing that himself. On the few occasions that he tried, he was unable to follow through with it. Halfway through the process, he began to see his tributes for what they were as opposed to what he could mold them into, what character would best serve their performance in the Games. Every time he tried, he found that he'd long since begun to see himself across the table, in the booth, on the rooftop, patiently perfecting the personality he'd be obligated to assume forever. So he worked with what he had. He presented his tributes as themselves; didn't try to change them, just improve them.
Every one of those tributes ultimately met a gruesome end. But by no means should it be that way. He and Lavish are serious, dedicated, and take risks with their tributes; add complex strategies. Still, that doesn't stave away the intrusive thoughts. Perhaps if he tried what Gloss did to him, he could send a tribute back alive. But if that's the only option, Augustus isn't sure he'll ever see retirement at all.
"Babysitting tributes isn't a priority for me," Augustus finally says, his eyes still on Lavish. She could get him killed right now if she had the mind. She could tell Celsius the whole truth; tell him what — who — is really waiting at home for him. He knows she won't. She has compassion for him. She is bought and sold more often than Cashmere and Gloss, being younger and brilliantly attractive. Though Augustus has never had to know that particular torment, she understands Augustus' suffering in some way or another.
Lavish would sooner take her own life than sabotage what little Augustus has. She'd sooner take her own life than just about anything at all, probably. He's heard her talks with Cashmere; he's held her in the night when she has no one else to hold. He thought she'd really done it one time, finding her standing nude on the edge of her Juliet balcony one winter, her eyes glazed over, peaceful and soft. He only just managed to catch her by the wrist.
The one real song Gloss wrote about her was among the most melancholy songs he'd ever put onto a page.
From among the mountain of couch pillows, Lavish winks at him. "Augustus is very committed to his singing career, Celsius, we all know that. That isn't even to mention the loss of his beloved Hypnos," she says sadly.
Hypnos. The very name alone evokes the image of brown eyes rich with blind devotion smiling up at him, bloodshot and bleeding as he tightened his hands around her lily-white neck, the blood from his split-open face dripping onto her chest. Even at his most horrific, he had her infatuated.
Augustus doesn't realize he's toying with her pendulum until Celsius makes a noise between a gasp and a coo. The blue-haired peacock covers his mouth like he's only just remembered, and even through all of his makeup, Augustus can see his skin turn red. The combination of pink flesh and brittle powder is sickening.
"My apologies, Mr. Braun," Celsius says. "I'd forgotten. It must be difficult, every year… reliving it."
Augustus stares at him for a long moment, soaking in his words. The silence stretches on in the wide-open room, but no-one dares to interrupt it. It might just be the most poignant thing a Capitolite has ever said to him.
"That's right," Augustus says. "It is."
:::
AUGUSTUS' MANSION, D1 — JULY 4TH, 2316, 4:31 AM
Gloss smells and feels like sleep when he kisses him, soft and deep and hot, still covered in the furs that blanket Augustus' bed, their bodies tangled in silver sheets. It's the color the Capitol assigned to Augustus just after the conclusion of his Games: silver. It's intended to reflect his nickname, Cavalier Career — every goddamned damsel's knight in shining armor. For as long as Augustus can remember, his favorite color has actually been red. It was the color of his first bicycle, the color of his lunchbox… it's the color he turns when Gloss slips his lips lower, his tongue running along the fine edge of his jaw and spilling goosebumps down his shoulders. Augustus bites back a soft moan.
He isn't even into damsels.
The clock on the bedside table reads 4:31 AM. Augustus might scream in agony. Instead, with an uncomfortable breath, he manages, "Gloss, diamond…" It takes every ounce of his self control to slip his hand under the furs and still the palm that's been smoothing down his stomach right towards where he wants it to go. "You know there's not enough time."
Gloss cracks a grin and laughs against his jaw. "Just testing my luck."
Crawling out of bed feels like a cold, dark hell of its own, the cool air leeching Gloss' warmth from Augustus' skin as he follows Gloss into the adjoining bathroom, scooping up the clothes they'd left behind on the floor along the way. The bathroom is large, laced with silver between the tiles and lined with sconces and torches with white faux-flames. It's a constant reflection of Augustus' Games that he can never escape — not even in his most private moments.
Augustus' mansion never feels like a home unless Gloss is in it, the long halls swallowing him whole, the intricate picture frames and rippling murals trapping him in yet another castle of the Capitol's design. He's had enough of castles for one lifetime — after his Games, by no means did he have any interest in stepping foot into another one. As a trainee, a tribute, he always imagined that a house in Victor's Village would be the home he'd always heard of — a warm place, a safe place, a quiet, still, and thoughtful place. Mother was never in the house when he and Echo were young. He never met his father, a man who'd made certain a long time ago that neither of his children would ever learn his name. No, mother was enamored with her jewelry business in the city, doting over her fine diamonds and sapphires with more care than she'd shown Augustus and Echo since they were born.
To the best of Augustus' memory, he and his sister were raised by the cold hands of paid caregivers. No one face stuck around too long, lest mother find them a bother over time. Augustus' childhood abode only ever resembled a home when Orion Hollyfield was allowed to visit after training — which was thankfully often. Mother loved the opportunity to push supervision onto someone else, even if that someone was another child.
Hollyfield. Augustus feels a chill roll down his spine, and he shivers once, naked in the cold dark. It's a name he'll have to re-familiarize himself with very soon.
Augustus perches on the bathroom counter, a wide expanse of dark wood made to look like some medieval-era table carved and polished right out of the forest, and folds his arms. Neither of them turn on the lights. The moonlight that leaks in from the mosaic skylight above is more than enough to illuminate every inch of Gloss that Augustus wants to see.
He watches shamelessly as Gloss dresses himself to return to his mansion before the Capitol stylists arrive to prepare the victors for the Reaping. There's a quiet chime of metal as Gloss buckles his belt. Then he pulls a silky, dark blue shirt over his body, the fabric bordering on too tight, just the way the Capitol likes it. Augustus can't say he minds. His thoughts stray to the moment hours ago when he'd pulled it off of him in a blur of hot hands and slippery lips. When that last strip of bare muscle disappears beneath the fabric, Augustus allows himself a moment to grieve it. It'll be too long before he sees Gloss again in the flesh. Truth be told, he was hungrily soaking up every moment of their time together before Gloss was called out to the Capitol on Courtesan business.
He still sees remnants of the visit on Gloss' body — little hints of what he was forced to let clients do to him. A periwinkle bruise circles Gloss' throat, green and yellow on the outside, blue and purple at its heart. It looks like watercolor on his skin, which has become paler due to his time in their respective mansions. Augustus steps down and ghosts his knuckles across the bruise just to watch Gloss' tendons bunch beneath his touch. Three days, Gloss was gone. Gloss never tells him how many clients he is forced to entertain; never tells him what they do to him or what he does to them. It's for the better. It's been more than a decade since the 67th Games, and Augustus still hardly has a handle on his rage.
Gloss touches Augustus' wrist and pulls his hand from his bruise, significantly gentle. His eyes are careful, more awake than they should be, and there's the faintest trace of concern. It reminds Augustus of the look he gave him on his first day back from Leto's wedding, when all Augustus wanted to do was steal him away.
"I'm sorry," says Augustus. It's rare that he apologizes; even rarer that he apologizes for something he didn't do.
"Don't be."
Augustus' fingers twitch in Gloss' hand — a compulsion borne from trauma. Gloss runs a thumb across his palm, a gentle gesture that pulls a breath out of Augustus' chest, long and deep.
"I won't mind if you go back to bed, Augustus," Gloss says. "I'll see you at the Reaping before you leave. We still have time."
Augustus pulls his hand away and leans against the counter. "It doesn't count when the cameras are watching."
"Your sleep is more important."
"Nothing is more important," Augustus says, nearly cutting him off.
Leto's wedding still lingers in his mind. He's haunted by the glittering look that entered her eyes the moment Adrienne emerged in her fluffy Capitol dress — an awed expression, like she'd never laid eyes on anything more beautiful. Gloss' lyrics were on his lips that night, sung for a couple he hardly knew at a ceremony he could never, ever experience. It was a brilliant mockery of himself and the man who stands across from him, the man who mentored him, the man who's known him for twelve entire years down to this very day. The night before Leto's Victory Ball in the Capitol comes to mind. The two of them in Gloss' bed, nude and tangled in furs, fruitlessly pondering an impossibility.
'In that world, in that fantasy, what do you think we would have the potential to be, Augustus?'
'Husbands. Real husbands.'
Augustus would take Gloss' last name if they did get married. There's nothing in the word 'Braun' for him to hold onto. Echo can have it for herself.
Gloss steps closer and places his hand over Augustus' on the countertop, moonlight spilling in from the skylight and dancing on the whites of his eyes. "Something's bothering you," he says quietly. "Is it Hollyfield?"
"Magic?"
Gloss nods. "I see what it's doing to you. You're anxious."
"Gloss, I'm not—"
"Why did you choose him?"
Augustus closes his eyes; pulls in a deep breath. "Because he deserves it."
"Deserves to be killed?" Gloss asks, serious, forthright, without an inkling of hesitation. He's always been cynical, always doubted the Games, always had a tendency to sound like them.
Augustus' hand bunches into a fist beneath Gloss' palm, but he doesn't bite; holds himself back. "No. Magic deserves a chance to win. He's the best male in the Academy, regardless of who his family is. If I were in the arena with him, I wouldn't want him against me."
Gloss shakes his head and breathes a humorless laugh. "Augustus. He's already against you."
Augustus would back away if he could, but he can't, cornered between Gloss' body and the counter that digs into his spine. There's a dark silence between them, heavy and thick. Augustus waits for the undercurrent of plaintiveness to enter Gloss' expression: remorse. Gloss squeezes his hand.
"I'm sorry I said that."
"You should be."
Gloss closes his eyes; sighs. "I know, Augustus. I know."
When Augustus blinks, he sees Magic Hollyfield's tiny face grinning up at him from next to Orion's leg just after Augustus was awarded the Academy's highest honor: a student turned Victor. The kid couldn't have been more than ten years old at the time. Augustus remembers the idolization in his dark brown eyes, the gaps in his baby teeth, the way he'd raised his chin just a little too high, a trained image of confidence that his uncle and mother had likely taught him. From the moment he met him, Augustus knew he was bound to become a bigger part of his life; a character who wouldn't just fade away. Even at his young age, he had a presence that begged to be noticed, a drive that couldn't be missed, and Augustus reminded himself to keep an eye on him — even if Magic did, only slightly, make him uncomfortable.
At any point on that day, Augustus could have taken a knee and introduced himself properly — but he didn't. Something stopped him. Maybe it was the memory of the many times he'd seen him previous, hiding behind Orion's leg while he gave the Hollyfield family blankets, warm clothes, extra food he could spare in the winter. Maybe it was the fact that he'd seen just how sallow the kid's face had been sometimes, how he was skin and bones, how he was clearly hungry. Maybe it was the fact that Augustus had often, uncharacteristically, found himself worrying about him.
The last time Augustus saw Magic was during his final exam. He looked like a different person: healthy, tall, lean muscle and swift, powerful movements that sent dummies and trainers toppling to the ground within moments. He had Orion's eyes; Orion's determination. His brows furrowed when he fought, his lips twisted when he thrust his weapon, his grunt resounded throughout the exam room when he crushed a dummy's sternum beneath his heel, a final blow that would've killed a tribute instantly. It was uncanny, observing him. Augustus could almost imagine Orion's face across from his, the consternation in his expression as their swords clashed, his swift ducks, his wide sweeps, the utterly unfair punches he'd throw when Augustus least expected it.
Magic glanced up at him from down on the examination floor when his time was up, his dark eyes surveying him with something between wonder and disapproval. Augustus scored him quickly. Then he stood from his spot in the observation booth and walked away in search of somewhere to breathe. The other examiners looked off after him, some murmuring in confusion, and when he returned, they wanted an explanation. He ignored them. There was none to give.
Gloss' hands on his shoulders pull him out of the memory, rough and warm and welcome on his naked skin.
"Look at me," Gloss says. "You did what you needed to do to get out of that arena, and you pay the price for it every day. Every day." He slides his palm down Augustus' chest and rests it over Hypnos' pendulum. It's a grim reminder of the elaborate mistake they concocted together. Somehow, Gloss' hand covering the precious stone brings him comfort, relief, like a gasp of air upon breaching deep water. It shouldn't.
"They're the ones who chose to hold that against you — that was their decision," Gloss says. "But they couldn't possibly understand what those Games did to you, Augustus. Not even in their worst nightmares."
'I've never talked to anyone as much as I talk to you,' Hypnos whispered, laying curled up in the glowing grass with her head in Augustus' lap. Her blue curls caught the moonlight like silver as Augustus ran his fingers through them. 'I can never trust my dad to listen. It's like he looks right through me.'
A breath fills Augustus' lungs, almost painfully tight, and when he lets go, he feels empty. "What do I say, then? What do I say when Magic asks me why I did it?"
"You tell him to fuck off."
"That isn't an option."
"It's absolutely an option."
"No," Augustus bites, "it isn't. Magic grew up knowing whatever Orion told him about it. If he wants to know why I did it, I want him to hear it from me. So what do I say, Gloss? Tell me."
Gloss stares at him for a long time. Too long. Long enough that it makes Augustus shiver. There are many answers Gloss could give: 'to win the Games,' 'to protect yourself,' 'to increase your chances.' But what he finally says is, "I don't know." He shakes his head slowly, his gaze falling to their feet. "I don't know."
It's perhaps the most honest response he could give. When Hypnos placed her hand over Augustus' in the train car and he didn't turn her down — saw an opportunity, an opening, a scheme instead — Augustus didn't know why either. It was Augustus' idea to begin with. It was Gloss' idea to take it so far.
Gloss slips his hand from Augustus' chest and Hypnos' pendulum dangles freely, sparkling blue between them. "I wish I could give you the answer, Augustus," he says quietly, "but only you can know that."
Augustus takes a deep breath that shudders in his chest. Gloss' thumb rubs over the back of his hand in soft, slow circles — a tender, deliberate gesture that Augustus has come to recognize as Gloss' way of soothing him. This time, it only makes him more afraid. Glancing up at the bathroom clock, Gloss blinks against the growing dawn that spills in through the mosaic glass, painting them both in brilliant, gentle color. Augustus grieves him already.
"I have to go, treasure," Gloss says. "You won't be alone at the Reaping. I'll be right beside you."
Augustus nods and lets the words swim in his head, slow his breaths, reassure him. Gloss smooths his palms up his arms, his shoulders, his tingling neck, and cups his burning face. He kisses him deep, slow; smothers his senses in warmth and tastes like chardonnay. Breathtaking, overwhelming, the stuff of Augustus' finest dreams. Augustus curls his fingers in Gloss' shirt and pulls him closer, hungry, wishing, wanting — but Gloss steps away. The space between them floods with cold air when he does, like the only warmth in the world is within Gloss' touch.
"I love you," Gloss whispers.
Watching with raw eyes as Gloss turns to leave, Augustus doesn't say it back. He doesn't need to. Gloss already knows.
A/N: Hello everyone, this is Oldflowers! I'm the author of this chapter of Much Ado. I'll be writing quite a few chapters in this story, so I'd love to hear your thoughts thus far!
As mentioned by Mischief, this story will be covering multiple mentor & victor POVs, so we'd love to know what mentors or victors you'd be interested in hearing from in the future as well. What are some behind-the-scenes details you'd be interested in us exploring? Thank you for reading!