ii. THE PLAYBOY
"You know," Azaire says to Cosmin on their final day of training, "I don't think we ever formally discussed who will be leading."
Cosmin shoots him a look, mid-sparring match. "Hm," he grunts; a few exchanges of strikes and parries and the Capitolite trainer's pinned beneath his blade. "I sort of figured that Rocky—"
"Rocky this, Rocky that," Azaire cuts him off. He leans against the weapons rack, absently dusting off the handle of the spotless rapier. "I'm sure that's what she wants us to think," he says with a shrug. "But the world doesn't revolve around her, you know. I think it would be beneficial to raise this discussion."
The Two boy only grunts again, noncommittal.
Azaire hides his sigh with a jerk of his chin, beckoning the trainer to spar. No ambition, this one. "I imagine—" he attacks, light on his toes— "it might make your old man proud—" the trainer dances out of his way, but Azaire anticipated this; he cuts upward, decisive— "to see his son leading, no? I know mine would be." Elegantly, he dodges the trainer's riposte, sweeping the man's legs out from under him as he goes. The tip of his blade lands gently at the man's throat. "Might convince him I did the right thing in volunteering."
Now that Azaire says it, he realizes it's true. If he could lead the pack, he could lead the company, and that's all Welles Rivette ever wanted from him.
"Why don't you lead, then?"
(Why shouldn't he lead?
Azaire knows he's capable. The way they're headed now, things are set to implode sooner than it feels safe, with the way he and Seraphima chip away at the foundations. She's already gotten Remora and Grace to join Raphael in being wrapped around her finger, meanwhile Rocky's got the charisma of… well, of a rock.
But Azaire… he's got charisma and confidence in spades, and what he doesn't have, he can damn well fake it 'til he gets to the top. Isn't that what he's always done?
…Who is he kidding; he's never been one for stability.
As much as the thought of his father looking at the screen, pointing — "That's my son leading the pack; right there- my boy; just like I knew he would" — fills him with longing, it also fills him with disgust. Anger.
He didn't come here for his father's sake.)
Right then, Azaire shoots the Two boy a reckless grin. "Oh, Cosmin," he says, an endearing arm thrown over the other boys shoulders. "I'm not interested in making my father proud. Not anymore."
Cosmin blinks, like that sort of idea's never occurred to him.
"I think you'd make a great leader, Cos," he says, a softer genuine note leaking into his lie, his face close enough to make the other boy blush. "I'm sure Seraphima would agree. Remora and Raphael too."
(Because of course it's a lie. Of course Rocky would make a better leader, but Azaire doesn't want what's best for the pack. He wants what's best for himself. He's not ready to die just yet.)
Cosmin's dark eyes are unexpectedly round in their vulnerability. "You really think so?"
"'Course I do."
And Azaire gives him a crooked smile — the one everyone thinks is reserved just for them — and just like that, he knows there's no coming back from this.
• • •
It all comes down to the scores.
Rocky nearly threw a fit when Azaire pitched his suggestion at lunch. At least, judging by her tight jaw and twitching brow, Azaire could tell she wanted to, but she forced herself to nod stiffly once Seraphima backed him up (will I ever stop needing to thank her?). Grace suggested they decide via score, and that sealed the deal.
Well, almost.
Azaire's spent nearly all of training at Cosmin's side, though that doesn't mean he hasn't been paying attention. No part of him wants to end up on the business end of Rocky's spiked mace, no thank you sir; she's made it quite clear she knows how to use it.
If he has his choice of opponents when it comes down to the final duel, he'd choose Cosmin in a heartbeat— he knows he'll be able to land the killing blow.
He's doing his damndest to make sure Cosmin can't.
Of course, he's got no say in how either of the Twos perform during their private sessions; they're long over by the time they call his name. But he does get fifteen minutes alone with the Gamemaking team, and it'd be a shame if they didn't know the stakes.
Azaire's head is high as he strides into the empty gym. Chin up, shoulders back; the picture of confidence.
And why shouldn't he be?
"You have fifteen minutes to show us your skills, Mr. Rivette."
"Mr. Rivette is my father. Please, call me Azaire."
"Very well, Azaire. Your time starts now."
God forbid he waste it. At the snap of his fingers, three trainees rush out to join him on the mats, and one by one, he cuts them down with quick, precise blows. The blade of his rapier is a blur before his eyes, but that doesn't mean Azaire doesn't know exactly where his strikes land. Judging by the clock above the Gamemaker's box, he still has plenty of time, so he sidles up to the javelin station. Azaire spent enough time training with Monroe to get a decent handle on his friend's preferred weapon, and luckily, it's not too far from the Gamemakers' box.
"You know," Azaire says languidly, twirling the weapon with more flourish than necessary, "there are a few things I want to make sure you lovely Gamemakers don't miss." His voice projects strongly through the room, and the javelin doesn't miss either.
A quick glance towards the box shows that the Head's raised a brow. "Rest assured, there's not much that escapes me about my tributes."
My tributes. The hairs at the back of his neck bristle as Azaire pulls another javelin from the quiver, flinging it fluidly at the target. "Then you know all about our little situation with the Twos, I assume." Two more follow, all landing within the central two rings.
"You assume correctly."
"Excellent." The last javelin remains in his grip, and Azaire allows himself a small smile. Again, he twirls the weapon between his hands, though his full attention remains focused on the Head. "Obviously the decision is ultimately up to you, but I think Cosmin Cray—" a flick of his arm and the javelin arcs towards the target's eye— "would make a very entertaining leader. Wouldn't you agree?"
"I suppose you'll have to wait and see. You are dismissed, Mr. Rivette."
Apparently, he does agree, if the scores are anything to go by— Cosmin's eleven takes the cake, though the grin smearing Azaire's cheeks only lasts until his score flashes across the screen, matching Rocky's even ten.
A ten.
The rest of the Fours are watching; Azaire quickly schools his expression, though the eleven that appears next to Remora's name only makes the task more difficult. This has to be a joke, there's no way Remora, of all people…
For the first time, the glint in his district partner's eyes is almost threatening.
To his credit, Azaire's congratulatory smile never falters. It's an even split; the Ones snagged the rest of the elevens while the Threes scrape by with tens. Strong scores overall for the pack, and not a single outlier gets close to the double-digits let alone a perfect thirteen.
Still…
Remora's gloating doesn't help.
He's gotten what he wanted with the Twos; that should be enough. Foolish of him to expect there'd be no give-and-take with the 'Makers, that's what this must be. Still, it grates. He can't help but wonder if the Gamemakers find him just as useless as his father does, just as vain. If they see his act not as an act, but all that he is.
(He can't help but wonder if they're right.)
No. Let them underestimate me. Let them regret it.
When the program finishes, Azaire lets the waiting Avox hand him a glass of bubbling orange liquid. He clinks it happily with Remora's and then Ronan's as he pretends to celebrate, pretends that he's not stewing with indignation; whatever's in the glass takes the edge off it anyways, and for that, Azaire's glad.
He doesn't even need to feign an easy smile when the door to the Four suite swings open and an unexpected guest strides through, snapping, "Is Azaire Rivette here?"
"Hi," he chirps.
Belatedly, he recognizes the usually-amiable face of Cosmin's mentor, though something strains at the lines of her features now. "Come with me. I need to speak to you in private."
Despite his confusion, Azaire blows an insolent raspberry, drowning out Remora's chorus of oooh's. "What's this about, Slate?" Ronan demands before the young Victor can chastise him.
Icara Slate's brows furrow. "My tribute—"
"I don't care about your tribute," Ronan cuts her off rudely. "Why do you care about mine?"
"He's starting bullshit between our district pair; apparently, he convinced Cosmin that he should lead despite the plan we had in place. Now, both Rocky and her mentor are pissed, and—"
"Actually, we all agreed on it," Azaire interjects.
"Pyke's had it out for us for years," Ronan adds sharply, herding her towards the exit, "and I don't know what you're trying to gain by coming here. Don't put the blame for your problems on my tribute, got it?"
Icara blinks in surprise at the abrupt hostility, though her glare quickly lands on Azaire. "Then stop messing with my kid," she hisses.
Azaire only raises his hands in silent surrender as Ronan shoves her out the door; he flicks her a mocking salute before it shuts. "Fucking Twos," Ronan grumbles, shooting Azaire a look. "That boy better be worth it."
"Oh, don't worry. He will be."
• • •
If you ask Azaire if he thinks he'll win the Games, he'll merely laugh and flash that heartstopping grin of his. "My friend, what do you think I came here for, the food?" he snarks on the interview stage when Marcus Argentus poses the very same question.
If Azaire asks himself— really asks, as in, night-before-the-Games asks…
It's the quietest night Azaire's lain awake for in a while.
The calm before a storm isn't so different from the silence that follows it. He would know. Neither he nor his father said a word the night they'd lost his mother to the icy waters. It's a cold silence; inhale fear, exhale tragedy, and when the sun comes up, nothing can change what's coming.
Yet it comes, just as relentless as when it dipped below the horizon on Marnie Rivette's life, and persisted, again and again, on Azaire's.
Truth be told, he's left everything and nothing behind in District Four. Cut ties with all he's ever been when he threw those cruel, cruel words in Monroe's face.
All he is, is right here.
It's not until now that Azaire's able to fully appreciate that, on the edge of that persistence. And 'Makers above, he never thought he'd be, but he's scared. The temptation to reach out for something, for someone, is strong, and Azaire's never been one to resist temptation, has he? There's no reason to suffer this bitter calm, this deafening quiet, alone when he can so easily choose otherwise.
He's never exactly been the type to hound.
Not with his lovers, at least.
(Sure, he'd sit outside the doors to his father's room, begging for a love the man didn't think he deserved, but that's besides the point.)
…So he's gotten a taste for adoration, sue him.
It feels more natural when they come to him; expected. In an effort to push the Games from his mind, the only thing nagging now at Azaire is that he knows Cosmin isn't the type. Fucking bastard, making me do all the work. Is it even worth it, at this point?
Azaire's only using the other boy, for his emotions, for getting an upper hand on the Games. That alone makes it worth it.
It's not love.
(He's not Monroe.)
Still, he doesn't need to be alone. His feet press into carpet and then hardwood as he slinks out the door, cursing the too-loud ping of the elevator, the thundering knock at the door of the Two suite. Rarely does Azaire purposely put himself into situations where he feels like a fool, but this has to take the cake. Even more so when Cosmin's gods-be-damned mentor opens the door, hissing at him for the hour. His bullshit excuse about needing time to plan around the inevitable pack split is enough for Icara to grab her charge, and Azaire trails him back to his quarters, shutting the door softly behind them.
"What do you really want?" Cosmin asks quietly.
"Bad night to be alone, isn't it?"
The other boy nods, taking a seat at the edge of his bed while Azaire lingers at the door. "I thought this was what I wanted," Cosmin says after a minute. His voice is hushed in the night. "My whole life, I… We have a trial, you know. Right before the Reaping, when it's too late to back out…" He shakes his head, and Azaire seats himself at the foot of Cosmin's bed, head angled inwards to listen. "They say it's to prepare us for what it's really like, but I still don't think we're ready for this, Azaire. Either of us."
He thinks he understands what the other boy's saying; he knows the rumors, at least. Two's always been the most fanatic of the Career districts. "That's too bad," he hums evenly. "We're here anyway."
"I know. Azaire…" Cosmin's voice is small; he takes a breath. "Can you… stay with me tonight?"
Tenderly, Azaire's hand comes to rest at the other boy's cheek. Almost instinctively, Cosmin leans into the touch, into the thumb that traces a gentle line across his cheekbone. "Of course," he murmurs, as if this weren't his goal all along.
There's no thrill quite like that of being wanted.
• • •
Still, Azaire doesn't sleep.
He doesn't really expect to, but that just means he's dressed and out the door before Cosmin wakes; he's got his own suite to return to…
"What the hell are you still doing here?"
Dammit. So close.
Icara Slate greets him in the common area, mug of steaming coffee in hand; her incredulous expression shifts to one of anger. "I thought I told you to quit distracting him."
Azaire quickly finds himself cornered; his hands go up in surrender. "He asked me to stay, alright?"
"Bullshit."
"I didn't—"
She cuts him off. "I don't think you understand how hard he worked for this, Four. Cosmin's a good kid, I've been working with him for months." Her eyes narrow. "Not everyone can buy their way into the Academy."
Immediately, Azaire's hackles rise.
Her grip on his shoulder is tight, heavy brows furrowed over her dark eyes, and he bites his tongue for once. "I'm tired of being nice. Get out of here, Rivette."
No need to argue; he's got a hovercraft to catch.
He doesn't need Icara to be nice. Azaire knows he's already got the other boy wrapped around his finger as much as his mentor fears.
Like a wraith in the pre-dawn hours, he makes his way to the elevator and back up to his floor. They'll be missing him if he doesn't make it back in time; Azaire doesn't want to find out what happens in that case. He doesn't expect someone to be waiting for him on the other side of the elevator.
Seraphima nearly flinches at the sight of him, eyes wide and hands clutching at her chest.
Azaire quirks a wry brow. "'Purity of the Games', huh?" For whatever reason, the phrase lingered in the back of his mind since she said it, a threat of who-knows-what directed 'Makers-know-where.
"I—uh…"
"Don't worry, Sera, I'm the last to judge." By the expression on her face, his smile isn't reassuring. Something in Azaire's gut tells him her district partner wouldn't be too pleased to find out where she's been; there's something off about Raphael that Azaire can't quite put a finger on, but that's another day's fish to catch. "Don't worry, I won't say a word."
With a huff, she straightens her nightdress, her hair. "You won't," she says definitively. Or else hangs in the air, but Azaire's breezy grin remains in place, aware that he holds the upper hand here.
"Good luck today," he calls as she slips into the suite.
His own mentor lounges expectantly in the common area when he arrives, cup of steaming coffee in hand. "Score one for the whores of District Four," he quips.
"Shove it up your ass, Drake."
Ronan snorts. "Glad you finally showed up. I was about to call the PK's."
"There's plenty of time," Azaire snips, shouldering past him on the way to his quarters; wouldn't do to show up to the Games in his nightclothes. Ronan snags him by the shoulder before he can disappear. "What."
"Your targets, kid."
"I'm not a kid."
Ronan ignores him. "Just listen." He's serious enough that Azaire stops struggling. "Heard they want the Thirteens gone as soon as possible; think you can do that?"
"Sure, whatever."
"Not like you'll dry up on sponsor money anytime soon, but—"
"No thanks to you."
"Rivette—"
Azaire shrugs him off, shooting him a cold sea-glass glare. "I don't need your last minute advice, okay?"
"I was just going to tell you that I still plan on getting my Victor. Got it?"
It's the most genuine gesture of well-wishes Azaire's seen from the man. His eyes narrow, ever-so-slightly, before he nods sharply. He doesn't intend to win for anyone except himself — (Not even Monroe?) (Shut up) — but he knows he won't get anything better from Ronan Drake.
Not like he intends to let him down either.