A/N: Hi all, Mae here with the lovely pair from District 4 for you on this fine Tuesday afternoon. I'm trying to stick to a nice posting schedule as we get further into intros, so you should hopefully be seeing me pretty regularly in the next months. Finally, thank you all for the lovely reviews on the last chapter, and please enjoy the one ahead!

Ezra Ben-Tal, 17

March 11th, Year 117 ADD

POV Content Warning: depression and suicidal ideation in second section

He loves the way in which his hand seems to have been made to fit perfectly into Nehemiah's, their fingers intertwining snugly like when you find two puzzle pieces that are meant to spend eternity beside each other. Ezra thinks maybe he really is meant to spend eternity beside this boy who radiates warmth and buries his feet in the golden sand, this boy who is trailing ticklish butterfly kisses up the side of Ezra's neck as they sit folded into each other on the shoreline, tangerine sun dripping lazily down through the distant horizon and glowing in the softly curling locks of Nehemiah's hair; if Ezra's hands weren't occupied he would run one through it right now.

He feels Nehemiah's breath warm and citrusy against his neck, exhaling a low, raspy chuckle; feels Nehemiah's teeth tug lightly, playfully at his earlobe: pay attention, idiot.

A blush creeping high in his cheeks, Ezra turns slowly, locks eyes with the young man beside him, leans forward until their saltwater lips are just touching. The kiss is long and gentle and teetering on the edge of deep, warmth flooding into that part of Ezra's chest that used to be reserved for emptiness and cold and the dark. Nehemiah's grin as he pulls away might as well be the sun itself, for Ezra needs it, clings to it, the way his body clings to life.

"There you are," his boyfriend mutters, his voice low and husky and like sweet music to Ezra's ears, "where'd you drift off to?"

"Just thinking," Ezra sighs out honestly.

"Yeah?" Nehemiah mutters through a smile, long slender fingers tracing the ridge of Ezra's collarbone, "What were you thinking about, handsome?"

"... You," he whispers in response, too shy and fragile and tentative to put volume behind his words, "and me. Together."

Nehemiah's answering smile is genuine and sweet, softly pushing Ezra to continue.

"I think that maybe…" Ezra glances down at their hands, still intertwined, always intertwined, and Nehemiah follows his gaze, lifts their clasped fingers slowly, plants a kiss on Ezra's knuckles, "I think that the universe hand-made me for you; I think that maybe we're meant to be just like this, meant to stay just like this."

The doubt that rises in Nehemiah's eyes, the hesitation in the way he pulls away just a little, in the way his reassuring smile almost falls away, is just enough to be everything Ezra is afraid of.

"Ez, I-" Nehemiah's troubled gaze slides to the ground, his face harder to make out as the golden light behind him fades into cold periwinkle, "I can't… we're… just- just listen." He draws away completely, warm calloused hand slipping away from Ezra's grasp, leaving him cold and empty and alone again, the inches that separate him from his boyfriend suddenly seeming like world-weary miles.

"There's something I need to tell you and I-" Nehemiah pauses, eyes flicking up momentarily, and he's the one whispering, now, "I just hoped- I want you to be happy for me. Okay? Please, this is… it's important. And it's good."

And Ezra's shaking his head because he already knows what's coming.

"Ez- Ezra, stop. You can't do that, okay?" Nehemiah takes a shaking breath, lifts his face again, and Ezra can see in his boyfriend's eyes that this is hurting both of them but still he's sure it must be hurting him more because leaving can't possibly hurt as much as being left, "You can't need me like that, you have to stop. I can't live like that; please don't make me. Please don't make me choose between your happiness and mine."

Ezra hears the end to that sentence, even if Nehemiah doesn't speak it aloud: I'm afraid of what I would choose. And Nehemiah's eyes are begging him and Nehemiah has never, ever begged him for anything. But Ezra can't give him this, can't sit there and not ask him to choose. Because the choice should be easy, shouldn't it? Ezra knows that this is big, knows that Nehemiah has been training for this his whole life, knows that he should be happy for his boyfriend.

But Nehemiah is Ezra's entire world, his every thought, his very reason for living; and shouldn't that much love have to go both ways? How could the importance of absolutely anything else possibly measure up to how much Nehemiah should need him too?

He sort of just… stops being, after that evening. He's already lost everything, what difference does it make whether Nehemiah is still breathing when he's already dead? It's like some string inside of Ezra snaps when his boyfriend volunteers for the Games, like the last little bit of Wanting To Live left his body in the last detached, unmemorable kiss Nehemiah gave him at the train station.

The emptiness is back, along with the cold, and the dark. The pit inside of him is gaping and nightly he fills it with saltwater, crouches under the docks as golden hours fade into dusks and sees how long he can go without breathing. He's in the sea when Nehemiah is killed; he only knows the next morning when people bring him flowers. He doesn't feel anything. He thinks he's supposed to feel something.

He pulls apart the flowers petal by petal like children pull the legs off of spiders. He drowns every blossom in the sea and watches it wilt. He wants more things to be dead inside, like him. He plucks at every stem until nothing is left but green filament beneath his fingernails, because he doesn't have the energy to really destroy anything. He doesn't have it in him to grieve Nehemiah because he is still mourning himself, still suffocating under the lapping waves, never really got to come up long enough to breathe. He drifts away in morsels of humanity until all he is is withered and hollow and paper-thin.

Lola Claiborne, 18

May 26th, Year 118 ADD

Lola Claiborne has never been one for waiting, and she's not going to start by waiting for the sun. She is awake long before it rises, launching herself automatically into routine. She pulls her hair back into a tight, high ponytail, brushes her teeth with one hand while she fills a water bottle with the other. After swinging through a set of pullups on the bar she installed in her doorframe last year, she's practically flying down the stairs and out the door, her sneakers pounding the hard-packed sand as she sets out jogging, the bright yellow sun chasing her up the hill into downtown District Four, the six mile run to the training center interspersed with powerful, efficient sets of push-ups; today might be special but she follows her routine to the letter, the same as always. Her foundation is her key to success.

She's halfway through her stretches, a fine sheen of sweat covering both her and the mats she's set out on the gymnasium floor, when Kessel arrives. The toothy smile she shoots him as a greeting is unfamiliar on her normally stony face, and she ends up hitting far closer to "killer shark" than "friendly and encouraging" on the grand relative scale of grins. The look Kessel gives her in return is profoundly unsettled and he starts warming up in the opposite corner of the gym.

Lola snorts out a laugh mid-situp as she watches him awkwardly warm up; he's clearly uncomfortable in this scenario, much more accustomed to a gym lively with blasting music and goofing off with his buddies instead of training seriously. When his lost-looking gaze swipes in Lola's direction, the roll of her eyes isn't even trying not to be derisive; her future District partner is clearly far from self-disciplined, and his lack of determination leaves nothing to be respected. His immense store of raw talent and his complete failure to do anything with it are hardly impressive when she knows the value of having worked for this every day for years.

Tarquin, as usual, enters the room with a certain noticeable shortage of subtlety; half-dressed and sopping wet, he practically bounds down the stairs, full of life, the potent stench of chlorine following him through the double glass doors. He sweeps through the gymnasium energetically, offering each of them a banana (which she does not accept) and a fist bump (which, with bewilderment, she does).

Thankfully, despite his slight overabundance of panache, Tarquin is a man after her own heart: determined, hardworking, and prepared. Within minutes he has both 18-year-olds set up at the sides of the sparring ring, Lola and Kessel both now straight-faced and serious as they pull on their gear and test out the weight and balance of the spears the mentor hands each of them.

It's not remotely Lola's first rodeo up against Kessel, but for the sake of practice she sizes him up anyway. The boy is a good few inches taller than her and likely to dwarf most women, and he's built like a stone pillar: in terms of brute strength, she's at a severe disadvantage, but that kind of size bonus does come with its disadvantages. Lola knows she's faster, more agile, and much better conditioned; even more importantly, she knows her opponent isn't putting his all into this fight. She knows he's not like her, won't put his all behind everything he sets out to do. That intensity and determination? They're her weapons.

She flies into action before the whistle even leaves Tarquin's mouth, ducking low to avoid Kessel's swing at where her head used to be and stabbing at his unprotected abdomen. He jumps out of reach just in time, changes his grip to adjust for her strategy and almost gets a hit in as she dives out of the way, rolling quickly to her feet and whipping around in time to block his next hit, both hands gripping the shaft of her spear tightly as she tries to leverage her way out of a weapons lock she knows he'll win. She leans back awkwardly, bending away to avoid the spearhead that shoots out millimeters above her face as she releases her stick's pressure against his, spins her stick to take a hard smack at the backs of his knees.

He stumbles for just a moment, but it's all the opening she needs, slashing up to disarm him; a well-placed kick in the groin area sends her partner to his knees and before he can look up again she's mimed bashing in the back of his head and Tarquin's shrill whistle is sounding again, the beep of the stopwatch in his palm discordant against it.

Kessel groans, disgruntled and embarrassed, refusing the hand Lola offers in courtesy to help him off the floor. He sits heavily on the bleachers and crosses his arms in a huff, but the glare he shoots her is weak at best; honestly, he just looks annoyed and a little bit… scared of her? She hopes not; if he's afraid of her now she's not feeling a whole lot of confidence that he won't be completely pathetic when they hit the Games less than a month from now.

In all fairness, though, Kessel being a complete wimp in the Capitol is still leagues better than what she'll have to deal with if he chickens out now; she knows as well as anybody that the victors don't have a replacement lined up. As much as she appreciates this long-term effort to "rehabilitate four as a Career district" or whatever, the ways in which they're doing it are having a detrimental effect on her Games and she's far from willing to accept a failure that's not even her own fault.

She knows, however, exactly what's going to go down if Kessel drops the ball on this. It wasn't even a contest for him to get the spot; there's no suitable replacement. The only chance at another half-decent male tribute is to pick from among the 17-year-olds, some of whom are actually showing a good bit of potential, but Lola knows they won't risk it. No point in wasting a 17-year-old now when they could improve their chances with another year of training, right? So she'll be stuck babysitting some normal, self-pitying reaped kid. She doesn't have time to do the whole pity thing; Kessel's not ideal, but she needs him on this.

So when he pulls her aside on her way out of the gym, his face full of regret, she knows she's not going into these Games with anybody on her side; she's going to have to do this all on her own.

A/N: Alright, how was that for our last Career district? Two extremely different kids coming from Four this year; thank you so much to goldie031 and david12341 for Ezra and Lola respectively, they're both tons of fun to work with. This is a pretty special district team because Goldie and David are two of the people I've known the absolute longest on this site.

Please feel free to put thoughts in feelings in a review below, or even just mention them to me on Discord; I know I'm not perfect and I love to hear feedback from you guys on what I'm doing well and what I can improve. That said, see you all very soon when I report back from District Five!