v. THE WRETCH
Azaire's not built to be alone.
He's known this for a long time, ever since his mother took the dive and it became all he knew. There's a reason he craves intimacy, craves people.
It's a bitter, bitter ache. Azaire knows the only way is forward, but here he is, ambling down a perpendicular road of ghosts. He can't help it; the grief takes over when there's nothing to hold it back, for friends once had, mothers that could have been, fathers that should have been.
When the grief subsides, there's static, and he walks. Sword tucked into his belt. Pack slung over his shoulders. Trying not to stumble.
Face-first into lava, that could be him.
Skin blistering, eyes melting, liquid rock washing him away. It's a morbid fantasy, but he plays it over and over in his mind, adjusting bits and pieces as he treks. It burns the feelings from his mind, but they simmer still at the edges. They have a heat of their own, a nasty persistence. The intrusive fantasies morph into what-ifs; what if Seraphima had gone after him first; what if Cosmin hadn't saved him; what if Rocky hadn't left?
What if he hadn't left?
It would be Roe in here, caught between these people and their ire, their kindness, their madness. Azaire knew then he couldn't stand to watch that. He knows it even more now.
It's enough to destroy a person, but at least Azaire's already broken.
There's no way to combat the ache in here. No warm body to lie next to, no idle chatter to make with anyone but himself. And who wants to see that, Azaire scoffs internally. His feet take him further as the sun — red, ever-red — traverses the sky.
It's almost ridiculous.
Cosmin had wanted him. Monroe had wanted him. Countless others had vyed for the luxurious weight of his presence, and yet…
He never deserved their kindness.
(His father is right. He sees Azaire for what he is, what he isn't worth. Why else wouldn't he give a shit if he wastes his only heir in a place like this?
And now Azaire is going to die here.
Alone.)
Before the sun finally disappears, he finds a semi-shielded clump of rocks to offer him cover, not a drop of lava in sight.
Only when the anthem plays does Azaire realize he's forgotten to pause for a meal. The entire day; no food, no water, just wasting away… That explains the fucking headache, though really, that's been there ever since day one, only growing stronger. It's too much of a fucking bother to put something in his stomach, especially when the pills are right there. He downs one, washes it back with a swig of water. Once it catches on his dry throat, he can't put it down, not until he's finished the bottle. Fuck, that was my last. Better pray Ronan's got enough money to send him another in the morning.
It's a vicious karma that wakes him in the middle of the night in the form of an aching, heaving stomach, and there goes the fucking water.
• • •
He eats today.
What kind of idiot forgets to eat in the fucking Hunger Games?
He eats, and he finds no one, nothing.
It seems like ages ago when Remora led him and Cosmin on a quest for water; the memory's oddly fond now, given that both of them are dead. It's a quest he could bear to undertake again, though it's bound to be just as fruitless.
And just as unnecessary— Azaire's sure to thank Ronan for the lunch, drinks included.
The day passes similar to the last: more endless walking, and walking, and walking. 'Makers don't like it when the tributes stand still, and the last thing Azaire needs is a mutt on his heels. If he looks like he knows where he's going, they might not force him somewhere else.
He most certainly does not, but there's no point in stopping. When the sun rises, he picks himself up and plods along, and he doesn't realize he's lost track of the days, but he has.
Easy to do when you're fragmented.
He's also forgotten about the cannons until one booms overhead, and Azaire flinches. Right. That. Something about it makes him pause — proximity? Echo? Sound itself? — until he remembers the numbers.
Final eight.
He sits down. There's nothing in the immediate vicinity to support his back, so Azaire leans forward on the handle of his sword.
They'll be dragging my father on television, won't they?
He expects the bastard will be delighted. What kind of business doesn't love good publicity? That's all the man is, a business, a machine. Something to churn out profit to hoard at the grand Rivette villa. Always looking for something to own. Azaire's probably giving him the best goddamn numbers he's ever seen in his entire fucking life right now.
(He can't help but wonder whether he'll generate more profit if he lives or if he dies. He knows his father's asking the same question.)
The thought of that interview makes him sick, or maybe it's the poison in his lungs.
His lungs, his body; hell, even his hair. So much dust and ash clings to it he might as well be going grey, judging by the strands that fall into his eyes. It's seeped beneath the fabric of his clothes too; Azaire can see lines of black along his skin once he rolls up his sleeves, beneath the pearls on his wrist…
(Maybe, if he gets lucky, they'll pull Monroe onscreen for an interview too. Even if he's got nothing good to say about him, Azaire would rather it come from his mouth than anyone else's.)
Either way, he won't know until he gets out of here. If he does.
It's something to hope for.
For now, it's all he can do to shake the dust from his hair. He's careful not to rattle his skull too much; with equally-grimy fingers, he combs through the strands. He's never been in such desperate need of a goddamn shower, though he'd be an idiot to waste that water washing the filth from his body. It's an unconscious decision to stop here for the day, out in the open semi-slanted land with only bulbous rock for a pillow.
Azaire peels off his gloves, laying a palm against the obsidian. It's warm to the touch, like just about everything in here.
The urge to be clean is suddenly intense. Azaire practically tears the jacket from his body, the overalls, the t-shirt beneath; his sore hands fumble with his shoelaces, scrabbling at the thick, heavy boots. Once he kicks them off, the socks are next. He almost can't look at the state of his feet, but even the hot breeze is almost nice against his skin. Even thought he knows it's stupid, Azaire lifts the mask from his face, and sighs.
He wouldn't be surprised if his nasal passages are scarred from this damn arena, given the way they sting every time he inhales.
Azaire can't bring himself to care.
There's enough dirt under his skin to last a lifetime, caked under his fingernails even with the gloves. If he thinks about it too long, it prickles uncomfortably, itches to the point where it might be easier to rip his skin off, to purify it and start fresh.
'Let's get rid of the snake next, shall we?'
And the memories surge.
They're more real than his surroundings, barren as they are. Azaire doesn't move, doesn't realize he's crying until some girl's face swims in the sky over his head, distorted by the water in his eyes. Tears slither down his cheeks, clearing dirt in trails, and he buries his face in his balled-up shirt, scrubbing, scrubbing, scrubbing.
They seep into his dreams, too, when he doesn't realize he's asleep.
Morning comes, blistering and brutal. Typical. He lies, barely awake and aching from the inside out. The malformed rock isn't good for his back, just as dead friends aren't good for his head.
What he wouldn't give to feel nothing.
But the dreams still plague his mind, blurring the line between memory and falsity and present, and Azaire lets it come while he walks, meandering and distracted. He does eat again, he remembers. Anything he puts on his tongue tastes like sandpaper but he washes it down with the tiniest sip of water. He's cognizant enough to ration it now.
He needs a change of pace. He angles towards the mountain range, where he'll have to focus on where he puts his feet instead of his ghosts if he doesn't want to join them.
Walking with his weapon drawn has become a habit.
He's not looking for trouble, but he won't be surprised if he finds it. He's here to put on a show, after all. …God, it feels like ages since that's been a priority.
It feels like ages since he's seen another goddamn human being, too.
Maybe that's why it's so shocking when he finds one.
The other tribute freezes long enough for Azaire's rapier to land at the hollow of his throat, hovering. He's in the midst of digging into a meal of rations, eyes are just as wide as Azaire's, just as stunned. There's no mask to cover them, nothing to protect him from the arena nor the Career that now holds his life in the palm of his hands, the tip of his blade. A knife dangles uselessly in the boy's hand, and Azaire's eyes flash to the '13' emblazoned on his jacket. "What are you waiting for?" Thirteen finally says.
Azaire blinks. "I don't know." He doesn't lower his sword.
He steps closer, forcing Thirteen against the knee-high swath of frozen igneous rock he'd been leaning against. "Your name," Azaire demands.
"Why do you care?"
In response, Azaire's sword presses sharply against his skin, tilting Thirteen's chin.
"Fine! Okay! Everett Huxley, is that what you want?"
Azaire doesn't know what he wants. He should kill Everett, right now; that's the name of the game. He knows he wants to get home, he does, but he can't…
Slowly, he lowers his sword. "Azaire," he says. "Azaire Rivette."
Everett tilts his head in curiosity when Azaire sits down, pulling out his own food. "You're the rich one, aren't you? I remember your interview."
"Really? I don't."
"Yeah. Saw you in training too." That, Azaire does remember, if vaguely. "You were good."
"Still am."
"Right."
Removing his mask, Azaire unwraps a sandwich half and takes a bite; Everett watches with a longing expression that he tries (and fails) to conceal. "Where'd you get these?" Azaire says through a mouthful of food, nudging the other boy's ration wrapping with his toe.
"Cornucopia."
"Bloodbath?"
He shrugs.
Azaire squints at him. "I think I saw you."
The other boy shifts under his gaze; eventually he throws in the towel. "Not me. I sent Avi out. Actually, she wanted to go; I told her it was stupid."
"The Six girl?"
Everett nods. "We allied way back in the beginning. The two of us and Mona, my partner, but she didn't make it through the Bloodbath, so it was just us."
Right. Of course she didn't.
Azaire only hums, passing over the dangerous line of conversation, the biting guilt. "And you didn't go with her?"
"She was pissed at me after I, um. After I killed the Five girl." He coughs, clearly uncomfortable with the fact. "I think she wanted to prove that she could be useful too." A light grief colors Everett's expression, eyes far out and lips pressed together.
"It was quick," Azaire says. "My partner got her."
"Be glad it wasn't the Ones."
"Why?"
"You don't wanna know."
A silence falls over them. Then, a cannon blast.
Both tributes automatically stiffen; that's all the incentive Everett needs to start packing. Azaire merely watches, uncomprehending. "Well," he says flatly, slinging his pack over his shoulders, "it's been… nice, I guess. I'm gonna get going. Thanks for, uh, not killing me."
"Wait."
Everett stares at his outstretched hand, quizzical, and a rush of embarrassment washes over Azaire. "You don't have to go," he says.
Please don't.
He doesn't even know this Thirteen kid, but…
He can't be alone again.
Maybe Everett sees that in his expression. The boy's gaze flickers, as if he wants to run. There's seven tributes left— Azaire can't blame him.
But Azaire's not the one that can't hold his own against another Career.
Cautiously, Everett sets down his pack.