Nezumi had goose bumps all the way back to the Training Center. He had heard jokes about the Capitol citizens and the victors, about what they got up to. Everyone joked about the Capitol's fanaticism, but Nezumi never imagined…
He felt cold and dirty, and by the time he had stumbled into the elevator and shot toward floor seven, he felt like he might scream or throw up or punch someone in the face. Why did this have to be his life?
Haven't we suffered enough?
Nezumi slammed his fist against the elevator door and grit his teeth against the pain.
They would not have him. The Capitol may have its ways, as Ricky so delicately put it, but Nezumi had an idea of what those ways were, and they couldn't touch him. He had no one else to lose and nothing left to give. What little was left of him after the Games was his. He would kill again before they took more from him.
The elevator doors slid open silently and Nezumi stalked through the living room. He didn't want to see anyone, especially not Rou or Gran. He knew now why Rou had been questioning him the other morning, and it made Nezumi sick to think about his mentors in his position.
Nezumi crept into his room and locked the door. He flinched when he saw his reflection in the mirror over the bed and cursed at himself for being so weak.
Get a hold of yourself. It's not going to happen to you. Nezumi drew in a breath through his nose, counted backwards from ten, and released it. They will not break you.
He crossed the room and tugged off his clothes, ignoring the urge to get into the shower and scrub himself raw. Slowly, calmly, he pulled on a pair of clean pants and a loose fitting shirt. He felt better after that. Things seemed a little more manageable in this dark room with the sight and sounds of that stupid holographic forest playing around him.
There was a knock at the door. Nezumi stiffened. He eyed the handle, waiting for it to jiggle as the person tried it, but it remained still and the knock didn't come again, despite the seconds. A small white slip slid under the door. Nezumi padded across the room and peered at it. It was a napkin, and it said:
Would you like some tea?
Nezumi frowned at the interrogative."Ridiculous," he grumbled to himself and unlocked the door.
Shion's big brown eyes blinked at him when he cracked it open. Nezumi leered at him, but he did, in fact, have tea, and the scent of fresh mint wafted from the mug. Nezumi stepped back and waved Shion forward.
Shion placed the tea gently on the bedside table and took up the pen and paper instead.
"Really making yourself at home, aren't you?" Nezumi said blandly.
Shion wrote. I can try to find my own paper and pen if it bothers you.
"I don't care. Do what you want."
Shion tilted his head at him. Everything in his face asked, "Are you alright?" and Nezumi answered automatically.
"I'm fine. Capitol people put me in a bad mood."
Shion's eyebrows drew together in understanding. He pressed his lips tight and wrote on the notepad.
I can try to cheer you up, if you want.
Nezumi sniffed at him. "You can try, but honestly I don't know remember what it's like to not feel pissed." He took the tea off the table sat on the edge of the bed to sip it. It tasted deliciously bright, and the warmth did help lighten his mood a bit. Nezumi motioned for Shion to proceed. "Well? Go on. Write me something heartwarming."
Shion pouted. He glanced around room and appeared to be inspired by something he saw. Nezumi furrowed his brow as Shion walked across the room and stood next to the wall. He shot a shy smile at Nezumi and rapped on the wall twice.
Nezumi stared blankly at him. Shion rapped on the wall a second time, slower and more deliberate.
Knock, knock.
Nezumi's expression darkened. "Are you serious?"
Shion huffed and crossed his arms.
"…Fine. Who's there?"
Shion pointed up and to his left.
"Television who?"
Shion shook his head and pointed again.
"Screen? Speaker?"
Shion snapped his fingers and nodded. The shy smile made a reappearance, and he gestured for Nezumi to continue the formula.
"Speaker who?"
Shion made an X with his arms and then pointed to himself. Nezumi's mouth sagged at the corners, but for some reason Shion was smiling like he had managed the pinnacle of comedy.
That's supposed to cheer me up? What kind of weirdo makes a joke about being an Avox?
It was morbid and absurd, but Nezumi supposed that it was a sort of accomplishment for Shion. He had managed to tell a joke when he physically couldn't "tell" anyone anything anymore.
And suddenly Nezumi's mouth quirked into a smirk. He remembered that at the Victor's Ball the President had used an Avox to illustrate his point by challenging the man to tell a joke. If only Fox had asked Shion, his metaphor would have went up in flames.
Shion looked very pleased with himself when he saw Nezumi break into a smile, and even though Shion's sad, self-demeaning joke wasn't really the reason he was smiling, Nezumi didn't tell him so.
"You're crazy, you know that?" Nezumi said to him.
Shion shrugged a shoulder and came back to his side. He deliberated for a moment and then plopped down on the bed a few hand spans away from Nezumi.
Feeling better? Shion wrote.
"If I am, it has nothing to do with you and everything to do with the tea."
Stingy. And might I remind you the tea was all me.
Nezumi chuckled. "Honestly, I still don't understand why you bother. But I won't go down that rabbit hole again." Nezumi took another hearty sip of the tea, enjoying the warmth of it sliding down his throat. He placed the mug aside and leaned back on the bed to stare up at the ceiling. He felt sleepy all of a sudden.
All that socializing…
A pang of discomfort shot through his chest as the afternoon washed over him again. Nezumi sat up and swallowed. He grabbed the tea and forced a searing mouthful down.
The sound of pen scratching on paper met his ears and Nezumi turned to watch Shion write, if only to have something to distract his eyes while his thoughts ran amuck. Shion's brow was creased, his mouth taut, his fingers white where they gripped the pen. His hand flew across the paper, but every once in a while his jaw would clench and he would backtrack to slash an errant or misspelled word out and start again. Shion's thoughts and feelings seemed to run swifter than his hand had speed to pen them. He looked pained. Nezumi could feel the frustration rolling off him like heat.
The memories of the afternoon faded from Nezumi's mind as he watched Shion struggle through the first page of the pad and flip it over to write on the next. The disgust he felt at his predicament gave way to pity for Shion's. He had barely known Shion when he was whole, but he remembered the earnestness with which Shion spoke to him, so desperate to get his meaning across that he fumbled through his sentences like a blushing schoolboy. And now he was reduced to scribbling his passions, relegated to long silences he raced to fill with ink.
Nezumi felt suddenly hot. Ashamed. Ricky's threats still dangled over his head like a guillotine, but for Shion the blade had already fallen.
Shion tugged at his bangs and sighed. He dropped the pen and held the paper out. Nezumi glanced down at the cramped writing, catching a snatch of an apology, a hesitation, a gentle reminder of solidarity. Nezumi placed a hand on the notepad and pushed it down to the space between them on the bed.
Shion's brows drew together. He stared at the notepad sandwiched between their hands.
"I have something for you," Nezumi said quietly. Shion's eyes flashed in surprise as Nezumi rose. "Stay here, would you?"
He barely remembered to tack on the question. But then he probably didn't have to; Avoxes were subject to other's commands, but it wasn't like they were physically compelled to obey, and they both knew by now that Nezumi's words were not orders.
Nezumi left the room and passed down the hallway into the kitchen. He returned to find Shion unmoved. His hand was still exactly where he'd left it on the bed, beneath the notepad.
Shion's eyes dropped from Nezumi's face to the box in his hands. He drew in a sharp breath and Nezumi knew he had recognized the bubbly yellow writing. Shion trembled as Nezumi approached and placed the cake on the bedside table.
"I…" The word came out crackly and Nezumi cleared his throat and started again. "Your mama… She gave this to me. She said to share it, so…" He gestured at the cake and then tucked his arms over his chest. "It's yours."
Shion brushed his fingers against the edge of the box. He slid the cherry cake out—apart from the one missing piece it was untouched. Shion stared down at the cake and gradually his eyes filled with tears. Nezumi's heart dropped.
Crap. Nezumi's eyes flitted from the cake to the stream of tears streaking Shion's cheeks. Karan may have given him the cake to share, but Nezumi had forgotten that to Shion it was beyond his capability to enjoy. How could I be so stupid?
The thought echoed back to him twofold when he realized Shion was not crying because of the cake, but for the memory of his mother.
Nezumi carefully stepped around Shion and retrieved the note from the bedside table drawer. Shion took the slip of paper from him with shaking hands. His tears ran faster and thicker as he read the words. A low whimper escaped Shion's throat, and Nezumi's chest constricted at the sound. He had spent so many silent days with Shion he had forgotten that he was not actually mute.
Shion cradled the note in his hands and sobbed and Nezumi stood there. He felt awful and awkward and ill equipped. He had never been good at comforting people—he couldn't even comfort himself—and this seemed like a private grief that he should let play out.
Nezumi went back to the door and locked it.
None too soon.
Something crashed into door. The handle jiggled furiously, and from the other side, Kal snarled.
"Nezumi! Open up. You need to help me!"
Shion's sobs choked off to a sniffle. Nezumi shot a disconcerted look at him. The other teen swiped at his wet face and scrubbed his nose with the sleeve of his shirt. He still looked like a miserable blotchy mess, but there was nothing to do for it. Shion slipped the note into his pocket and sluggishly collected the notepad, pen, and cake to his chest. Then he stood in middle of the room and stared at Nezumi with resignation.
"Nezumi! Come on, this is serious." Kal banged on the door again. "Please open up."
Nezumi's brows shot up. If Kal said please then it must be serious.
"Kal," another voice whined. It was Gregor's. "Kal, please be reasonable."
"No! I'm not wearing that thing! You can't make me. Nezumi!" The door rattled and Nezumi was certain it was from a kick.
Nezumi bit the inside of his cheek. He couldn't very well open the door and let everyone see him alone with Shion, especially with the state he was in. And he didn't think Shion would be too pleased to be caught in this moment of vulnerability.
"Over here," Nezumi whispered and waved Shion over to the bathroom. "Stay in here. I'll get everyone to leave and then you can sneak out."
Shion stood on the tiled floor of the bathroom, looking sad and strange with his bounty of cake and paper. He placed the contents of his arms on the counter and nodded at Nezumi. Nezumi nodded back and turned to leave, but a tug on the hem of his shirt made him pause. Shion tilted his head at the cake and twitched his mouth into a two-second smile.
"It's nothing," Nezumi mumbled.
Another fight between Gregor and Kal broke out on the other side of the door and the moment jolted apart. Nezumi scowled and closed the bathroom door on Shion.
"What?" Nezumi demanded, wrenching his bedroom door open.
Kal's eyes flashed. Before he could blink, they darted into his room and hid behind him.
The escort looked harried. "Nezumi, please talk some sense into that child. She's being completely unreasonable."
Kal bared their teeth at Gregor from Nezumi's shadow. Nezumi felt completely lost.
"Alright, what the hell is going on?" He turned to Kal for the explanation.
Kal jabbed a finger in Gregor's direction. "He and those stupid stylists are trying to put me in a dress. I'm not wearing a dress! I don't wear dresses. I told them over and over again, but no one will listen to me!"
Is that it? Kal was breaking down his door for this? But Kal was gripping his shirt hard enough to wrinkle and their eyes were wild with pleading.
"Where are the stylists?" Nezumi asked Gregor.
"In the sunroom."
"Alright. I'll handle this."
Gregor's face flushed in triumph. "Oh, thank goodness. This way." The escort scurried down the hall.
"Come on, Kal." Nezumi moved out into the hallway, but Kal didn't follow. Their face was ashen and puckered. "Ah geez," Nezumi muttered. "Don't you dare cry. I've seen enough crying today. I said I'd handle it, didn't I? You're the one that barged down my door screaming for help."
Kal's face scrunched in distrust, but they slunk out into the hall. Nezumi thought he heard the muted click of the bathroom door opening behind him. He left the bedroom door ajar and walked to the sunroom.
His eyes were drawn immediately to the bright yellow dress on the mannequin in the middle of the room. It was exquisitely tailored with lace trim at the collar and hem and delicate girlish ruffles on the skirt. It was adorable, but it wasn't Kal.
The stylist and prep team stood around the dress, looking scandalized and angry. One of the attendants was cradling his hand as a medic wrapped it in gauze. The attendant and medic glared as Kal came into the room.
"Nezumi, thank goodness you're here." One of the women surged forward. Nezumi recognized her as Kal's appointed stylist. Mellia, or Melody, or something like that. The woman pointed at Kal. "We're trying to prepare Kal, but she's acting like a rabid animal. She bit Minos!"
Nezumi guessed Minos was the attendant with the bleeding hand. He shot a look of disapproval at Kal, but the youth only shrugged and glared back at their hostile entourage.
"I'm sorry about that," Nezumi said to the stylist. "I heard you want them to wear a dress to the interview? Is that it?"
The stylist smiled and approached the yellow dress. "Isn't it darling? Kal is certain to win sponsors with this. It's perfect for her dark skin tone and will make her shine like a star on that stage… But she won't even try it on!" The stylist pouted. The rest of the prep team bunched around her in sympathy. "Would you please tell Kal to do as we say, Nezumi?"
Nezumi circled the dress, feeling the fabric between his fingers and frowning thoughtfully. The team watched with baited breath when at last Nezumi paused and turned back to the stylist.
"This is a beautiful dress," he said, and the prep team bent toward him like eager flowers. Kal, however, shriveled and backed toward the door. "But," Nezumi continued, and then left the word hanging in the air like a sigh.
Kal paused in their escape. The prep team's faces froze in various stages of confusion.
Nezumi pressed a hand to his mouth and stared at the dress, dismayed. He dropped his hand and shook his head. "No, I'm sorry, this doesn't fit the image we created for Kal at all. Kal is supposed to be rough but charming, but this… No one is going to see Kal as a serious contender in this. It's all wrong. You have to redo it."
The stylist's eyes were wide as saucers. "Re… redo it?" she said faintly.
Nezumi nodded sagely. "Yes, I'm afraid I can't let Kal interview in this dress. It's pretty, but very, very wrong. If I might make a suggestion… perhaps trousers and a vest? I think the androgyny will work well for us. And no yellow, please."
Nezumi brushed by the stylist, who by now had gone completely white, and placed a hand on Kal's shoulder. Kal flinched, but allowed it.
Nezumi smiled gently at the stylist. "I know it's a challenge to recreate the piece with the amount of time left, but I think you can do it. Would you? For Kal? Or, at least for me?"
The prep team defrosted a little at the gentility in his demeanor.
"W-well…" the stylist choked out. "Well. Yes, I… I suppose." She turned away sharply. "Come now, everyone. We're going back to the design room. See if we can scrounge up any other fabric… Take the dress, quickly. We haven't much time."
The prep team and stylist scrambled to collect their things.
"You must come back with us too," the stylist barked at Kal. Kal was looking pretty well pleased with the situation, but turned instantly defensive. The woman rolled her eyes. "We need to retake your measurements. A suit jacket and trousers is an entirely different beast. Now, come." She shoved Kal out with the rest of her team.
Nezumi stood alone in the room, finally. He ran a hand over his face and sighed. Today was not pulling any punches.
"What did I tell you about the sighing?"
Nezumi dropped his hand. Gran stood in the doorway. The lines of her face were hard and disapproving, but her expression very rarely differed. It was the disappointment in her eyes that told Nezumi he was in for a lecture.
Nezumi sighed again, heavier and longer than before. Gran's mouth curved ever downward.
"Come on, Gran. It's been a hell of a day. I think I've earned a sigh or two. I went to that luncheon and practically prostituted—" He snapped his mouth shut.
Gran's eyes flickered and Nezumi was terrified of the concern he glimpsed in their depths.
"What do you want?" Nezumi demanded. "It's obvious you came here to chew me out, so get on with it."
Gran studied him, but at last Nezumi saw the hardness return.
"You're getting attached."
Nezumi narrowed his eyes. "What?"
"You need to stop, Nezumi. You're going to get yourself hurt. Well, more hurt." Gran shook her head and took a step into the room. The space seemed smaller with her standing in the middle of it. "You can't save them."
Nezumi stilled. A creeping cold reached into his chest, snuffing out the anger and fear that had burned so intently just a second ago. Gran's face was merciless, just the same deep lines and grave expression.
"Kal and Rico have no chance. You know it, we know it, and worse, Panem knows it. You need to prepare yourself. I know it's hard, but…" Gran pressed her lips together and reached to touch Nezumi's hand. "Don't give Kal false hope. And don't harbor any either."
Nezumi snatched his hand back. "What about you and Rou, huh? Always telling them it's not the end of the world that they received crappy scores, that they have a chance as long as they run fast enough, climb high enough? You're the ones who have been giving them false hope, not me! I never told them anything like that."
Nezumi backed away from her. He and Gran had never gotten along well, but she had never felt so poisonous as she did now. Nezumi shook his head.
"Why do you do it then? Why do you lie to their faces?"
"There's always a chance in the beginning…" Gran turned her face aside. "Hidden talents, sponsors. We get lucky sometimes. But this is not one of those times. I've been at this long enough to know." Gran faced him again, stony once more. "I'm trying to help you, Nezumi. This is a mentor's reality. I think you've known it a long time, but now you need to face it."
Nezumi forced himself to be still, to be undaunted. There was logic in her words, cold but acute. He knew it; he would have understood it last year and the year before, before the Games had happened to him. But he couldn't find that callous youth anymore. All he felt was sick. Sick with himself, with this situation, with the pitiless stare of his fellow mentor carving a hole in his chest.
Nezumi held himself still for as long as he could, and then fled the room.
