viii. THE IMPERFECT
Something makes him move. Azaire can't pinpoint what it is, but he gets to his feet, brushes himself off as if he's merely fallen in the dirt.
The earth shakes.
Azaire's eyes snap to the volcano, looming, trembling. He slips the gas mask over his face, grabs his rapier, and moves.
The earth shakes again. Bits of loose rock trickle down the slope, landing into sizzling lava meters below. It's beneath Azaire's notice.
The tribute that practically stumbles upon him isn't.
There's a number on his jacket, but Azaire doesn't bother looking. A flash of metal against his skin, and Azaire's already moving before the body hits the ground.
• • •
Despite all this time in the arena, Azaire hasn't really gotten a chance to fight.
He's capable of so much more than his measly little kill at the Bloodbath, his vengeance, his retaliation. It's an art, the way he fights; sweeping gestures, deadly flourishes, a round of applause when he bows as a victor.
But the Capitol doesn't like neat, easy fights. Not here.
Not like his opponents will make things easy.
In the crater of the volcano, Roksana Osinov and Raphael Desrosiers stand across from him, poised to fight. Azaire can't see their faces; just like him, they wear gas masks. Rocky's stance carries a determination that Azaire's come to expect from her, and she'll fight tooth and nail no matter how much or how little she respects him. Raphael, elusive as ever, stands still as the statue he is. Azaire can't get a read on him, but he'll make damn well sure the One boy's bloodless Victory will be a fever dream if it's the last thing he does.
Between them, smoke pours from cracks in the caldera. No doubt the noxious steam will burn just as fiercely as the magma stewing beneath their feet.
He and Rocky share a look, a silent agreement.
If I can't win, I'd rather it be you.
"I'd say it's nice to see you all again," Azaire calls out, "but that would be a lie. What do you say we get this shit over with?"
In response, clouds of steam hiss through the cracks; Azaire skitters out of the way, towards the center. Towards his enemies. He jerks up at Raphael's wordless bellow to find the One boy charging straight towards him, staff upright.
Azaire grits his teeth. He squares his shoulders, twirls his rapier in preparation; light on his toes. When the One boy gets within range, Azaire ducks neatly beneath the swing of his staff. He flicks the rapier across his ribs as he dives; the ache in his body protests the movement, but Azaire shoves it from his mind.
Fight now, pain later.
Raphael's shadow looms over him, sudden and heavy; the staff socks him in the stomach, and he staggers. God, he hates blunt weapons. Gasping, Azaire rips the mask from his face so he can breathe; he readies his rapier to catch the next strike, but something else cracks. Raphael whips around, blocking Rocky's mace, but she's too quick for him, already out of range. Azaire takes the opportunity, flicking his blade across the back of Raphael's calves.
The boy grunts, and this time, Azaire's quicker than his enemy. He dances out of reach of his retaliation, a daring grin stretching his cheeks. Behind the One boy, he catches Rocky's eyes; dim light flashes off her mace as it arcs towards Raphael's head—
He ducks; it crashes into his shoulder, and he staggers forwards with a cry of pain.
Azaire's hand snaps forward, snatching the weapon from his grasp. His own rapier follows; it carves a deep line through his jacket along the inside of his arm, and dark blood immediately soaks the once-yellow fabric a deep red.
Weaponless, Raphael retreats. "Give that back," he spits, though Azaire can hear the undercurrent of panic.
He tuts, ever-cheeky, brandishing the staff. "I don't think so, big guy."
A crack of metal against stone— Raphael's head whips towards the source of the noise behind him. Rocky's heavy blunt slams again into the ground, widening the cracks at their feet, widening Azaire's eyes. Bright orange flares through the fragments, and Rocky's last strike leaves her weapon coated in bits of red-gold magma.
When Raphael turns back around, Azaire's rapier lands just beneath his chin.
Azaire steps closer; the One boy chokes as it sinks further into his flesh, and in one smooth movement, Azaire withdraws the blade and sweeps the staff, catching Raphael under the chin.
The One boy topples backwards; with a heavy splash, he lands in the pit of lava, thrashing and writhing in death throes that have long since lost their meaning to Azaire. Rocky's spiked mace silences him for good, reducing his skull to a mess of blistering gore.
The cannon fires. Two left.
Azaire opens his mouth— to congratulate her, to thank her, whatever— when she throws herself at him. A strangled noise escapes Azaire's mouth; it morphs to a screech as he lands, nose inches from the magma, heat searing his bare skin. He twists, his body, his head; Rocky's hand tangles in his hair and shoves.
All he sees is white.
Inhuman shrieks tear from his throat, but Azaire can't hear them, can't even feel them through the burn. His limbs thrash of their own volition, and her weight shifts, lifts, and it's enough for him to scramble free.
Air sears his throat as he breathes. Light flickers around him, but he can't see, he can't. The fire that eats his nerves leaves him ragged and gasping; vague shadows dance before him and he ducks—
New pain explodes in his shoulder; muscle tears, bones shatter, blood flows, and Azaire screams.
Shadows flicker again, and it's all he can do to throw himself anywhere else. What's left of his vision goes red with agony, and he barely registers his fingers brushing against a familiar handle.
The rapier.
(In the moment before, a thousand thoughts rush through his mind.
Most are pain.
Few are logic.
All are real.
Yes, he volunteered to die for Monroe's sake. But that doesn't mean he can't fight for his own. No one else is going to.
And maybe, just maybe, he deserves a little bit better.)
Red shadow flickers.
Azaire hauls himself to his knees, and lunges.
Boom.
"Ladies and gentlemen, the Victor of the One Hundred and Seventy-First Hunger Games: Azaire Rivette of District Four!"
• • •
It takes days for Azaire to wake. Longer for him to see.
Even then, it's only one eye. The other, it's gone; either they removed it, or it melted from his skull, Azaire doesn't care which, only that it's gone. The working one only sees shadows at first; shadows and light, and vague color. Something about damage from heat and volcanic fumes.
No shit, he thinks when they tell him, but he's still in and out of consciousness, in and out.
He barely registers it when the Head visits him personally to congratulate him, let alone the Capitolite minions and nurses and doctors.
Ronan visits too. He's there when they unwrap his face.
Azaire's right eye is having a good day today, and god, he wishes it isn't. Fuck the poison in his lungs and the shattered bones of his left shoulder blade; his fucking face.
Red anger marrs the entirety of his left side, stretching from his hairline down to his jaw. The eye got the worst of it; the raw, empty socket almost makes Azaire want to hurl. His eyebrow is long gone, replaced with leather-like skin that stretches uncomfortably. The bits of his hair that singed away in the magma didn't grow back, leaving a bare spot that Azaire's already thinking of how to cover.
(How is he going to be loved if he can't be pretty?)
Cool hospital air caresses his skin, stinging and soothing, though when Azaire pokes at his cheek, the pain flares hot.
"Aye, stop that," Ronan chides.
His hands tremble. "There's nothing they could do?" he whispers. His throat's still raw and healing; it hurts to talk, to move his mouth.
"They're working on it," Ronan says not unkindly. "Give it some time."
The next time he looks, it's somewhat better.
But all the Calitolite magic in the world can't make him who he used to be.
• • •
Azaire's not healed by the time they drag him through the post-Victory bullshit. His face is shiny and red. His eye's still missing. His entire upper body is strung in a sling so tight it makes his even uninjured muscles ache. Rattling coughs still wrack his body whenever he breathes too deeply.
Ronan gives him some pills for the pain as they dress him up; they make his head feel light and fuzzy, but Azaire welcomes it.
It's easier to smile that way, to pretend it doesn't hurt, that he's not broken.
He doesn't even register the excited chattering of his prep team, his stylist. They're cautious with his shoulder, with his makeup, and that's all he cares about. And the outfit is stunning too; pearls, fine silks, even a wristwatch with a face made of diamond-studded opaline seashell.
He almost feels good, like himself again.
But the Capitol is not gentle. There's not a single person that doesn't comment on his face.
• • •
Azaire gets the sense that the Capitol is trying to outdo the arena in the toll they take on his mental state.
"It's such a shame. You were such a good-looking kid," the interviewer says blithely, and even through the pills, Azaire grits his teeth. "What a Victory though! Six kills and two little romances in there; that's more than most people get!" Marcus Argentus laughs. "Your people back home must be proud!"
"Sure," Azaire chokes out. Sure they are.
When they release him from the stage, Ronan hauls him back to their suite and out of the public eye; maybe he should be giving the old man more credit.
"Don't listen to them," Ronan says gruffly. "They're a bunch of assholes. And you're a pain in the ass too, don't get me wrong…"
"Thanks," Azaire clips.
Ronan looks at him, sincerity in his scruffy features. "I'm proud of you, kid."
Azaire blinks. And before he realizes it, the tears are flowing and his chest heaves with sobs that make his broken bones ache. Ronan's hand comes to rest at his uninjured shoulder, patting him gently until he finally quiets.
• • •
Azaire's father meets him at the train station, and it's so far from anything he expects that all he can do is stand there while the man hugs him.
Actually hugs him.
A genuine, two-armed, can't-breathe-til-it's-over hug. He's stunned silent, nearly gagging on the scent of lemon-aloe aftershave and the spark of pain that shoots through his shoulder, but he doesn't dare speak up. He hasn't been hugged by his father since… It must've been long before his mother died, if then. If ever. Welles Rivette pulls away, and he's wearing the same face he always does, offset by a polite smile that can't be the one Azaire inherited.
It's the reunion the public wanted, the wayward heir reunited with his aloof but inwardly caring father. It's what he wanted, the affection, the recognition…
(But Azaire saw it; the way his father hesitated when he brushed the hair back from his face. The way he made sure only to touch the unmarred parts of his skin.)
At least it made a lovely photo.
• • •
Ronan's running him through a shipment of various materials for a Victor's talent when Azaire's father shows up at the manor.
Apparently, he wants Azaire to invest his winnings in the company.
"Respectfully, Mr. Rivette," Ronan says cautiously, "I don't think that's the best idea right now—"
"Don't tell me what's best for my son," Welles snaps.
"Alright-y then; disrespectfully, Mr. Rivette, you don't have a say in what Azaire does with his money."
Welles turns to Azaire. "You think this riff-raff knows what's best for you? This is far too much responsibility for someone your age to handle—"
"Ooh, look at this." Azaire ignores his father, plucking a shiny bronze trumpet from the pile.
"Son, we really should talk about your—"
Azaire raises the instrument to his lips and blows a loud blast in his father's face. The withering look Welles gives him might've had more of an impact on the old Azaire; now, his lips twitch into a grin at the loud belly-laughter coming from his mentor.
"Azaire—"
Another blast shakes the table; this time he tries a few different notes.
"This is childish and immature! You are only proving my point!"
Two short blasts; one long; one short. Three long. Two short, one long, one short. Two short, one long, one short.
Fuck off.
Thank the 'Makers the bastard gets the hint.
• • •
It's ages before Monroe comes around.
Azaire doesn't see him at first; he's meters out from the shore out back and has been for the past few hours. It's a routine he does often; the salt soothes his skin, and floating relieves the ache in his still-healing shoulder, if only for a little while.
The familiar voice that shouts his name feels like a dream.
"Azaire!"
It comes again, and Azaire finally looks up.
There he is on the beach, hands cupped around his mouth to call out. He waves, and Azaire's never moved faster in his life. He throws himself at the other boy, all soaking wet and aching bone. Monroe lets out a yelp that brings an automatic grin to Azaire's face, but he hugs him back just as fierce. "Azaire, oh my god," he breathes. "I thought I'd never see you again."
Azaire's still caught up in his embrace to respond, breathing in his familiarity.
"I'm sorry, I would've come sooner, but I had to save up for a ticket; it took so fucking long—"
"A ticket?"
They separate, and Monroe smiles sadly. "I moved back home after the Reaping. Not so easy to get out to the Islands when you're not in training."
Oh. A flicker of guilt worms its way into Azaire's stomach. "You could've called. You can always call."
"…I didn't know if you'd want to see me."
The irony almost makes him want to laugh. "I… of course I do. I didn't think you would want to see me."
Monroe hesitates, and Azaire takes that as a sign to keep going.
"You'd have every right. The shit I said to you… I'm sorry, Roe. I never meant any of that, I swear."
"Azaire…"
"I didn't mean to take this from you, but I just… I couldn't let you leave. I wouldn't change what I did for the world, but a thousand times over, I'd change what I said."
"Azaire."
"I promise, I never meant it—"
"Azaire."
Azaire stops. Monroe's smiling, and god how he missed that smile. "It's okay. I know."
A/N: Once again, thank you to Dyl for ur incredible child, I hope you enjoy his story :heart: This all happened in my slow writing era so I wasn't able to make a blog before the deadline but I fully intend to, y'all need to see this cast theyre so fun ;-; Definitely wanting to do some art for them too, especially Azaire, he's practically demanding to be drawn ;-; So keep an eye out for that ! Also Dyl was the one who wrote my kid also, so thank you so much for that Dyl ! You wrote Honey so well, I adored everything you did with her :heart: Eventually I'll get around to updating my profile and linking everything there !
Also it's pretty evident that I've been neglecting TrV in favor of this, but I'll be real, the next chap of that is not one I want to half-ass it needs some editing before i can get that out to y'all but it will be soon ! See y'all then !
- Nell