Another year, another VE! Huge thank you to Dyl for the amazing Azaire, I had such an excellent time writing him and making him very happy and not miserable or injured the whole time ! (:
i. THE HEIR
"How could you do this?" Disbelief colors Monroe's tone; black-and-purple colors his cheek from where Azaire's elbow landed during their race to the Reaping stage.
Because I love you. Because I can't lose you.
Azaire bites his tongue.
"I can't believe you'd take this from me." Monroe shakes his head, hurt etched across the deep brown planes of his face. "Here I thought you were my friend, but it turns out you're just what everyone says you are." He scoffs; his sharp, familiar features twist into a scowl that would've looked ugly on anyone else. So different from yesterday; how long Azaire spends replaying it in his mind every time Roe graces him with an easy smile. Even in his anger, Monroe can't look Azaire in the eyes. "Screw me for thinking you ever gave a shit about anyone other than yourself."
Coming from anyone else, that wouldn't leave a mark. Coming from Monroe…
It's not true. You know that's not true. But as much as he cares about his friend — the friend he betrayed — Azaire can't help the way his lips curl into a sneer. It's the only thing that can hide the hurt.
"I just… Why, Az? You know how much this meant to me."
To him… to his family. It's not like Azaire needs the money. It's the first time in a while Four's showed such a strong affinity towards one particular candidate too; usually they select a few to make sure at least one makes it to the stage. This year was different, and not for no reason— Monroe's good. Azaire would know; they've been sparring partners since day one, friends since Monroe had him pinned to the mat with a boot and a grin. No one else ever came close.
No fucking way Azaire could let him follow through. Damn selfish of him, sure, but… "Because I felt like it," he snaps. "Not like you would've won anyways."
The coldness of his words fills the room immediately. It's so far from what Azaire yearns to tell him, but it's what needs to be said, now that he's off to get himself killed. He can't have Roe getting hung up on him now; he can't ask him to stay attached. Better to sever ties sooner rather than later; Monroe deserves far better than someone like him, far better than getting dragged down like a stone in Azaire's endless ocean of grief. If he could only get over himself—
It's simple, really. Monroe has people that will miss him. Azaire doesn't.
Or, won't, after he's through with his once-friend, his could-have-been.
Roe's eyelashes flutter, in that way they do when he's trying to hold back tears. It's the least Azaire can do not to comment on it. They have nothing left to say to each other, so when the Peacekeeper pokes their head in — "Time's up, lads" — Monroe merely shakes his head and stalks out, leaving the newly-christened tribute—
(rogue, brat, glory-hound, ruthless playboy, wretched ghost, heartless, heartless, heartless)
—well and truly alone.
That's fine, Azaire thinks, ignoring the way the misshapen pearls of his (of Monroe's) bracelet press tightly against the inside of his wrist.
Where he's headed, he can't bring a heart.
• • •
His mentor spends the majority of the short train ride sneering at him over his iced mojito— only makes him look more ridiculous, in Azaire's opinion. "Should've known," Ronan Drake scoffs. "It's a pity, I was hoping to get a Victor this year."
Of course he gets stuck with the ill-tempered one. They're alone in the dining car, save for the escort, her attention captured absolutely by her cellular; the others have long-since made themselves scarce while Azaire freshened up and exchanged his Reaping day wear for a set of Capitol brand clothes.
Azaire can't quite tell if the man is already drunk or not, but he scowls right back at him all the same.
His father said something similar during their parting exchange. Personally, Azaire hadn't expected the bastard to even show, but apparently Welles Rivette actually cared about the fact that he may very well lose his only heir— far more than he cared about losing his only son, that's for sure. He certainly didn't ship Azaire off to the Islands as soon as he reached opening age because he cared about him.
Not like Azaire cares either. He knows he looks just as pretty in a scowl as he does a smile. Ronan's lucky to be graced with either. "Ye of little faith," Azaire tuts with just enough condescension in his tone to make the Victor roll his eyes. "Come on, you must have seen me around the Islands."
"Kid, I don't think anyone hasn't," Ronan snorts.
Azaire's lips curl into one of his trademark heartstopping grins at that. "Then you know I'm one of the most capable trainees in that damn Academy." The other being Monroe Alsten, of course. Certainly not Remora Riley; she's just as doomed to die as Ronan thinks Azaire is.
"Overconfident and spoiled, I see? I really got a good pick this year," Ronan snarks. "I'll give you final ten at best."
"Give me a break," Azaire drawls. He motions to a nearby Avox, jerking his chin at his mentor's drink. "And get me one of those, if you will." His eyes slide back towards Ronan, pointed and demanding. "You want a Victor, don't you? If you're supposed to be helping me, we've got a lot to discuss before we reach the Capitol."
• • •
Azaire is bored.
Or, at least, he's pretending to be. See, he's spent his whole life playing up this wretched angle — playboy heir extraordinaire — that both he and Ronan agreed they shouldn't bother changing it up now. Frankly, it would be stupid otherwise.
Azaire leans backwards in the dining chair with a glass of wine in hand, thoroughly (outwardly) unimpressed and completely at ease with the scene. Through the transparent barrier of the glass, the District Two team sits across from him, coated in rose as he lazily swirls the dark liquid. The others Careers line the rectangular table, tributes and mentors alike. Azaire sits neatly between Ronan and the other Four mentor, Aquamarine; "Typical," Ronan mutters into his ear when one of the Two mentors is introduced with the name Pyke. Big deal, Azaire scoffs internally; he's got a keener eye for the tributes.
It's hard to ignore when someone's staring.
Must be his demeanor that's got the Twos in a tizzy; that or… the Two boy's eyes narrow ever-so-slightly when Azaire shoots him an irreverent grin, something akin to a flush coloring his cheeks. Here we go again, he thinks, a familiar satisfaction at the effect he knows he has. Cosmin Cray; he looks as by-the-books as his partner, though the hard-set glare that makes her stand out nearly buries him in her shadow. They'd called her Rocky, the Two girl; short for Roksana Osinov. Ridiculous, Azaire thinks, even if she looks like she'll live up to her name. Nevertheless, Two rarely has dud years; he'd be a fool to ignore either tribute, though he's not so sure the Capitol would let them win twice in a row again. The Threes are silent for now, observing; the girl's listening (or pretending to listen; Azaire couldn't blame her) to Remora's mindless chattering. Nervous much? he thinks nastily.
One's Seraphima bears a similar expression to his, her full lips pursed with a half-grin that's designed to catch attention. It catches Remora's; always easy to read, that one. Azaire's already discarded her, sucker that she is, but Seraphima's smile stretches wider under the Four girl's attention.
A nearby Avox places a steaming plate in front of him, and Azaire offers him a nod of thanks and a polite, disinterested smile that he wears for the rest of the night.
Inwardly, though, he's impressed with the display, the extravagant restaurant. While he's more than familiar with the high society of Four, it doesn't quite sparkle like the jewel of Panem. Make no mistake, those in the Capitol love Four and her turquoise beaches, her fine-sand shores— their tourists make no secret of it when they come to pollute the Islands with their gaudiness, their haughtiness, their money. Eventually, they crawl back to their sprawling monstrosity, their glitter-plastic city that puts the Rivette estate to…
…No, shame, isn't the word.
There's a waste that comes with such wealth. Azaire's familiar with it; with the way his father went though one, two, five, eight wives after his mother jumped the cliff, how could he not be?
At least these people do something with their money, however frivolous. Hoarding is the same as wasting, in Azaire's opinion, but nobody in the Capitol seems particularly shy about that. With that in mind, he almost expects the debauchery and opulence to be comforting; familiar, even.
Instead, it's just as cold.
Cold as the waves that swept his mothers broken body from the blood-stained jetty. Unfeeling as his father's clammy hand when he yanked it from Azaire's grip at her funeral; as the look behind his eyes from then on. Heartless as the stepmothers that never bothered to see him as a son.
Azaire isn't meant to enjoy the Capitol. He's the commodity (and a fine one he is); they're meant to enjoy him.
And they will— enough to keep him around. Azaire will make sure of it.
Which means every tribute at this table and more will have to die.
• • •
Stop touching me, Azaire wants to hiss.
He can do his own damn makeup for fuck's sake; he doesn't need someone who dyes their own skin seaweed-green as a fashion statement making choices about his beauty. Azaire barely keeps the glower from his face as the Capitolite's green-tinged fingers come near his cheeks once again with the admittedly-soft brush. Not like I need all this shit anyways. I'm no Remora or Hudson.
There's never exactly been a shortage of people telling Azaire just how gorgeous he is, how touchable. The stepmothers, who wanted to pinch his cheeks and shove him into stiff little outfits to show him off as theirs. His peers, once Father dropped him off at the Islands and never looked back— "Spar with me, Azaire-" "No, me!" "Top Five again? How'd you get so good?" "Teach me, Azaire!" —and later, once they grew old enough to sing his praises in the dark; wherever their hands wandered, something about their touch had always felt so reverent—
(Monroe's hands never wandered, never lingered despite Azaire's blatant flirtations. Maybe that's why he wanted them to.)
Nothing about the yanking and jabbing of his prep team can be described as reverent. But, despite their intrusion, their need to modify him to fit their asinine standards, they are no different when it comes to showering him in compliments, however backhanded that praise may be.
"Gods, look at these cheekbones; I think I almost cut myself!"
"Are you sure you didn't get them re-sculpted? There's no way that's natural."
"His hair too; it's so soft! Ladies, come feel this—"
"Do you mind?" Azaire finally snaps as three pairs of talons start rifling through his golden locks. They snag at his roots as the Capitolites flinch backwards, only deepening Azaire's scowl. "I'm not your plaything."
They share a chuckle at that. "Sure you are!" Seaweed-skin chirps, tilting his chin to once-again go at it with her makeup brush; Azaire jerks from her grip with a grunt— (how Welles Rivette would scold him if he heard such an undignified noise coming from his mouth)— and the thought almost pleases him.
Almost. "Can we get this over with?"
(There's surprisingly little difference, Azaire finds, between tribute and heir. No agency, no empathy; he's nothing but a status symbol, to his father, to his Capitol entourage.)
You signed up for this, Azaire reminds himself. Forcefully. Better you than Monroe. Oh, how he'd hate this.
Azaire, he was built for this, evidenced by the beauty that graces his features; the way he's learned to carry it. His stylist returns from her little sojourn, carrying what appears to be a heavy dress bag. When she unveils it, Azaire's smile, for the first time since he's arrived in the Capitol, is real.
Strings of pearls hang heavily from the sturdy hanger; the Capitolites drape them over his shoulders, around his throat, and the cool stones are almost soothing against his skin— bare chest, bare shoulders, bared teeth that match the ensemble. His hair's been stylistically mussed to appear natural, the makeup around his face just enough to bring out the jade in his eyes while accenting his sharp features for the stage of the chariot parade.
Despite the previous poking and prodding, the result fills Azaire with a new surge of confidence, reflected in his expression. As long as he looks the part, plays the part, he'll be fine; of course he will.
And Azaire's always loved pearls.
"Not so often you see a Four outshining a One, huh?" Seraphima Balenciaga hovers at the edge of his chariot, arms crossed, though her once-over is appreciative. Despite the glittering ensemble of gold she wears— complete with shimmering streaks in her pin-straight honey-colored hair— she's right.
Azaire shoots her a dazzling grin. "Glad we can agree on that."
At his elbow, Remora nearly stumbles from the chariot. Quick as a flash, Seraphima's there to steady her with a gentle hand at her waist, and Azaire has to stop himself from rolling his eyes. Sharing a spotlight with her of all people is sure to put a dent in his image, but he doesn't have a choice at this point.
Not like they're looking at her anyways. Their chariot kicks into gear, and Azaire catches flashes of his face plastered on the nearby screen, white-teeth pearls and all. The expression — the feeling — lingers in his chest for the rest of the evening, the quiet glow of the television lighting up his private quarters.
Already, they can't seem to get enough of his smile.
• • •
"Thank the 'Makers, I've had enough of that drivel."
Azaire quirks a brow, somewhat surprised to find Seraphima lingering at his shoulder after the Head Trainer's dismissal. At the head of the pack, the Two girl barks instructions at the rest of their allies. He leans in towards Seraphima, eyes never leaving their apparent leader. "We seem to be agreeing a lot," he says, and she huffs.
"What about her?" Seraphima's tone is carefully neutral.
Rocky's gaze lands on them, already waspish. "Are you two even listening?" she snaps.
"Don't really need to," Azaire says brazenly. "I already know how to use a sword." In his peripheral, Seraphima rolls her eyes, but Azaire's find Cosmin before flicking back to his partner.
"Get to it, then," she huffs, and there's no reason not to listen.
It's time to do what he does best, or second-best, depending on who's talking. The smile he sends Rocky's way is just peachy, and he snags the edge of Cosmin's sleeve as he slinks between the pair. "Hey, what—?"
"You said longsword, no?"
Cosmin sheds Azaire's grip but doesn't protest the Four boy joining him; no one else does. Plucking the finest-looking rapier from the array of weapons, Azaire slides into a smooth set of warm-up drills, though his gaze carefully follows Seraphima as she finds her preferred whip, and her partner Raphael as he picks up a bladeless staff. A few stations down, the Three girl, Grace, already spars with a trainer, shield in hand, and Azaire has to hold back an eye-roll.
His rapier is built for elegance and precision, to get the job done with as much or as little flair as he desires. He's never seen the point in weapons that prioritize maiming over killing, not in a game like this. Call him a coward, but he'd pitch himself off a cliff before letting Seraphima's whip carve him into itty-bitty pieces.
Cosmin's voice cuts through his musings. "Y'know, back in Two, they say rapiers are for people who can't handle real swords."
'Makers, who knew Twos could be funny? "I'm sure I've handled more swords than you've ever seen in your life; trust me, yours won't be that difficult."
Cosmin's mouth opens and closes; no words come out, only an odd sort of choking noise not unlike a fish out of water. He walked right into that one, Azaire thinks with a grin of amusement. Staunchly, Cosmin returns to their task at hand, ordering one of the trainers over to spar, and Azaire sighs, disappointment coloring the air that exhales through his nose.
It's far too easy to rattle him. There's no banter between them, not like the kind he so enjoys — enjoyed — with Monroe, the familiarity in their friendship that sent those gods-be-damned butterflies fluttering in his stomach.
The Two boy, he's not Monroe; that's what makes it so easy. That's always made it easy.
Whatever.
No use letting his old friend worm his way back into his thoughts. For now, his weapon is enough to keep him busy.
The jealous trainees back home may spread rumors that Azaire's paid his way to the top of the Island's Academy, but no one can deny that he's good. Good enough that he doesn't care if the rumors were true; they'll watch him either way.
Just as they're doing now— Azaire can feel it.
It's not just Cosmin this time; he catches stares of outlier and Career alike. Something about the flawless combination of grace and deadliness portrayed by a perfectly sculpted specimen naturally draws attention. Azaire pays them no further mind, focused only on drawing out the match between himself and the trainer. Poor little Capitolite, so far out of her league. Meanwhile, he feels just at home here, sparing his attention only for that which he intends to destroy.
Dodge, parry, counter-attack— hah, she never even saw it coming.
The fine tip of his rapier rests for another beat against the trainer's heart before Azaire flicks it in an arc that ends in a sweeping bow. Respectful at face-value, mocking if you squint.
Light clapping reaches Azaire's ears; not an uncommon sound at the conclusion of his duels. "Glad you weren't kidding," Cosmin says from the edge of the mat, so blatantly genuine.
"Please, if I were to lie about anything, it wouldn't be my skills."
In his peripheral, an outlier girl still watches, not bothering to hide her admiration. A light smack upside the head from her district partner drags her away, and Azaire huffs in amusement. Before her partner turns away, Azaire catches his eye, throwing him a wink for good measure.
Cosmin scoffs, lighthearted as far as Azaire can tell. As far as he cares. "What do you say, Cozzy? Let's go again."
• • •
After lunch, Azaire stands on the sidelines. His appraising eyes trace over ally and enemy alike, searching, scrutinizing.
The only thing that really stands out is the hulking boy from Ten swinging around a warhammer with unabashed glee. He rolls his eyes. No class. The boy who'd caught his wink from before, however — Azaire glances at the '13' on his shirt — lands more throwing knives on the target than he misses.
Azaire finds himself stalking over to the station with a frown. He doesn't engage, only picks up his own set. Knives have never been his specialty, but he's not a beginner.
Clearly, Thirteen isn't either.
"Ooh, close," he says when Azaire's knife lands in the middle ring.
Azaire shrugs, irritated even if the boy's tone isn't patronizing. "Better than he could do, I'm sure." He jerks his chin towards Ten. "'Makers, that guy is built like a brick."
Thirteen hums. "He's kind of hot though."
"Excuse you, I am right here."
"Very available, Mr. Career," he snarks, grinning widely, and Azaire stalks away with an eye roll; no purpose in mingling with the outliers when he's got trained allies at his heels.
Cosmin's much better company anyways.
The Two boy actually smiles when he appears, and Azaire does the same as he wraps him tighter around his finger.
• • •
Sooner or later, the question always gets asked. He's not surprised when Remora brings it up far too early.
"So, what made you volunteer?" She's got eyes only for Seraphima, leaning forwards onto her elbows in anticipation of the answer.
The Ones exchange a look.
It's only the second day of training; Azaire hopes the question doesn't make its way back around the table to him, though he's got an answer prepared just in case. Honor, glory, blah blah blah… maybe a sprinkle of "dead mom" and "daddy issues" if his smile isn't enough to charm the crowd. It's what he'll say when they ask him during his interview.
"It's what we were meant to do," Seraphima says with a flick of her hair, and Raphael nods solemnly. Azaire doesn't think he's ever heard her partner disagree; now that he thinks about it, he hasn't heard a word from the One boy, always lingering at Seraphima's shoulders like a quiet enforcer. "We have a duty to restore the purity of the Games."
…Something about the way she says it makes Azaire frown.
Remora, on the other hand, laps it up. "That's such an admirable goal," she sighs. The Threes exchange thoughtful looks, and even Rocky and Cosmin nod in agreement. Seraphima ducks her head in what Azaire recognizes as false humbleness; if she catches his perception, she doesn't seem perturbed. "Most people aren't playing right," Seraphima says with a light smile, as if her words offer any explanation.
"You're right about that," is all Azaire can think to say.
That's enough for the One girl's smile to land on him. Her gaze flickers between him and Cosmin before landing back to her salad. "What about you, Cosmin? Why did you volunteer?"
The Two boy seems startled at being directly addressed. "Oh, uh. Well, there's no better way to honor my district. That's what my father says, anyways." His eyes quickly return to his plate, and Azaire doesn't push, one brow raised in mild interest.
Father, not dad, he's said. Either word barely applied to Azaire's own. Perhaps we've got more in common than I thought, though Cosmin at least seems to care about the opinion of his old man.
Perhaps Azaire can use that.
Perhaps he should also thank Seraphima for shooting the question Cosmin's way so Azaire didn't have to; the girl hardly seems interested in Rocky's tangential speech in the meaning of volunteer and honor— in fact, if he has to bet, everyone else is only pretending to listen. The word honor's already been thrown around enough to make Azaire sick; it's all his father would ever pretend to preach. There's no honor in pitting trained warriors against half-starved teenagers; Azaire's not stupid enough to be blinded by that.
For now, at least, he's callous enough not to care. His real opponents are sitting here at this table, and that's who Azaire intends to play with.
Judging by the furtive look Seraphima sends him, he's not the only one.