The glass beneath his fingers had been cool at first but now it was clammy. Still, Bellamy could not bear to pull his hands away. The window was small and marked with grime at the edges but it overlooked the square and allowed him to watch as it emptied, to watch for his little sister.

He couldn't see her anymore though; no doubt she was on her way to come visit him. To say goodbye to him. Bellamy hit the window pane with the flat of his fist, but all it did was send a sting through his hand. He wanted to use his strength hurting someone, just not himself.

He had wanted desperately for Octavia to stay safe, to avoid being reaped and she had, but it didn't lessen the terror he felt. It was as if all his energy had been focused on fearing for his sister, and now that the horror had switched to him, the fear for Octavia and for himself had combined and doubled, smashing onto his shoulders and weighing him down. He turned and groaned, letting his body slip down the wall until he sat with his head beneath his knees. He didn't want to sit on the expensive sofa and there was nothing for him out the window anymore, nothing but a memory to take to his death.

And what a memory, he thought bitterly, a dusty old town where you can starve to death in peace. At least in the games he might get a quick death, from a tribute who had a crumb of mercy in them. Or he might not. He tried not to think about what kind of end he would meet; slowly dying of thirst or infection, or being butchered to death by a kid who had no idea how to use a knife, or one who was raised on the bloody glory of the games. Bellamy cursed. At least it was him and not Octavia. That counted for something; that was a godsend. It would be worse to watch her on the screens that to be there himself. He knew that, but it didn't make him any braver.

A sound outside the door withdrew him from his pessimism and he stood up sharply, he was quick at least, that would help him in the games. If they couldn't catch him, they couldn't kill him. But Bellamy Blake wasn't the type of man to run away and hide. No, he thought, when I die, it will be in battle, not parched and dying slowly up in a tree.

"Bellamy!" Her voice nearly killed him right then, as pained and strangled as it was. It reached the room before she did, and when she passed through the heavy door she ran like a cannonball into his arms; collapsing against his chest with her shoulders heaving in sobs.

"Shh, it's okay, O," Bellamy whispered as he clutched at his sister's tiny form. Over her shoulder he met his mother's eyes. They were dark pits like his own but without the flecks of gold that girls fawned over. She was a good woman, Bellamy tried to remind himself, she had sacrificed much for her children, loved them to no end. But it was difficult to remember that when she was slumped across the table with a bottle of liquor in her fist or when she was screaming at Octavia even after the little girl's eyes were red and raw with tears. Bellamy swallowed and nodded tersely at her.

"Bellamy you have to live, you have to come back, please, please," Octavia craned her little neck to look into his eyes. Bellamy frowned and knelt so she could see his face better. His heart ached to hear the wobble in her voice and to see her face stained blotchy pink from crying. But leaving her hurt the most, leaving her and knowing he might not come back. The odds of him coming back were slim. He was strong and fast and brave. He even knew how to shoot a bow and arrow, had used one to hunt for the family a year or so back, but his mother had found out and hid them from him, afraid that he might get caught. Hunting, or poaching as the peacekeepers called it, was punishable by death. It was stupid, half the district was starving and banned from going out and getting their own food. Bellamy knew a boy who visited the forest beyond the fence much more regularly than he ever had, he never got caught. At least, not by anyone other than Bellamy.

Still, despite the strengths his body had given him and his meagre skill with a weapon, people like Bellamy never won the games. No matter how good you were, the competitors were always better. Sure, there were the sick, starved kids who were scared witless and always died off soon enough. And there were the ones like Bellamy who lasted a little longer. But they were always picked off by the careers; tributes from the wealthier districts who were bred on the hunger games and had learnt to use a weapon as soon as they could toddle.

"Octavia," He murmured, "You know, I can't promise-"

"You can!" She cut him off with a whine that would have made him laugh in happier circumstances. As it was it only tore a rip in his heart and his resolve. "You have to Bell, you have to!" Her long lashes sparkled with tears as she gripped his shoulders. She looked so strong then, so adamant and commanding. Bellamy smiled weakly, she looked like him. He sighed, rubbing his forehead.

"I'll try, but that's all I can promise. But I will, O, I'll try my hardest to get back to you, I promise that," He tried to convey his promise but no words could carry the weight. He meant it, if he could get back to Octavia then he would, but he had to prepare her for the worst. If he died, she couldn't shatter, because he wouldn't be there to pick up the pieces.

"You can do it Bell, you're strong and fast. And brave. You're the bravest person I know,"

Bellamy thought he might cry and he bit down on his lip as he blinked at the floor, the murky carpet would be the only witness to his pain.

"Never," He looked up and offered her the best smile he could manage. "You're the bravest, and when I'm in there, I'll be thinking of you. And that will make me brave," Octavia's bottom lip trembled and he placed his index finger across it. "No, don't cry. We don't want tears on my big going away party do we?" He joked half-heartedly, hoping she couldn't hear the echoing hollowness behind his laughter. He leant forward so that their foreheads met.

"I'll be brave," She whispered to the ground. "I'll be as brave as you,"

"Good, I love you little, O. Don't forget alright?" He pulled back and looked into her blue eyes. They were still red from her weeping, but they had hardened into a stern expression that he himself had mastered years ago. His little sister was growing up; he only wished this wasn't the way it had happened.

"I won't,"

He pressed a kiss to her head and stood up. His mother approached him almost nervously, but when he hugged her she relaxed into his embrace. It felt strange to him, holding his mother so close. He hadn't done it in years. She pulled back and stared him hard in the face.

"Come home to me. I know I haven't been a good mother and I'm so sorry for that but Bellamy, you're my son. I love you, no matter what. I need you. Come home Bell, don't leave us alone." She pressed a kiss to his cheek and made to move away. There were no tears in her eyes, but the words were enough, Bellamy hadn't seen her show that much positive emotion in as long as he could remember. Another tear worked its way through his heart to think that it might be the last time he saw it too.

"Bellamy wait!" Octavia grabbed his hand before their mother could lead her from the room. Bellamy watched in confusion as she reached up and let her hair fall loose about her shoulders. She pressed into his palm the frayed strip of red ribbon. Bellamy felt as though his stomach had been ripped from his body.

"No," The word came out like he was being choked and his vision turned blurry.

"Take it, as your token. And then," She swallowed, "At least a little bit of me will be with you,"

"Octavia, I can't," His words were no more than whispers; it was all he could manage to squeeze out. His throat had constricted as though someone's hands were wrapped around it.

"You can, and you will," A single tear dripped from his lashes and rolled down his cheek though his lips curled up in a smile. She was going to be alright. Octavia would be alright, and if he knew that in his heart, then maybe, just maybe he would be able to face what was to come.

His tears had dried by the time he boarded the train and for that he was grateful. He could not afford to show weakness in front of anyone, especially now that he was a tribute. It would not do for them to think he was weak.

Bellamy was surprised, however, to see that the girl beside him, his fellow District Twelve tribute, also had an emotionless mask on her face. He had expected some tears from the girl in truth, she was such a tiny little thing, but she had proved him wrong and the only expression she showed was anger. He couldn't blame her one bit; he found a respect growing for the little girl. Along with a fierce urge to protect her. He had said his goodbyes to Octavia in the dingy town hall, but perhaps there was someone else who could use his help. The notion was oddly comforting to him.

The train looked boring, industrial at best, from the outside; a shiny silver box. But the interior was like nothing Bellamy had ever seen before. It was a raw display of the Capitol's wealth; the floors and ceilings were carpeted in a thin layer of teal fabric that was light and soft underfoot; hanging from the roof was a large chandelier, strings of multi-faceted crystals knocking against one another as the engine began to purr and casting shapes of white light on everything in the carriage. There was a small wooden table by a window, though it was so tiny that Bellamy couldn't comprehend what it would be used for, other than a footrest. Upon it sat a large silver bowl full with a selection of fruit of the likes Bellamy had never seen; glistening and colourful, their shapes were reflected in the metal of the bowl, contorted by the concave surface. Beside it were china cups decorated with pastel flowers and full with a brown liquid that smelled strongly. It made Bellamy wrinkle his nose. On either side of the mini table were violet armchairs that looked like the comfiest thing he had ever seen, laden with embroidered and sequined cushions of shades of blue and green. It disgusted him.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" A high pitched voice chirped and Bellamy turned to see his colourful, capitol escort teetering into the room on oversized heels.

"No," Bellamy replied coldly, pleased when the escort's eyebrows shot up in shock.

"Young man -"

"It's unnecessary," He interrupted her and she narrowed her eyes. He imagined she might have been a pretty woman beneath all her makeup. She had a full lipped smile, blue eyes and a little nose. But in all her garb and powder, all she looked was ridiculous.

"Beauty is never unnecessary," She adjusted her wig, "You'll learn that during your time in the Capitol I'm sure,"

"During my time in the Capitol I'll be learning how to be slaughtered," He spat. The woman's nostrils flared and a blush was visible beneath her white-dusted cheeks.

"I'm going to get Haymitch, your mentor. I hope you'll remember your manners when you speak to him," She flounced from the room, the door sliding shut behind her with a soft thud. Bellamy collapsed into one of the armchairs and ran a hand through his curls. The little girl sat down tentatively in the chair beside him.

"Charlotte, isn't it?" He turned to her and the girl nodded. She had big brown eyes like the doe he had once seen in the forest, but she looked more like a mouse than a deer. Her body was small and thin, the oversized clothes hanging off her did nothing to hide the fact that she was only skin and bones. Her hair was a dirty blonde and scraped off her neck and face into a bun though a few tendrils had escaped and hung limply over her forehead. Her lips were pale and her front teeth too big. Behind her angry mask, Bellamy could tell she was terrified.

"Well, Charlotte, I'm Bellamy,"

"I know who you are," Charlotte grinned despite their situation, bringing a smile to Bellamy's own lips, though a quizzical one at that. "I knew your sister at school," She explained, "She's a few years older than me, but everyone knows about the famous Bellamy Blake. The bravest man in District Twelve she says," She looked at her lap and fumbled with her hands, "I wish I had a big brother like you,"

Bellamy's heart ached, for the sister he'd left behind and for the lonely girl beside him. He might've said something in reply but while he was wracking his brain for words of comfort, the door slid open again and a middle-aged man with a tumbler of brown liquid in his hand staggered through. This man is supposed to keep us alive. Bellamy wanted to punch him already and the man hadn't even opened his mouth yet.

"Good afternoon!" Haymitch spread out his arms in a welcoming gesture, the liquid sloshing from his glass as he did so. "I'm Haymitch, your mentor. But you probably already knew that,"

"That woman told us, the escort," Charlotte said, her eyebrows furrowed in an expression somewhere between confusion and disgust.

"Effie." Haymitch took a swig of his drink, making a face as it went down. "Charming woman, no, not really. It's her first year and I already want to strangle her with her own wig. Can't be much older than you, boy," He nodded at Bellamy, "But I bet you've seen more horror in your years than she will in her entire life. Alas, that is life," He ended his little speech with a toast to the air and another long gulp of his spirits. Bellamy stared on in revulsion and loathing.

"You're drunk." He said, a bitter taste in his mouth as he watched the man who was supposed to help him survive the hunger games. He had olive toned skin similar to Bellamy's, stringy hair and a disgruntled expression. There was stubble across his lower face that only added to his dishevelled look. He looked up at Bellamy's words, his grey eyes seeking the source of the sound.

"Yes boy, I suggest you try it. It's the only way to get through the bloody games."

"You're supposed to help us get through the games! My sister-"

"Yes I saw the girl. You want to get back to her I know. I can't help you, boy. I used to help them, gave them everything I had. But they kept on dying anyway. And you'll the same with or without my help, so why should I waste my time, hmm?"

Bellamy stood up, his hands balled into fists at his sides.

"Bellamy," Charlotte warned him in a soft voice but Bellamy didn't care. Haymitch laughed at his anger and stood himself, though he seemed to have more difficulty remaining upright.

"You look like a strong lad, and angry. Put a knife in your hand and I'm sure you'd do well enough," Haymitch appraised Bellamy's tall, muscled form. "But the thing is, for you to win, this little one," He gestured to Charlotte, "Has to die." Bellamy swallowed. "You see now?" He sighed and sat back down.

Bellamy turned to Charlotte beside him with her big, scared eyes and her wish for a big brother, for someone to protect her, and suddenly winning didn't seem such a desirable prospect. Everyone dies, he reminded himself, I have to get back to Octavia, I promised. It was entirely likely that once they got into the games he and Charlotte would each go their own way and he'd never see her again, until he saw her picture in the sky. But he knew that wouldn't be the case. She was too fragile, too young, too much like his sister.

"No she doesn't," He replied, turning back to his drunken mentor. "I'll help her, and you'll help us both."

"You're brave," Haymitch seemed to approve, "I used to be brave. You remind me of myself, when I was young and arrogant, when I believed that life was worth living. Hell, I'll help you as much as I can. But tomorrow, I'm no kinder when I'm sober, but I'll be of more use,"

Bellamy supposed it was the best offer he was going to get.

A/N *Siiigh* I just really love Bellamy. Hope you enjoyed this, please leave me a review! - J x