vii. THE LOST
It's getting down to the wire. Azaire can feel it. Two weeks in this shithole would be enough for anyone.
Azaire takes it upon himself to scout the nearby area for other tributes, enemies, obstacles. He missed one cannon, but as far as he knows, Rocky, Seraphima, and Raphael could all still be out there; in the very least, any combination of the two are. Azaire still doesn't know who he would prefer.
He makes it back to Everett around midday, finds the other boy's been watching their surroundings. Azaire follows his outstretched arm where the ridge of mountains lurks on the near horizon. As he watches, the tall volcano — that's what it is; no shit that's what it is — coughs up a cloud of smoke, lit beneath by an orange fire. Azaire's eyes widen; for a heartbeat the ground seems to shiver beneath his feet before settling, easily excusable to the imagination if it weren't for the matching sight.
"Did you feel that?" Everett says slowly.
Azaire nods, silent. He gets the feeling that when it erupts, a Victor will be crowned.
There won't be many moments left before.
A day, an hour; little eternities, and his time with Everett is squeezed into all of them.
Just as it was with Cosmin.
Just as he deserves.
(Azaire doesn't want to let it go.)
(Maybe he won't have to.)
"Azaire." Everett's voice falls to a whisper. "Look."
Immediately, he's on alert. The rapier is tight in his grip when his eyes land on a familiar blonde head staggering towards them.
Her movements are erratic; Seraphima hardly seems to realize how close to the edge of the cliff she is, let alone how she got here. She hasn't seen them yet either, and even the noise of Everett shifting into the cover of a crag doesn't catch her attention.
Azaire lets her get closer. He stands tall, visible.
Waiting.
The wound Cosmin carved into her shoulder looks like it's become infected, still oozing blood and pus despite the bandaging, and Azaire can't help the nasty feeling in his gut that's almost satisfied. It's what she deserves, for killing him like that. He shouldn't have died in my place, but at least someone's paying the price.
At least it's not me.
But the look on her face turns any shred of vindication to ash— he's never seen anyone look so utterly lost.
Incoherent muttering streams from her mouth, but it stops when she sees him, stops her dead in her tracks. "Azaire," she rasps. It takes her a second to focus on him; she blinks rapidly, shaking her head with vigor. Up close, he can see the tear trails that streak down her face. He doesn't know when she's removed her gloves, but her hands are drenched in blood, dried and flaking and present.
That's Cosmin's blood on her hands.
Azaire takes them in his. "Come with me, Seraphima." The rapier hangs heavy on his belt; she nods.
After everything she's done, he can't even say in full conscience that he hates her, pitiful as she is.
But he doesn't need to.
He leads her to the edge of the cliff; below them, the river of magma churns hungrily. The least he could do is let her die as she lived.
Still, she screams when he shoves her, screams as she falls, screams as she burns.
When he returns, he finds her wide-eyed expression reflected on Everett's face.
• • •
His actions earn him a reward.
Azaire tears open the gift; this late in the Games, apparently all Ronan can get him is a palm-sized orange. He left a note, of course, because the old man can't keep his nose out of Azaire's business. Him and the rest of the Capitol.
'Cut the shit.'
Everett's eyes never leave him. "What's that?"
Shrugging, Azaire discards the note. He tosses the orange from hand to hand; the organic waxiness of its peel is oddly satisfying against his bare skin, so used to the inside of his sweaty gloves. Deftly, he slides a dirt-crusted fingernail — ugh, how revolting — beneath its navel, peeling the skin from the fruit. "Apparently my mentor wants me to kill you."
"Are you going to?"
Azaire lets the task take precedence. In the wake of his silence, he splits the orange in two and offers half to his ally. The other boy waits until Azaire's finished before he eats his share.
In that moment, he's never tasted anything sweeter.
• • •
There's little warning when he wakes.
Another beat of his heart, and that would've been the last. Azaire's eyes flick open in time to catch the knife diving towards his throat. He braces against the weight on his chest, the blade tickling his neck, and in the end he's stronger.
A strangled yelp slips from Everett's lips when Azaire shoves him off. Something in his mind registers who it is, but it's not enough to stop him from wrenching the knife from the other boy's hands, from driving it into his chest, and 'Makers, it's almost easier this way.
Everett's not his savior.
The guilt will come. The loneliness will come. But self-defense, he can justify.
He's always been so selfish.
Blood gurgles from the hole in Everett's throat, untempered fear in his eyes. Azaire can't bring himself to blame the other boy for acting; it hurts, of course it hurts, but he holds Everett all the same, brushes the dirt from his face. There's something like regret in his eyes; if Azaire looks hard enough, his trembling lips almost say sorry.
He doesn't get a chance before they go still, and the cannon sounds.
Azaire doesn't want to let go.
Instead, he drags Everett's body out from the cover of their shelter for the metal vultures to come. Though his knees crack and his muscles ache, he lays down next to the Thirteen boy, side by side. His hand finds Everett's, still warm, and he links their fingers together. Even when the shadow of the hovercraft blots out the sky, Azaire stays. He stays when a disembodied voice demands he move, and when he doesn't, a paralyzing force overtakes his limbs.
He stays when the claw drops down to collect the body, and his hand goes with it until it can't.
He stays until he can move again, and he doesn't; the moon sets, the sun rises, and silent tears wet the ground by Azaire's face.
(God, he hates being alone.)