Warnings: homophobic slurs/bullying in the beginningish parts, then of course the usual violence/gore and language (just assume it's there from here on out)

Dean floated in languid motion. Rolling waves rocked him back and forth, forth and back; the cradle of nature. Stray droplets trickled down his face, bringing his memory back to the gentle springtime rainfall that would arrived whenever the academy's students would camp out on a mountainside to bear arena-like conditions. The Spring Trek.

No tents, no cellphones, no maps or heated blankets. "Arena-like conditions" were defined as strictly necessary goods needed to get from Point A to Point B. In theory, the trek was meant to be a rigorous challenge painstaking to accomplish, but for those on Dean's level it was more a social event than anything. Dean had his first kiss on the peak of Timpanogos: Robin, on a dare. No one could have guessed that it was his first, of course. He'd always been such an outgoing flirt all his life people just assumed he'd gotten around by then. Dean didn't have the courage - nor the desire - to tell them they were wrong, mostly because the image he'd attained as a result made other guys like him more right off the bat, skipping the awkward introductions.

Besides, Dean didn't mind letting people believe what they wanted as long as it continued to make his social life easier; after all, it wasn't like he was lying to them. He really did enjoy making cute girls fluster and giggle when he dished out compliments left and right in the hallways: that new hairstyle is really working for you, you keep that beautiful smile, if anyone can beat this semester it's you. The truth was, he reveled in the power to make people smile out of nowhere, to just lift someone's day up a little bit with an appreciative word or two.

Back when he was small and Mary was still alive, he'd always give the cute boys in his class the same treatment but had to stop when bigger kids starting pushing him around and calling him a 'faggot'. One day when Dean came home with a broken bloody nose from a particularly bad day, he finally had to tell his parents the whole story, which made him even more upset because he hated tattletales more than anything. He'd truly believed until then that he could talk the bullies down by simply explaining that he was only trying to be nice and didn't understand why complimenting boys was any different than complimenting girls. His mother and father sat him down on their apartment's couch and explained to him in very soft voices (so as not to carry sound through thin neighbor walls) why it was incorrect to call boys pretty.

"Boys," as Mary put it with a pained expression, "like to be called different kinds of compliments. You can call them funny, cool, or tough and when you want to tell them how much you like them you can just say they're great... u-um, friends." She bit her lip.

"Yes, friends." John agreed. "So if you really want to make everyone happy you stick with those words, alright? That way, when you see those bullies again you can tell them that they were wrong about you and they'll leave you alone. Guarantee it."

Dean, in his naivety, still thought it was stupid why he had to go through all this trouble over a few silly words since they never actually explained the problem, but he took his parents' advice nonetheless and sure enough the bullying stopped. It wouldn't be until years later when he was sitting around his circle of freshman tributes-to-be, laughing over their embarrassing childhood stories, when he found out what that ugly word meant along with all its implications. More than one of the guys had remembered "Dean Gaychester playing the field" way back when and "Holy Hell was that crazy! We had no any idea you were actually faking us out that whole time so you could imagine our surprise when we found him making googly eyes at Robin one day... best fake-out ever."

Robin blushed at the mention of her name, smiling sheepishly down to the mountain soil instead of meeting Dean's teasing green eyes which hid the revelation unfolding behind them. So that was what the bullies had meant when they'd given him hell. They thought I was trying to flirt with them. And... and maybe he was, maybe that upset them because the gay stigma still running strong in District One had ruined any chances of those hoping to break from the confines of what was deemed 'acceptable' in regards to sexuality. Dean realized then just how lucky he was to escape that stigma as smoothly as he could when he had the chance.

It made him a little scared, actually, thinking about how different his life could have turned out had his parents not intervened. Sure, he would've been more confident in showing his true self without constantly having to put on a front that felt like spewing garbage half the time, but at what cost? Transparent people didn't get far in the political minefield that was District One, the breeding ground for future governors and business leaders who thrived off of fabricated fronts like the one Dean chose to bear each day. He would have had to adjust to the concealed prejudice that he himself laughed off in this moment with his peers. So which was really worse?

"But now look at him! Those lady-killer eyes ain't fooling nobody now!" Brady cackled as he took another long swig of his stolen beer.

"In fact... no I needta see this." He slurred and belched disgustingly before finishing off his half-baked idea. "Gaychester, I DARE you, I double dare you to kiss Robin right now or you're the fag we all thought!"

His equally smashed company whooped and hollered in agreement to the outrageous dare, causing Robin to blush even more furiously that time, but look up in... curiosity? Her own drunk friends were not-so-subtly shoving her closer to Dean's spot embedded in wildflowers, squealing anticipation for the promised kiss. Their eyes meet once more when they were as close as could be - loud 15-year-olds chanting 'DO IT' in the background - and Dean took the opportunity to whisper, "Is this really okay with you?", a nervous question met with enthusiastic nodding. He guessed it was her first kiss too, which calmed him down a little seeing as his secretly novice self would have no other expectation of skill level to live up to.

He didn't realize he was still frozen in the moment until Brady got impatient and started chanting 'FAG' instead, Robin squirming uncomfortably in front of him with nothing going on. Finally tipped over the edge, Dean leaned forward without warning and ungracefully crashed his rough, chapped lips into her smooth glossed ones under a deafening applause. He didn't exactly know how it felt - or how it was supposed to feel - but he was pretty sure he did something wrong. They were just sitting there, lips touching but unmoving, while massive waves of regret finally overtook Dean's consciousness for falling into the whole setup. He'd wanted his first kiss to be someone special; some big magical experience that was supposed to mark the climax to some big relationship.

But instead, there he was pressed up against a foreign face while drunk people he'd wanted to impress took pictures. Just like that, the moment was gone. His first kiss checked off like a mundane grocery item and he didn't even get to see fireworks. For something so unbelievably hyped up in all the movies, for some reason he'd thought kissing would feel a bit more spectacular than two slimy muscles making contact for a few seconds. Honestly, Dean's first kiss felt more like a big rip-off than anything; like he ordered a wedding cake and got a sugar cookie. But at least Robin seemed happy when all was said and done, smiling nonstop while her friends kept nagging her with question after question. If nothing else, Dean's social status was protected another day.

It felt like his thigh was being ground into a paste, devoid of feeling but under a pressure so great he unknowingly groaned aloud. Suddenly, the pressure ceased and he could hear the sound of shuffling in front of him. A few tense moments passed before the pressure continued with determination, leaving Dean to pathetically squirm in the meantime while his muscles were still useless. Wait, aren't I... Dean was sure he'd been dead. There was no way he could have survived that damned mutt attack any way he could frame it. Their little career pack had done the inexcusable: they'd disappointed the Capitol, made one too many stupid mistakes and then had the audacity to try breaking up early. Otherwise, why would they send the mutts? If he'd somehow survived, then maybe some fans still had faith in him yet and pulled a few strings.

That has to be it. Dean reasoned, feeling another gentle tug at his forearm this time. Or it was merely a scare tactic, something to spice up the plot. Of course the Capitol would never want their precious Careers dead, only split up. They must have gotten as tired of the petty bickering and awkward stretches of silence as Dean had and wanted a change of dynamics. Not to mention their pathetic kill count. Maybe Dean or the others had been driven closer to other tributes on purpose in the hopes of furthering their "game progress". Secretly, he hoped this wasn't the case, at least not yet. With the physical state he was in, Dean figured he could be offed by a particularly strong gust of wind, let alone another tribute. How unfortunate that it was only the second day and he'd already managed to get himself mauled.

... But was it still only the second day? Shit. Now that Dean actually thought about it, he had no way of knowing how much time had passed since he'd first lost consciousness until now when he was - did this count as consciousness? He felt completely numb aside from a dull pain radiating throughout his entire body and all his senses were still fuzzy, giving him no clues as to where he was or if he was even alone. Now there was a terrifying thought. Even if one of his so-called "allies" had managed to come to his rescue, he wouldn't trust any one of them to not take advantage of the situation somehow. Again, Dean was left deeply confused. If not the Capitol mutts, then any other tribute would gladly have killed him off by now, given the chance. So why was he still alive?

Could there even exist a tribute idiotic enough to waste precious medical supplies trying to revive a Career? A Career proven capable of murder having been raised all his life to feel nothing? The brother of a boy who at sixteen years old snapped the necks of thirteen children? No, a tribute like that did not survive this long. There had to be another game they were playing, some long-winded web of manipulation they were hoping to ensnare him with. Maybe they were only healing him in the hopes of torturing out the locations of his "teammates". Maybe his so-called savior was a teammate themselves hoping to garner some sympathy from the Capitol who adored the occasional show of loyalty (he admitted this outcome was a tad optimistic).

Whatever the scenario, Dean prepared to assess and eventually destroy. Oddly enough, this half-assed plan of action managed to relax his paranoid thoughts just a little in simply knowing he had the ability to strategize even if his physical "my body is a weapon" state wasn't quite there yet. Once the person healing him had finished the job, for whatever their reason may be, Dean would have to personally thank them by making it quick just as Sam had. He couldn't help but deflate a bit thinking of how his baby brother was faring at home, watching him get wrung through the wood chipper then reassembled under a stranger's mercy. He could only hope the other victors were taking good care of him while his father was likely off on some kind of rage he felt a pathetic relief in missing.

Dean was lucky that Sammy hadn't been thrust into any kind of peril too great for his training to get him out of whilst in his game; or hell, any peril even close to mauling by invisible hounds. He really couldn't imagine what this experience must be like for his brother, on top of what PTSD he'd already accumulated from his own time in the arena. The guilt clawed at Dean's heart while he heard footsteps retreating from his (it must be a sitting position) place on the floor. Yes, it had to be a floor. He could feel the splintered edges of wooden boards digging into his ass along with a few smooth bumps which he guessed could only be nails. Odd as the situation may be, one of the only places Dean could determine he felt actual sensation apart from numbness was his rear end, where he could feel all the wonderful soreness that came with sitting in one specific spot for an immeasurable amount of time. His health regimen instructor would be pulling her hair out by now. Or is, since she's no doubt watching too.

Dean sighed, the embarrassment he'd felt so strongly earlier flooding back full force. Not for the first time, he wondered if it was really such a great idea to volunteer himself after all, especially considering that Benny was the academy's top male pick for a reason. Talented as he may be, Dean admitted to not being the best candidate District One had to offer for that particular year and he was painfully reminded of this fact when he tried shifting only to seize up in agony at the small movement. It seemed whatever numbing solution he'd been granted by his anonymous caregiver ran dry when it came to action of any kind. Which made sense. Either that's where Capitol aid drew the line or the mystery tribute was not so keen on allowing him autonomy, both of which made sense. Not that it made the reality any less frustrating.

He sighed once more, his one act of painless independence, and remained still until he drifted again into unconsciousness.

...

The first time Dean awoke - really awoke - into full awareness, he could finally confirm a few of the things he'd been suspecting. For one, he was indoors, sitting on a wooden floor. Intense sunlight shone through a tiny window slot in an otherwise impenetrable stone wall that curved to encompass the entire room, or really the small cramped space he found himself currently trapped in. When he felt brave enough to try moving for the second time, pain once again flared through his forearm though not nearly as extreme as it had however long ago since he'd first tried. Tentatively, he wiggled his fingers. Fine. He wiggled his wrists and they ground roughly against a prickly texture Dean could identify immediately as rope. He groaned and tugged futilely at the complex knot but it held steadfast against his efforts, a testament to the knotter's skill.

He determined that the hands bound behind him were wrapped securely around a thick wooden pole, what seemed to be the room's centerpiece and thick enough so his hands didn't quite reach each other but were left instead to be held on either side of the broad structure. Of course the mystery tribute would think to leave him tied up like a lonely dog outside a supermarket; wouldn't want the patient to escape without a farewell after all. Seriously, how did Dean manage to get himself wrapped up in this mess? It seemed the best he could do then was simply continue to observe his predicament and wait to meet his captor if they ever did arrive, so that's what he did.

The pole stretched from floor to ceiling, a ceiling only a foot or two higher than Dean's head sitting down and a floor the length of only two Dean Winchester legs if his feet pressing up against the stone wall indicated overall size. And if the architect was precise about the pole's central position. Dean would have laughed at the hilarity of his situation if the cameras wouldn't think him insane. Honestly, here he was in the bloody Hunger Games considering architectural measurements while his allies were either dead or out to get him and he sat tied to a pole too fat to dance on, not that he was considering that but the thought was amusing. A stripper pole in the Hunger Games. Someone had to have pitched that at some point and this was the compromise. Maybe Dean could make a compromise with his captor: one dance for freedom. Wouldn't that be a sight.

Aside from that lovely and unremarkable piece of furnishing, the room was rather sparse - only containing a single backpack slumped against the wall, just below the window slot and out of Dean's reach. Bummer. And as if that tease weren't enough, there was not a single door in sight, leaving only a gigantic question mark as to how he got in there in the first place and how he could get out. Unless the Capitol invented teleportation, he really didn't see how this was possible. He'd even managed to painfully twist his body around enough so he could see behind the fucking pole and nothing. He was just about ready to accept the possibility of a teleporting, kidnapping, healing mutt when he witnessed a perfect square section of the floor uproot and shift aside, revealing a hole and two hands climbing up. Dean tensed, ready yet wholly unprepared to meet his captor.

He stayed wrenched in his uncomfortable position facing behind the pole just to watch as the captor's back was slowly revealed to him. Him, the captor was a him. Briefly, he considered turning back around out of fear of having to meet the guy who'd spent an undisclosed amount of time working to keep him alive. The thought stirred something odd in Dean, the fact that while he was completely helpless and vulnerable someone had taken it upon himself to care for him at great personal cost. Whatever this stranger's questionable endgame seemed to be, Dean just couldn't wrap his head around it. Then again, he was still tied to a pole so how kind could he be? The guy finished his climb and turned to carefully position the trapdoor back in its hiding place along the other floorboards, blue gaze fixed on his task.

Dean gasped involuntarily, causing the boy's eyes to snap up in alarm and meet Dean's in an improvised stare-off that neither party wanted. He hated to gasp like an actor in a cheesy Capitol soap but he couldn't possibly believe the picture laid before him. The boy who'd rescued, healed, and held him captive all this time - him, the big bad Career - was none other than Castiel Novak. The boy he'd spent an embarrassing amount of time studying from afar, who hadn't so much as approached a knife in all three days of training and now had the eldest Winchester completely at his mercy. Although, oddly enough, Dean didn't feel afraid. He knew he should be - no matter how nonthreatening a tribute can appear, anything is possible when it's kill or be killed - but he simply couldn't bring himself to be overly anxious under Castiel's calm if shy exterior.

"Oh." Castiel cleared his throat and straightened, breaking the frozen spell hanging in the air. "You're awake."

"Yeah." Dean was surprised by how gravelly his voice had gotten with disuse, like nails in a blender.

Slowly, Castiel stood and walked the length of the room to face Dean where he didn't have to stretch, an action he was secretly grateful for even if his anxieties regarding captivity were steadily returning. They didn't cease even as Castiel sat facing Dean and it became clear he was unarmed. That didn't mean he wasn't concealing any weapons in his cargo pockets or the neglected backpack. The uncertainty surrounding the whole situation put Dean on edge no matter how much he wanted to trust the other. Even after all the time he'd had to mull over the possible motivations someone could have to do this, he'd still come up empty. Dean had no idea what Castiel wanted from him and that meant he was stuck at a disadvantage. Well, more of a disadvantage. Only one of them was tied to a pole.

"So, how are you feeling?" Castiel surprised him by asking. Dean only blinked incredulously in response. Castiel coughed. "I mean, physically. I was able to patch up the bites on your arms and back but there's a large one on your right calf that's... particularly deep. Are you able to move it?"

"The fuck do you want from me." Dean spat.

Castiel flinched back, more resembling a deer in the headlights than a criminal mastermind, but Dean was fed up with beating around the bush. The sooner he knew what he was up against, the sooner he could formulate a plan of escape and continue what it was he'd been made for, and that was winning the Hunger Games. He'd prepared for far too long, made far too many promises to let the first pretty face - objectively - try to get in his head. Although... Castiel bore a very convincing innocence look if he was honest. It was almost too convincing, the way he shifted awkwardly and had to take a moment before answering.

"I don't have to want anything. I'm the one in charge here, not you." He spoke steady, authoritative, and met Dean's hostile gaze with an even calmness.

"Look, I don't mean to be an ungrateful patient or whatever, but there's no way you've been playing doctor all this time instead of leaving me for dead just out of the goodness of your little heart. You have to want something." Dean pressed.

Castiel scoffed, averting his gaze. "You Careers are all the same. You think the only things that matter out here are progress and strategy, never mind the trail of bodies left in your wake or the grieving families you'll have to face one day, knowing you killed their child."

"Wow." Dean whistled, all the while struggling to suppress the anger and shame he felt at hearing Castiel's words. It couldn't get to him now. "So, what then? This is out of revenge? You went to all this trouble to fix me up just so you could give me a piece of your mind and then kill me?"

Castiel sighed. "I did this out of mercy, Dean. Because I thought it was the right thing to do. That's something someone like you will never be able to appreciate."

Dean opened his mouth, ready with another fiery retort, before he realized something. "... You know my name?"

Castiel balked, his cheeks flushing red for a moment before he quickly recomposed himself. "Well, of course I do. Everyone does. You have quite the reputation."

Dean grinned. "I suppose that's true. Too bad I don't know yours."

Dean was being cruel, he knew it, but he also wasn't the one who started it. Castiel's eyes narrowed, seemingly in attempt to read Dean's teasing expression, but soon gave up.

"It's Castiel." He ground out.

"Nice to meet you, Cas. I'd shake your hand but I'm a bit tied up at the moment." Dean winked.

Cas rolled his eyes. "I never said you could call me Cas."

"You never said I couldn't."

His mouth opened. Then closed. He stared back at Dean incredulously before seeming to give up the nowhere conversation and focus on his cargo pockets instead. Dean sometimes had that effect on people. He noticed Cas (he did really like that nickname) casually reach a hand into one of the pockets and tensed; despite all his talk about peace and righteousness, he still fully expected some kind of weapon or torture device to pop out and for this whole confrontation-cute to turn into a splatter party, but of course it was only gauze and a small steel container that emerged. A container of poison? Dean cursed his paranoid side. Which was kind of all his sides.

"I didn't come up here to fight. I only wanted to change your bandages and reapply the antibacterial salve." Cas explained.

"Well, then. Don't let me stop you." Dean conceded, leaning back dramatically to give Cas the space he needed.

With great effort, he also managed to force down the buzzing nerves which told him to shrink away at the thought of being touched by this boy from District Twelve, this boy who'd already been touching him all over in the time he was out of commission. Somehow, the thought of that only caused the butterflies in his stomach to multiply and Dean quickly averted his gaze from where Cas was already gently turning his right leg, still terrifyingly numb, into a position where he could treat the gaping wound. The wound Dean had been completely unaware of until this moment, but was apparently bad enough that Cas had felt the need to ask him if he could move it. On a whim, Dean kicked out the leg Cas had cradled in his hands, and immediately after released an embarrassingly loud scream in pain. But holy fuck did that hurt. He could feel the injury site throbbing.

Cas's eyes snapped up worriedly, genuine concern written across his features that Dean was surprised to see there.

"Dean, why on earth would you do that? You know it's still healing." Cas scolded, fearful and perplexed at the same time.

"You wanted me to try moving it; I was worried." Dean defended.

Cas only shook his head. "Move it carefully to make sure the nerves aren't dead. You've still got a long ways to go before it won't feel like a stabbing every time."

Dean visibly deflated. "But I don't have a long ways to spare. I need it moving now."

"Just... relax. I'm going to try and help that happen, alright?" Cas hesitantly comforted.

Dean gulped, nodding. He stayed completely still as Cas went to work un-bandaging his calf, choosing to look away when the gore was revealed and only felt instead of witnessed the salve being spread by gentle fingers working efficiently and then the soft texture of the gauze being applied. The process was repeated four more times in other bite areas before Cas retreated and silently tucked the medical tools away. Dean wanted to keep the safe silence, he did, but another strange and large part of himself wanted to know more about his righteous caretaker and his need to satisfy the many questions on the tip of his tongue won out before Cas could leave. He wanted to ask; How long have I been unconscious?, Who else is still alive? and How long are you planning on keeping me here, tied to this pole? but instead what came out was -

"So, were you a doctor in Twelve or are you just kind of winging it?"

Cas blinked in surprise for the third time that day as he probably hadn't expected any more words out of him now that the confrontation part was over, but Dean felt grateful that he laughed lightly anyway and sat back, presumably thinking it over.

"If you're asking whether or not I attended real medical school for a PhD, then the answer is no. Only the town kids can afford stuff like that." Cas smiled sadly. "My dad taught me and my siblings everything we know about patching people up so we could take of each other, and occasionally others when they have nowhere else to go."

"Others? Like, neighbors and stuff?" Dean didn't even know his neighbors before his family moved into Victor Village and the only person he ever went to for injuries was the specialized academy doctor who worked in the city center, a man who absolutely attended medical school.

"Yes. Or sometimes kids and coal miners from the Seam will come to our house when they go over their monthly budget for medical expenses. We use a lot of natural stuff that's free and easy to find, so it's really not a problem." Cas smiled, not sadly. "Helps in situations like these."

Dean smiled back, hesitating for a moment. "You live in the Seam?"

"No, we're a teacher family. Grew up right next to the elementary school where my dad works. He's luckier than most."

Dean wanted to add something to the conversation, add something about his own life, but he felt doing so after hearing Cas's story would only further make him out to be the spoiled trophy son Cas already thought he was, what he actually was. For some reason, he didn't want to make their inequalities that much more pronounced. He stayed silent. Then he finally asked a practical question for once.

"How long have I been unconscious?" The question was unprecedented, but hadn't they all been?

Cas hesitated.

"Cas."

"It's Castiel."

"I don't care." Dean retorted. "How long has it been? Who's died, etc.? Tell me it hasn't been any longer than a week."

"It hasn't... yet. Today would be the sev-," Cas bit his lip, thinking. Dean's eyes absently tracked the movement. "The seventh day. And it should be nearing sunset."

"You have got be fucking kidding me." Dean growled, dramatically rolling his head back so it banged against the pole. "Day Seven, and I'm stuck here?"

"U-um," Castiel scratched his head sheepishly, "Actually, it's been seven days since you've been here. Add the two days beforehand and it's Day Nine of the games."

"Great, great. That's just fantastic." Dean muttered, suddenly feeling very confined in the ropes he was still bound in and tugged at them in irritation despite the pain they caused.

"Oh no, don't do that." Cas rushed to frantically still his arm. "It'll just put more pressure on your cuts."

"Then why the hell are these ropes even here, huh?" Dean spat, his earlier defensiveness flooding back with all the anger and panic bubbling up. "If you really want me to get better so bad, then just take them off."

Cas's jaw clenched and he looked away. "You of all people should realize the stupidity in that plan."

Dean scoffed. "You don't know, maybe I'll spare you."

Cas glared, slowly rising to stand so he towered over Dean's spot on the floor. "Stay still, or don't. It's your life at stake, not mine."

With that, he turned and began walking again to the trapdoor, leaving Dean to once again struggle against his pole to face him angrily.

"So, what then? Are you just planning on keeping me here forever, your little prisoner upstairs?" He spat.

Cas unhinged the square delicately and set it aside, turning to slowly begin his descent without bothering a glance, let alone a response, to Dean who continued struggling aimlessly. He watched, dismayed, as the top brown strands of Castiel's hair disappeared beneath the floor, the square placed gently back where it belonged, deceivingly just like all the rest of the plain wooden planks. And he waited there, stubbornly, for a few more seconds before wrenching his body painfully back to its natural position. Dean had never felt so lost or hopeless. For the first time, he had no plan, no power, and yet he didn't truly despise his captor the way he was supposed to. He couldn't help but feel weak and stupid around Cas, a kid who'd never picked up a sword in his life, never trained through sweat and tears into the wee hours of sunrise or practiced interviews in the mirror.

Nothing had gone right since the bloodbath, not one damned thing and it all led back to Dean's idiotic decision to march into hell before heaven. It was just all so... different from the way he imagined it as a kid growing up around game fanatics and then a victor for a brother. Sam's arena had been a mountain range in the summertime, lush with forest and vegetation and no weird confusing shows of creativity that Dean had to put up with. It was about the same as it was every year: Careers hunted together, ran out of tributes, turned on each other. Call it cookie-cutter television, but the thought was more comforting than isolation and unpredictability. Dean thought he heard a soft 'bump' from behind him and hurriedly shifted himself to stare down the trap door, his emotions alive with such a confusing buzz that it felt nothing and everything.

He waited. For seconds, minutes, hours? Until the ruined skin beneath his bandages throbbed and the sliver of light from outside dimmed into darkness. He waited and the floor did not shift again, did not unearth to reveal some mysterious boy to break the dreadful dark and silence of the room. Dean moved, slowly, back to the natural position the ropes seemed to want him in and stared into black nothing, deciding then to focus all his remaining energy in trying not to cry.

A/N: Thank you for reading and to those of you who waited, you waited far too long and I apologize. This is still going to be a sporadically updated story, but I hope you know I do not plan on forgetting it. Even after all this time, it's a joy to write these characters and this setting (unfortunately for them) and I appreciate all the wonderful support I have received in the meantime; you guys really are a treasure lol. Until next time, I hope the odds are in your favor!