i. THE OPPOSITES

Sitting across the table from a boy he once called a brother, Aslan Salvatici could almost cut the tension with a knife.

Keppler Salvatici glares like he wants to.

The glaring contest is interrupted when Granny shuffles over with her hand-painted teapot — a gift from the other boy; the dancing lions on its belly match those that swirl up Aslan's neck — pouring a stream of steaming tea into Aslan's and then Keppler's cups. Ever-so-slightly, the muscles in the latter's jaw tighten. Aslan doesn't miss it; he wants to roll his eyes.

But Granny Salvatici speaks first. "I do appreciate this, you know." Her voice is gravelly from years of chain-smoking and living in Five's lower Nuclear Sector. "Coming face-to-face to appease a dying old lady. Not that I don't think you two are too young to be holding such grudges—"

"Granny," Keppler interrupts.

"I don't have a grudge," Aslan huffs. "It's called constructive criticism."

"Dude, shut up—"

"Like I said." Granny shoots each of them a stern look. "You damn well better appease this dying old lady if you know what's good for you."

Aslan swallows. "You're not dying, Granny. Not if I—we—can help it."

"That's very sweet of you, Aslan. But this isn't the Capitol. I know what's coming, and I'm not afraid of it."

She speaks so matter-of-factly that Aslan can't help but nod. And it's true— if the seizure she had last week didn't prove it, if Aslan hadn't been there in time to call for help, the sweat glistening on her forehead from the effort of making tea says enough. Granny is dying, and Aslan can't do anything to stop it.

Gently, Keppler takes the teapot from her hands and sets it on the table. She practically collapses into her well-cushioned chair with a huff; Aslan offers her a biscuit, but Granny immediately waves him away.

(There's a pit in his stomach that Aslan can't shake, and it has nothing to do with Keppler.

It has everything to do with the old woman who saved him from the streets of the district, from the parents he doesn't remember, from a loveless childhood. And the fact that he can't repay the favor.)

Despite everything, Aslan knows Keppler well enough to see that same feeling etched across his once-brother now-rival's face.

It's a wonder they can still agree on something.

Playing mafia only took them so far. It's not Aslan's fault that Keppler wanted the real deal, that all the other boy's rules and violence left a bad taste in his mouth. Sure, he's been complicit in robbing a grocery store or two — everyone's gotta eat somehow — but Aslan never wanted to exploit people. Especially those who'd already been trampled beneath an armored boot. What kind of asshole does that, anyways?

The one sitting right across the table.

(Too soft, Keppler often scoffs, but really, so what if Aslan's too soft? He's six-foot-fucking-seven. Aslan can afford to be soft.)

Keppler's smile is half a grimace as Granny dumps an unwanted spoonful of sugar into his cup— his fault for never telling her he grew out of the sweetness. His eyes slide over to Aslan. "What the fuck are you staring at?"

"Watch your mouth," Granny snaps.

"Yeah, watch it, asshole."

"Boys."

"Sorry Granny," they chime. Aslan sips his pleasantly-sweet tea to stop anything more spilling out. Keppler scratches at his temple with a middle finger.

"Oh, you wanna go motherfucker? You wanna fucking—"

The crack of electricity zips through Aslan's shout; he recoils back into his seat, still simmering with galvanic anger. Keppler, somehow, remains seated, smug, calm. Granny flicks back the cap that conceals the taser hidden within her cane, muting the crackle. "I may be old and feeble, but I will not tolerate physical violence in my home, especially between the two of you. Are we clear?"

With the very real threat of Granny's taser hanging between them, the boys back down. "Yes, Granny," Keppler practically beams, while Aslan's words are more of a whisper.

(Shame fills his chest. Perhaps Keppler is right— perhaps he is too much of a fucking child.)

The sheen of sweat on Granny's forehead keeps the pair quiet. "I want to be able to trust you boys to keep this establishment up and running when I'm gone. If I can't do that…" She sighs, heavy. "These kids, they have nowhere else to go. I'm sure you remember what that feels like."

Again, they nod.

Aslan can be civil; he'll prove it. They're both civil long enough for Granny to say her piece, and when the effort becomes too much — for them, for Granny — they disperse to let her rest.

Both Elja and Keppler's second-in-command wait outside the door, locked in their own quiet glares. They snap to attention once Aslan and Keppler reappear. Aslan may be far taller than his petty nemesis, but Keppler sneers like it doesn't matter. "Good to know you haven't changed, Ass-lan." A warning grip latches onto Aslan's arm— Elja. "Really, I doubt you ever will."

He turns on a heel and stomps down the stairs before Aslan can even think to respond, his second following close behind.

Coward. Now who's childish?

Fury swirls in Aslan's stomach, but he lets the other boy leave. Besides, the fact of the matter is both Keppler and Aslan love their adoptive grandmother far more than they hate each other.

Or, at least, that's what each prefers to believe.

Granny wants them to meet again, after the Reaping. Says she has some paperwork; Aslan should probably try and remember how to hold a pen. Sure, it's been a while — (and his handwriting's chicken scratch. Ironic, given Keppler's talent with anything you put into his hands; pencil, spray paint, needle and ink, you name it) — but Aslan can at least write his name.

At least he doesn't need to in order to check in. One finger prick and a smear of blood, and that's all the Capitol needs in order to pull up every public record he has.

Kind of unnerving, honestly.

The sun beats down on his shoulders, its weight made heavier by the thick jacket that Aslan's never seen without. He's used to it by now; all the heat and smog in District Five couldn't stop him from putting it on. The pair of water bottles in his mile-deep pockets also help, though they're confiscated along with the butterfly knife, the Swiss army knife, and the switchblade before the PK's let him into the crowd. At least they let him keep the deck of cards. Aslan flashes a half-apologetic, half-crooked grin that leaves absolutely no impression on the helmeted officer.

As planned, he's the last of the Salvatici orphans to check in. He'd left Elja in charge of the gang while he shepherded them through the trains; thirteen year-old Murphy clung discreetly to his left hand while Pasha, despite this being her first Reaping, insisted on being brave. Aslan doesn't mind either way. He counts heads on the way through— Pasha, Murphy, the twins, the handful in the fifteens' pen, sixteens', seventeens', and so on.

He catches a glimpse of Elja in the girls' pens as well, and flicks her a salute. All Nucleons accounted for.

Behind him, Argo, one of the newer members of Aslan's little gang, gets similar treatment from the PKs. "'Ey, man, you know it's rough out here," Aslan hears. "I'm not a big guy, I need some way to—yeah, yeah, just take it already."

It's true; Aslan's got at least a foot on the other kid, despite their similar age. Grinning, he turns on a heel, throwing his arm around Argo as he comes near. "Is that a knife in your pocket, or are you just—"

"Do not finish that sentence, Salvatici, on god."

Aslan snickers, ruffling his friend's hair. "You gonna be around for the Daily Five Live broadcast? We could listen together. Better than Hunger Games bullshit."

"I, uhh…"

"Ah, c'mon, I know you hate it, but— y'know, I bet you don't. I bet you have a thing for Miss April, eh?"

"Do not."

"Good."

Argo coughs. "Uh. Think they'll let me get my knife back?"

"Nah," Aslan says. "But no worries, my good dude." He claps Argo on the shoulder, lowers his voice. "We know where their lost-and-found is."

Argo grins back through his light blush. It's been in the same place since Aslan was twelve. 'Stealing from PK's is always morally correct,' Keppler had told him way back when, and Aslan has no trouble drinking to that.

They settle into the crowd, right at the back of the eighteen's pen. His gang crowds around him, easily picking out his shaggy head; he's tall enough that nobody even comes close to blocking his view. He counts heads once again while they chat, searching every pen for friends and Salvatici orphans alike, as well as— nevermind.

Aslan turns back to the stage, mouth set in a thin line. He fakes a smile at one of Argo's jokes. It's half-finished, long-winded, and interrupted by a screech of feedback when the escort taps the mic. The crowd grimaces as one, and she titters an apology.

It's hot. Everyone wants this over with. Aslan's starting to get annoyed; he's doing his best not to show it.

Breeziness is better than annoyance, which is far better than fear.

The escort — she calls herself Miss Fortuna as some sort of joke (and Aslan has to admit, on another day, it would be kind of funny) — dips her hand into the bowl. Aslan barely has time to worry about any of his kids getting their name pulled before the escort calls out his.

(It's been years since anyone named 'Salvatici' was chosen. Granny doesn't force them to take tesserae, not like the other orphanages, but she can't control who signs and who doesn't.)

(The point is, Aslan's not sure how many times his name is in that bowl, but he knows it's the same amount as Keppler's.)

(How else were they supposed to feed the kids and foot Granny's medical bills?)

But despite the shock, despite the air suddenly stuck in his lungs, only one thought sticks in Aslan's mind.

Better me than them.

A heartbeat later, two words escape his mouth. "I volunteer!"

Murmurs of surprise. Squeals of excitement— the escort, no doubt. The crowd parts easily for him, those that don't know him and those that do, the latter easily distinguishable by the horror splayed across their faces. By the time he mounts the stage and spits "Aslan Salvatici" into the mic, it turns to titters of amusement. His stare can't help but return to Keppler— the other boy's too busy face-palming to meet it.

(They're watching him now. District Five, the Capitol, all of Panem…

But more importantly, his gang. Granny.

They need to know he'll be okay, even if he won't.)

So Aslan smiles something crooked, points a finger-gun at Miss Fortuna, and shoots.

(It's a good thing she laughs.)

It's less good when the girl she calls next steps out from the twelve's pen.

Granny Salvatici isn't here.

Aslan knew she wouldn't be — even with her health declining ever-so-steadily, they'd had to force her to stay home, and besides, someone has to watch the little ones — but that doesn't mean he can't wish she was.

It's selfish. Who would he be to make a sickly old lady hike all the way to the Solar Sector for the sake of his sorry ass? Man, the solar guys have it fucking breezy, he thinks scathingly. How hard can it be to ride through the fields on their little go-carts checking off boxes in exchange for the nicest bits of the district?

(Nevermind that twelve-year-old Casey Bolton is just as Reaped as he is, just as fucked, no matter where in Five she comes from.)

The door to the little room they threw him in flies open. Aslan's knee stops bouncing. He springs to his feet as Argo and Elja burst in, crashing together in a vicious hug. His chin digs into Argo's skull, shoulder into Elja's cheek, but they wouldn't have it any other way. "You get right the fuck back here, got it?" Elja growls, half-smothered. "I don't care who you have to kill—"

"Mhm," Aslan hums. (He hasn't quite gotten there yet.)

Elja continues her rant, but just like the mayor, just like the escort, Aslan tunes her out. Just when the time starts to prickle at the hairs on his neck, Aslan cuts her off. "Elja, you're in charge now. Take care of Granny. If I don't come back, tell her I'm sorry."

"Aslan—"

"Tell her! Please."

They're quiet. For once. Aslan steps back, taking in their faces; Elja's choppy brown hair, the way Argo's lips pinch in an uncomfortable grimace.

"Take care of the kids," Aslan says. "Don't let—"

"Time's up!"

Aslan's stomach drops; the door swings open. "Don't let Keppler do it all!" he shouts as the PK's drag them away. "Don't let Kepp—!"

And he's right there.

Once brother, then stranger, now… Aslan blinks in shock.

"Don't let me what?"

That fucking tone.

Aslan draws in a breath. "If you came here just to say 'I told you so', you can fucking leave."

With that, Keppler pivots on his heel and stalks right out the door, not before throwing a sardonic salute Aslan's way. The door slams behind him.

(I told you people were evil. I told you the world was cruel. You see it now, don't you, Aslan?)

"Well, fuck you too!"

No response. Goddammit, even when Keppler doesn't speak, Aslan still can't get the satisfaction of the last word. His fingers curl into fists and he shoves them deep into his jacket pockets.

(That doesn't mean I have to be cruel too.)

His fingers brush something solid. Two things. …Four, actually. He pulls them out. Extra shoelace, deck of cards, peanut shell, necklace chain. Attached to the chain hangs a beetle carved from common quartz. A gift from Argo for his eighteenth. Now that's worth something.

There's no one else. By the time the pigs come to collect him, the beetle's found its home between the ridges of his collarbone, and Aslan just has to trust that Keppler will get the kids home safe.

The terminal Aslan stands in now is so far from the dingy, soot-stained tunnel the train from the Nuclear Sector screeched into. Arched ceilings, chrome-plated columns, a tiled floor he can actually see… Aslan hadn't known places this grand existed in Five. He lets out a low whistle as he steps into the bullet train behind little Casey.

If anything, the interior of the train is even more decadent. "Sheesh, they really went all out for us cannon fodder."

He nearly trips over Casey's suddenly-rigid form.

Aslan reaches out a hand to steady her, to apologize, when she flinches away with a choked gasp. Before he can blink, she's gone, staccato footsteps and distant whimpering the only clues left behind. "Shit—I'm sorry—"

Goddammit, idiot!

Two of Five's Victors sit tense around a chrome dining table, looking at him like he couldn't be anything else. He starts after Casey when the older one — Paschen Clearwater, a rather severe-looking woman in her mid-fourties — halts him in his tracks. "Don't. You'll just make it worse."

He's not entirely convinced. Aslan glances down the corridor; a tense exhale huffs through his teeth.

She'd held it together through the rest of the Reapings, through their awkward handshake, and through her goodbyes if the lack of puffiness around her eyes were anything to go by. For someone nearly three times smaller than himself, that meant a lot.

Of course Aslan had to ruin it.

It's the Hunger Games, a voice in his head sneers. It sounds suspiciously like Keppler's. Someone has to.

Shut up.

But maybe the Victor is right. The other one, Solaris — younger, curly-haired, objectively kinder-looking — still eyes him warily. He ignores them both, bypassing the numerous plates of rich-smelling food in favor of the room that must be down that corridor.

Aslan won't do Casey the disservice of underestimating her, but he figures the poor thing needs some space.

Hell, so does he.

At first glance, his room looks too comfortable. Aslan slams the door, plopping face-first on the mattress, and it is. He's distinctly aware of the way the familiar worn leather of his jacket brushes against his skin, how the sweat gathering at the base of his neck must be staining the white duvet. Good. Let it. Aslan rolls onto his back; sure enough, smears of dirt mark where he once was.

There's a television screen on the side of the wall. Aslan flicks it on; automatically, it displays the Reapings, [a gold-hued plaza that must be District One].

He should watch. Aslan knows he should, but honestly, he couldn't give less of a fuck about the damn Games right now. He flicks the channel.

"—live interview with Head Gamemaker Aquila, with some hints—"

Flick.

"—do you think of the tributes so far? Now, I know I'm not allowed to bet, but you—"

Flick.

"—two years ago now that Azaire Rivette rose from the ashes, bringing another Career Victory—"

"God fucking dammit, isn't there anything better to watch?"

He chucks the remote at the television, but it merely bounces off the screen. Aslan blows a raspberry.

Games, Games, Games. God, I hate this time of year.

With a sigh, Aslan pulls his legs in, crossing them. His knees can't seem to stop bouncing; absently, Aslan picks at the dirt under his shoe, running another hand through his mane of sweaty hair. A recap of that Career kid's Games still play in the background, but he tunes it out.

Only now does Aslan realize that his Reaping leaves the future of the entire orphanage — and Granny herself — under Keppler's poisoned influence.

(To think he used to trust the other boy with his life. To think that once, he did.)

Almost mindlessly, his finger pokes at the scar under his right eye when he hears a quiet knock on the door. The knocker doesn't wait for a response before cracking it open.

It's that nerd Victor. Solar Sector Solaris. "Mind if I come in?"

"Sure. Whatever."

The young Victor eyes the pile of dirt accumulating on the white duvet before choosing to lean against Aslan's night table. He sticks out a hand. "I didn't get a chance to introduce myself earlier. Solaris Fourier, 166th Games. I'll be mentoring you this year."

Aslan quirks a brow. Lazily, he unfurls himself, sliding off the bed to stand at his full height, a good foot taller than the Victor. "Will you, now?"

"Um. Yes?"

Aslan cracks an easy smile, and just like that, the tension dissipates. Solaris's shoulders relax when Aslan takes his hand, though they straighten again when he shakes it vigorously. "Great! Awesome. Do you know if we get any decent channels on here?" He jerks his chin towards the screen.

"Well, we should probably be watching the reca—"

"What about radio?"

Solaris frowns. "Radio?"

"Ever heard of Daily Five Live? I listen all the time back home, it's fucking great."

"No, I haven't heard—"

"You think we can get it here? There's always, uh. They always have a post-Reaping show."

Solaris tilts his head, his calculating gaze sweeping over Aslan. He straightens his glasses. "Oh, easy-peasy."

Before Aslan knows it, he's pried a panel off the wall, fiddling expertly with a tangle of wires and a rectangular box. He holds out a hand; Aslan takes that as a cue to pass him the remote. A few button-pushing wire-crossing seconds later, the voice of Daily Five Live's host flits through the room. "Not bad, Solar guy," Aslan grins, holding his hand up for a high-five. Solaris glances at it hesitantly, but Aslan's immediate attention is captured by the radio host.

"...never thought I'd see another Salvatici on the Reaping Stage, let alone Aslan himself. Honestly, my good Nucleons, I don't… I don't know what to say."

His hand wilts. The Reaping show's always been more solemn, but Aslan's never heard Miss April's voice this… heavy.

"It's all we can do, really, to hope he comes back. And y'know… maybe he could."

It's like she… knows me.

"—opening soon for—kzzzcht!—ublic sponsor—kzzzcht!—pool our resources—kzzzcht!"

And just like that, the station fizzes out. "No…" Aslan murmurs. "No, dammit!" His fist slams into the screen; an array of white dances from the impact point before dissolving into static.

"I'm sorry," Solaris says. He sounds genuine, but it doesn't change the fact that District Five is gone.

(No— it's Aslan who's gone.)

"Un-fucking-believable," Aslan mutters under his breath. His eyes stare unfocused at the TV static, enraptured. "We get better reception out in the fucking Spikes, you'd think the Capitol—"

"The what?"

"You know. That giant field of spikes just outside the Nuclear Sector? Though I guess you'd never need to know."

"You— you went there…?"

"Yeah, my gang and I like to hang out there sometimes. No one ever really bothers us there, it's kinda nice."

"And when… was the last time…?"

"I don't know. Few days ago?"

"Did you happen to be, uh, wearing that jacket?" His mentor's voice sounds far away. Aslan glances over his shoulder; the Victor's at the door now, eyes wide and face ashen beneath those heavy-looking glasses of his.

"I wear it every day."

Without another word, Solaris bolts from the room.

"Hey—what?" The door slams; a lock clicks just as Aslan runs headlong into it, jangling the handle. Nothing. "Dude, what the fuck?"

"Sorry, Aslan!"

Again, the muffled voice behind the door sounds genuine, but no amount of pounding fists make a difference.

Aslan is gone—stuck—alone.

A/N: Sorry phobie. if you see any typos, No You Don't (i will edit later)