CHAPTER XXIII: NIGHT II

Yuly Montreal • District Eleven Male

District Eleven Suite / July 6th, 7:17 PM

At least so far, Yuly's tea party seems to be a success.

He and his allies are cozied up in the District Eleven common room, sitting at a round table scattered with floral teacups, pastries, and ornate silverware. Dottie and Ginseng are joined at the hip, per usual. They sit in chairs pushed together to form one big chair, passing teapots and scones between each other so they can both try all the flavors. Artan sits on Yuly's left, trying to get Ginseng's attention. Delano sits beside Dottie, cracking a smile every so often when somebody laughs.

Yuly can't help but feel proud of this little family he's assembled. Of course, he can't take all the credit — just most of it. It's about everything he's envisioned since the train rides, so close to perfect.

So, so close. Even in the midst of all this chit-chat, Yuly feels like there's something, someone missing. His gaze drifts from the empty chair to the suite room beside his: Jillion's. He hasn't had a proper conversation with the girl since the journey up to the Capitol, if you can even call their exchange a conversation. She's certainly not talkative, but Ginseng and Dottie could get her out of her shell. Yuly's convinced Jillion could get along with the girls swimmingly if she just gave them a chance.

Yuly frowns. Time's spilling through his fingers; after tonight, he has less than a day to recruit Jillion. He's starting to wonder if she'll come around after all.

He turns to Artan, handing the boy a blueberry scone. "When do you think Mavis will decide to join our alliance?" Yuly asks, wanting to take his mind off his own District partner.

"Oh, erm," Artan hesitates, "I'm not sure…"

"Is she concerned about the size of the group?" Yuly inquires. "Or maybe one of the members?"

Artan's eyes grow shifty. "It's… difficult to explain. I admit I don't quite understand her, ah, inner machinations. Nor do I share her… views."

"So, you don't know why she hasn't joined us?"

Artan is now refusing to look at him. "Er… no. Yes. I don't know."

Yuly hums, swirling a spoon in his tea. Artan doesn't seem to be telling the truth, but he doesn't seem to be lying either. Yuly isn't sure what to make of that. Meanwhile, the awkward silence continues to stretch out between them.

"Well," Yuly chirps at last, holding his teacup out toward Artan. "Let her know she always has a place in our group, all right? I'll do anything I can to accommodate her."

"Um… right." Artan gives him a tight smile, daintily clinking his teacup into Yuly's. "Cheers to… trying."

On the other side of the table, Dottie and Ginseng mimic the gesture. Tea sloshes over the edge of the cups' rims, splashing onto both of their clothes. Instead of taking a napkin to the wet spot, Dottie lifts the fabric to her mouth and starts to suck the tea from it. Ginseng points, exclaiming "ew!" before immediately following suit.

"Girls!" Yuly exclaims, thrusting a napkin toward both of them.

"I'm not wasthing thith," Dottie says, fabric still in her mouth. Ginseng seems to buy her logic. The slurping sounds resume.

Artan wordlessly watches this display, expression flickering between concern and vehement disgust. Whatever thoughts he has on the matter, he keeps them to himself as he sips mildly from his own teacup. Yuly chuckles to himself, depositing the unused napkin back on the table. Kids will be kids, he supposes.

After Ginseng is satisfied with her rudimentary clean-up job, she stands on her and Dottie's combined chair and extends her teacup above the center of the table. "We should make a toast!"

Dottie perks up. "Toast? Where?"

"Here," Ginseng says, tapping her fingernail against the porcelain of the teacup. "When you put your cups together, that's called a toast."

"Oh." The Eight girl sounds slightly disappointed, but she stands on the chair beside Ginseng anyway.

Yuly smiles widely, raising his own teacup to toast. Artan hurriedly joins in, eager to place his own cup next to Ginseng's. The Seven girl beams, turning to the boy sitting next to Dottie. "Delano! C'mon!"

"I don't know," Delano hesitates. "The angle's kind of awkward."

"Just use your other arm," Ginseng supplies helpfully.

Delano blinks before realizing. "Oh. Right. My other arm. Which I have now."

He switches the teacup from his good arm to his prosthetic one, which offers a much better vantage point to the center of the table. But Del's prosthetic arm careens wildly toward the center, like he can't control it — Yuly's eyes widen as his teacup crashes into theirs and shatters, a large shard slicing against Ginseng's thumb.

"Fuck!" Delano curses, frantically trying to pick up the shards with shaking hands. "I'm so sorry, dude. That's on me. Shit."

Ginseng clamps the hand that isn't bleeding over her mouth. "Oooh. You just said the f-word."

"Fuck,'" Dottie repeats thoughtfully. "Shit."

Artan clutches his chest, aghast. "Undignified words…!"

"Ah, fuck," Delano blurts, dropping the shards all over again. "Don't say that shit. Don't say that either."

"Can all of us please pay attention to the emergency at hand here?!" Yuly exclaims, scrambling to get the first aid kit from the kitchen cabinets. "Ginseng is bleeding!"

"Quick, root girl," Dottie says, "Put it in your mouth!"

"I know what shall cure your wounds!" Artan cries out. "None other than a true love's kiss—"

"DO NOT DO EITHER OF THOSE THINGS," Yuly booms, using his leader voice. He's back with a wet towelette and a fresh bandage before Artan commits to drastic measures. Yuly kneels by Ginseng's side, wiping Ginseng's finger down before applying the ointment.

Dottie leans in close, watching curiously. Artan looks dismayed at not being able to save the day. Delano hovers a few feet away, chewing the inside of his cheek.

"There," Yuly says, just as he's finished securing the bandage around Ginseng's finger. "How's that?"

Ginseng bends her finger up and down, which she can do with ease since Yuly didn't stick the bandage on too tightly. Joint mobility seems to be the only metric in Ginseng's litmus test for bandage application, because that's the only thing she bothers testing. She nods, pleased. "It's good. Thanks, Yuly."

He smiles warmly at Ginseng. "Of course, kiddo." He turns to look at Delano, his expression growing stiffer. "Del. I need to have a word with you."

"Just one or several?" Delano says.

"Please come outside with me."

"Oh. Yeah. Sure." Under his breath, Delano mutters, "If I had a nickel…"

Yuly heads out to the elevator lobby, confirming that Delano is following behind him. As the door clicks shut, he sends a quick prayer to the heavens that the youngins won't make a mess while he and Delano talk outside. More of a mess, at least.

Delano cracks an unsure smile as Yuly faces him, trying to dispel the tension. "What is this?" he jokes. "Timeout?"

"I need you to be serious, Del."

"I am! I'm serious, I can be so serious. How's my serious face?"

Yuly levels a look at him. Delano sighs. "Look, I'm really sorry about the teacup. I didn't mean to cut Ginseng — it was a total accident. It's just hard to control the arm sometimes, y'know. The nub's still getting used to promotion."

"If it was an accident, it was an accident. Please just be more careful next time." Yuly exhales. "But I didn't bring you outside to have a one-on-one about the teacup."

"Okay," Delano blinks, "then…?"

"It's about you cursing in front of the kids," Yuly says.

Delano stares at him for a long beat. "Are you deadass?"

"Dead— butt," Yuly responds, just in case one of the littles is listening on the other side of the door.

Delano barks out an incredulous laugh. "I've got a potty mouth. It just slips out sometimes, so my bad. But I'm sure a couple f-bombs isn't the worst thing they've ever heard."

"It doesn't matter if they've heard worse," Yuly protests. "They're kids."

"And we aren't?" Delano scoffs. "I mean, if you really think about it, everyone is just a slightly older kid."

"We're still older than them, so we need to be role models."

"I'm only older by like, two years. Not exactly the shining beacon of morality."

'Two years is a lot when you're fifteen." Yuly tries to soften his voice. "They look up to you. More than you think."

"Well, they shouldn't," Delano frowns. "I'm just some guy. I'm not the type of person people look up to."

"Anyone can be," Yuly says. "You just have to believe it."

"Easy for you to say. You're… you. All happy and optimistic and shit." Delano's voice takes a sarcastic edge. "I don't know if you can tell, but I'm not really like that."

Yuly has to admit he's noticed that Delano isn't as close to the others as he'd hoped. The guy was the opposite of reserved when Yuly first approached him, but during training and group events, Delano lingers on the sidelines, only stealing a couple of sentences with Dottie when the young girl isn't chatting away with Ginseng.

"Sure you are," Yuly insists anyway. "That's why I came up to you the first day. I saw something in you — something special."

Delano wrinkles his nose, clearly skeptical. "Like what?"

Yuly thinks about how he wants to phrase this. "You have a very unique spirit."

"Oh, wow. You tell this line to everyone you meet?"

"I mean it. You're talkative and you've got a great sense of humor, Del. I don't know why you haven't been using it with the others."

"Uh, because my sense of humor isn't exactly family-friendly?"

"Point is," Yuly says, ignoring him, "I wanted to create a group where people could feel safe. I thought you'd be a good addition — and I still do."

"See, all that sounded good when you first pitched it to me," Delano says. "It was you, me, and Dottie. I kinda thought we — er, you and I, at least — were on the same level. And then you started inviting all these random kids without asking or telling me anything, and now I'm feeling like I have no idea why I'm even here anymore."

"We are on the same level," Yuly assures him. "I'm sorry you've been feeling excluded. But I thought you'd say something if you didn't like what I was doing."

Delano's voice grows frustrated. "Now it's my fault for not complaining sooner? I didn't even know that was an option."

"Of course it's always an option," Yuly says emphatically. "Communication is difficult, but it's necessary to bridge any sort of conflict."

"I didn't ask for a lecture on how to communicate right now," Delano scowls. "But if you want communication, I'll give it to you. I don't like how you did a bunch of shit without asking me. I don't like how you're forcing a bunch of responsibilities into my lap while also treating me like I'm stupid, like I'm some dumb kid."

"You're not a kid," Yuly reassures.

"Well, no. But I didn't sign up for the babysitter's club, either. I don't know who in their right mind would want to hang out with a bunch of kids in the Hunger Games, of all places. Not to insinuate any weird shit — I'm sure you're not like that. But I didn't agree to this!"

Yuly's voice turns earnest. "Del, those kids need people to protect them."

Delano forces a strained laugh, throwing his arms up. "I don't know if you've seen me, but I'm not that guy!"

Yuly's eyes drift to his mechanical arm. "That's okay. I can protect you, too."

Delano's features twist when he realizes where Yuly's gaze is pointed. "Oookay," Delano scoffs, his voice taking a harsh edge. "I meant more like I'm built like a fuckin' twig, but glad to know you think I'm a useless crip, too!"

"Hold on," Yuly protests, heated now. "I never said—"

"You didn't have to say anything at all. Ever considered being a mime? Heard the industry's booming right now."

Yuly can't believe Delano is still cracking jokes. "There's no need to jump to assumptions, and you don't have to be rude, either. I just meant you don't have full control over your new arm, and what happened with the teacup earlier would prove my point. But that's okay, and that's the point of being in this group. I can pick up the slack where you can't."

"Yeah, nice fucking save, man. I've been wondering, actually — are we like, charity work for you? Does saving little kids and disabled motherfuckers rub your ego right?"

"That's not what this is about," Yuly grits out, jaw tense. "I—"

"You probably saw my skinny ass and thought to yourself, that poor, nubby motherfucker! Decided to scoop in and save the day. Didn't even bother to ask me if I needed your help. Here I thought you actually saw me as, I don't know, normal. But you didn't even bother to see the man underneath the nub." Yuly can tell this is supposed to be another mean joke, but the harsh jab is undercut by the way Delano's voice cracks. "Honestly, I don't have to take this shit. I'm out of here."

"Delano—"

"Nah, you don't even deserve my real finger," Delano says, before flicking up the middle finger of his prosthetic arm at Yuly instead. "Bam — yeah, take that shit!"

"Del—"

The elevator doors slam shut before Yuly can get another word in. He watches the box beam skyward before plummeting, taking Delano back to his suite floor. It's quiet for a couple minutes, the only sounds the whirr of the elevator and the girls' muffled laughter through the door.

The adrenaline from the argument leaves his body at once — now, Yuly just feels tired.

Ultimately, he doesn't think he blames Delano. He understands that the guy was talking from a place of hurt and bitterness. Only the skies know all the nonsense he's had to put up with because of his condition, which is why Yuly tried to word things gently. But his talk with Delano has ended much worse than he anticipated.

Maybe it's Yuly's fault; maybe he could've done more. But he can't change the way Delano chose to interpret his words, and he has to accept that.

For the time being, Delano's gone. And if it isn't meant to be, then that's how it's going to be.

(Still, Yuly can't help but worry.)

Cassia Cosmos • District Two Female

Rooftop / July 6th, 8:40 PM

"Where are you going with all that?" Sergeant calls out from the other side of the room, his voice laced with something impish.

Cassia whips around, attempting to hide the bundle of blankets and picnic basket behind her back. She doesn't succeed — Sergeant makes strides around her, inspecting her gatherings with a conspiratorial hum.

Cassia gulps, already feeling sweaty. It's as if Sergeant can see right through her, like he somehow just knows what she's planning. Somehow, other people just know things about her before she tells them; sometimes, before she even knows it herself. It's like everyone else is a part of some inside joke she still doesn't get.

The feeling still lingers in the Capitol, though many of her allies are much less cruel than she anticipated. They each include her in 'the joke' in their own ways. Sergeant's taught her about sarcasm and fist bumps. Reverie's fierce with her compliments, sounding honest about each one. Kieran's kind to her, good-natured and patient. Fioynder occasionally drops an approving comment on her technique. Orion's presence has brought her more comfort than she knows how to voice, like a piece of the serene night sky they both love so dearly.

And then there's Jupiter. Cassia doesn't know how to explain what she feels when the Four girl's near — she just does. Her blue eyes are like electricity crackling underneath her skin. Her voice, like a bonfire on cooling sand. Everything Jupiter does seems to have some sort of effect on Cassia; she swears her face is still warm from their conversation a couple of hours earlier.

Before the elevator could arrive to take them back to their suites, Cassia gathered the willpower to say what was on her mind all afternoon.

"I was wondering," Cassia blurted. "If you wanted to do something with me later."

"Oh?" Jupiter turned to her, curious. "Like what?"

"Well, there's a lot of floors in this building." Cassia clasped her hands behind her back, pretending to consider every option. "There's a little garden on one of them. A pool on another."

"You don't seem sold on either," Jupiter commented slyly. "Already got something in mind?"

"Is it that obvious?" Cassia laughs nervously, smoothing her hair back. "Would you want to go stargazing with me? I hope that doesn't sound boring to you, because I really like it. And there's a spot. On the roof. Just if you want to."

"Stargazing, huh?" There's a funny gleam in the Four girl's eyes. "Figures you'd be a fan of something romantic like that."

Cassia blushed. "Is — is that romantic?"

"Just a little." Jupiter flashed her a grin. "But sure thing, Cassia. You just tell me when."

She and Jupiter agreed on nine o'clock, but Cassia wanted to get to the rooftop early. Partly because she couldn't sit still, partly because she wanted to be prepared, and partly because she wanted some time to collect herself before Jupiter showed up. Which was ridiculous, because it's just Jupiter. Who is just her ally. Who she's going to be alone on the rooftop with, doing her favorite thing in the whole world.

Just her and Jupiter, under the stars. No big deal.

As Cassia evades Sergeant's attempts to grab her stuff, her eyes keep flickering back to the clock on the wall. Only twenty minutes until nine. She feels lightheaded just thinking about it.

Sergeant makes another dive that Cassia sidesteps. "I see you're attempting to remove contraband from its assigned location, Cosmos!"

"It's not contraband!" Cassia blurts out hurriedly. "It's just…"

"Blankets." Sergeant cocks an eyebrow. "Very suspicious."

"I'm doing… laundry?" The lie feels clumsy leaving her lips.

"With a picnic basket?" Sergeant laughs. He stops darting around Cassia at last, hand now outstretched expectantly. "Fork it over. I'm friskin' ya."

"This feels just like the Academy all over again," Cassia grumbles, obliging.

"Once a cadet, always a cadet," Sergeant answers with an exaggerated air of gravitas. He peers inside the basket. "Oh. That's a lot of strawberries."

"I like strawberries," Cassia says defensively.

"But there's a lot a lot. Enough for two, even…?"

"…I really like strawberries."

"If you say so," Sergeant replies with a mischievous smile. He returns the basket, which Cassia takes gratefully. "Keep your secrets, Cassianova."

Cassia wrinkles her nose. "Is that another pun?"

"Yeah, I combined your name and Casanova's. Historically, he was a lover of women, like you. And a doer of women, like—"

"Oh, jeez," Cassia groans, feeling her face redden like the strawberries in her basket. "I'm not… it's not like that."

"Really? It's not?"

"It's not just up to me," Cassia shrugs weakly. There are lots of forces at play, even beyond Jupiter's feelings. Namely, the Games. Cassia doesn't need anyone to tell her how silly it is to hope for this.

(And yet, that soft, pitiful thing still sputters in her chest.)

Sergeant hums, crossing his arms. "Well, you're not the only one with a hot date tonight."

Cassia blinks. "Hot date?"

"Not actually a hot date. We're just conversatin', but yeah."

"One of the Ones?"

Sergeant laughs. "Which One do you think?"

"Reverie," Cassia guesses.

"Yeah, Rev. Duh." Sergeant snorts. "I don't think Kieran likes me very much."

"Oh," Cassia says, frowning a little. She hasn't really noticed anything out of the ordinary with Kieran and Sergeant, but Cassia has to admit that a lot of stuff like this slips past her. "Is it because he made you fall after the spar?"

"Sort of," Sergeant says measuredly. "It feels bigger than that — I'm still figuring it out. I just don't know what I did to the guy."

"Maybe it's not about you," Cassia supplies helpfully.

There's a pause. "Damn."

"Wait — that's not what I meant," Cassia says, feeling her face start to burn. "Mama used to say that when other kids bullied me, it had more to do with their insecurities than with me. Not saying that Kieran's a bully, because he's been really nice to me. But." Cassia abruptly cuts herself off, biting the inside of her cheek. "Sorry. Maybe I'm not wording this well."

"Nah, I get what you're saying." Sergeant knits his brows together, hesitating for a beat. "Your mom used to say…?"

"Oh. Yeah." Cassia looks away. "She's dead."

Sergeant's voice is quiet. "I'm sorry, Cass."

"It's okay," Cassia responds, the way her grandparents taught her to when people asked about Mama.

"Is it?"

"No," Cassia admits. "But I'm not ten anymore. So I don't have a good reason to cry about it."

Sergeant says nothing for a long time. Then, "Your mom sounds like a smart woman."

Cassia smiles, even if faintly. "The smartest." Her mind wanders back to what she and Sergeant were discussing before. "What are you going to talk about with Reverie?"

"Probably a bunch of stuff," Sergeant answers. "Think she wants to clear up what Fio said during the spar, though."

Cassia nods, remembering. "It was a big accusation."

"I wouldn't be surprised if it's true," Sergeant confesses. "I mean, it's not as if accidents at the Academy are uncommon. Could be something like that blown out of proportion. "

"Yeah," Cassia agrees.

"Well," Sergeant winks, patting her shoulder. "Don't let me stall your super-secret plans. Go get 'em, tiger."

"Oh my god," Cassia moans, mortified.

"Make sure to sleep though, for real. Big day tomorrow: private sessions, and then everything after that."

"Wait," Cassia says. "I wanted to ask you about Orion."

"Hm?"

"He isn't…" Cassia falters. "He isn't making the cut, is he?"

Sergeant purses his lips. "Probably not," he says at last.

"Oh," Cassia whispers. "Okay. I expected that."

Sergeant sighs, running a hand through his locs. "He's a smart kid, just dead weight. But I could still be convinced. Depends on how things shake out with scores." he explains. "Don't stress it too much, yeah? Whatever happens, happens."

Cassia just nods again, numbly.

Sergeant reaches out, squeezing her arm. "G'night, Cass. I'll see you tomorrow."

The clock strikes nine and Cassia's there on the rooftop, alone under a vast, glass dome separating her from the greater galaxy.

Cassia wraps a blanket around herself to fight off the chill. Underneath this sky she feels small, and not in the way that soothes her. The stars don't seem as bright as they usually do.

She waits.

And waits.

And waits.

She doesn't know how long she waits before Jupiter finally shows. Her signature braids are tousled underneath a baseball cap. Her face is flushed with exertion, heavy breaths breaking the silence. Cassia thinks she's just as pretty as ever.

"Elevator was taking too damn long," Jupiter says, out of breath. She plops herself down next to Cassia. "So I took the stairs."

"I was scared you weren't going to come," Cassia mumbles, wrapping the blanket tighter around herself.

"My fault." Jupiter tugs the brim of her cap over her eyes. "I, uh, also got caught up by my mentor. Didn't expect it to take so long."

"It's okay," Cassia whispers. "You're here now."

"I am," Jupiter responds.

Cassia points to the picnic basket, now almost empty. "I brought you strawberries, but I ate most of them."

"Aw, don't worry 'bout it." Jupiter gives her an apologetic smile. "Rest is all yours. I'm not really a sweets girlie, anyway."

"Oh, okay." The night is silent for a couple moments before Cassia remembers this is the part of the conversation where she should ask a follow-up question. "What kind of… 'girlie' are you, then?"

Jupiter laughs for some reason, but not meanly. It's a good sound, one that eases Cassia's nerves. Cassia feels a little proud of herself for managing that again.

"Dana calls me weird for this," Jupiter prefaces, "but I like bitter tastes."

Cassia's ears latch onto the name. "Dana?"

"My best friend," Jupiter clarifies. "I'm sure he's doing fine without me. My ego hopes he's miserable, though."

"Oh," Cassia breathes, stupidly relieved that Dana isn't the name of a girlfriend or something.

"I usually have supper with his family," Jupiter continues. "They always make sure to cook the spiciest version of everything for me. Which I guess isn't bitter, but it's painful, so close enough. I like sour stuff too, so sour it'll make ya cry. I like coffee, black. I like tea. And liquor." Her voice sounds fond and far away. "Dana can't stand it, 'cause he's a total lightweight. Has to tap out after a coupla sips of anythin'. I always finish off the bottle for him."

"I don't think I've tried that before," Cassia says.

Jupiter cocks her head. "Tried what? A drink?"

"Well, I've had lots of drinks."

"I mean like alcohol."

"Oh," Cassia flushes. "Then, no. I haven't."

Jupiter makes a surprised sound. "Huh. Goddamn."

Oh, god. That didn't sound like a good reaction, which means Cassia definitely just said the wrong thing. She's completely failing this interaction right now — Jupiter's probably wondering why she even bothered agreeing to spend time with her.

Cassia fiddles with a strand of hair, voice wavering. "Is that bad?"

"Nah, yer 'ight," Jupiter reassures quickly, placing a hand on Cassia's opposite shoulder. Cassia startles before relaxing again — Jupiter's palm on her skin feels warm, pleasant. "Honestly, 's probably a good thing."

"Are you just saying that?" Cassia pouts. "I'm eighteen, but I've never drank alcohol. I've never done stuff like that. I don't know. It feels like you and everyone else have lived so much more life than me or something."

"There's way more to life than makin' piss poor decisions. I've probably genocided mass amounts of brain cells from drinkin' and, uh, other stuff."

"Other stuff?"

"…Don't worry 'bout that. Basically, I'm sayin' you might've done nothing, but that's better than doin' everything under the sun."

"I guess," Cassia murmurs. "It just feels like everyone else is ahead of me."

"Not true." Jupiter's blue eyes crinkle. "You kicked my ass today."

Cassia smiles despite herself. "That's different."

"Not really. I mean, you get better at doing things with more experience. You had to train hella to be as good as you are, and it sure as shit shows. Everything's an acquirable skill. In this case… drinking, I guess. Or making godawful teenager decisions. But if that's whatcha wanna do, then go for it."

Jupiter scratches the back of her neck, looking strangely sheepish. "I know I'm making it sound way easier than it is. It's not. Shit's hard. And trust, I can be a real pussy sometimes, too. Not that I think you're a pussy."

"You're rambling," Cassia giggles.

"Look," Jupiter laughs, the sound warm in Cassia's ears. "What I'm sayin' is there's lots of things I haven't tried, either."

"That's hard to believe." Cassia's eyes trail from Jupiter's piercings, the silver catching slivers of moonlight. She observes them one by one: the hoop in Jupiter's eyebrow, the stud in her nose, the barbell between her lips.

Her lips. Cassia blinks, her heart pattering wildly.

When did they start sitting so close? Is Cassia just imagining the pink dusting the other girl's face? Are the stars casting strange lights?

"I'm bein' honest," Jupiter insists, leaning her head to the side. Her eyes look bluer than Cassia's ever seen them, like glowing pools under the cover of night. "There are lots of things I want to try. Could try again, even."

"Like what?" Cassia whispers, her face impossibly hot. In this close proximity, her nerves feel alight, ready to scatter into supernova.

Jupiter hums, and it's almost like the air between them vibrates. Her eyes lower just slightly "Like… maybe I can change my mind on sweet."

Cassia hurriedly racks through her brain, trying to figure out what Jupiter might be implying. Then, it clicks.

She reaches for the basket in between them, fishing out one of the remaining small, scarlet jewels.

"Strawberry?" Cassia offers.

Jupiter's expression transforms from confusion to mirth in an instant. She laughs. She laughs so hard she has to lean on Cassia for support, so hard that tears spring from her eyes. Cassia's heart swells with delight, and she finds herself laughing too, even though she doesn't know what's funny.

Maybe nothing's funny. Maybe everything is. Maybe she's okay with not knowing if it means this girl from District Four keeps laughing.

Cassia's still holding the strawberry between her fingers by the time Jupiter's calmed down. Fighting off more chuckles, Jupiter opens her jaw. Cassia feeds her the strawberry; pink flesh bursts between white teeth.

So much for stargazing. But Cassia is the furthest thing from disappointed.

Wisteria Rose Peak • District Nine Female

Menagerie / July 6th, 9:22 PM

Wisteria sketches the scene before her.

It was such a relief to be reunited with her journal, the object waiting innocuously on the doormat in front of the Nine suite. It felt auspicious, intentional, like how this garden on the 26th floor feels it was placed here just for Wisteria. The whole space is dim under the night sky, save for the hearty amber glow of the hanging lamps. Moss grows in between the crooks of the path. Hedges obscure parts of the menagerie from view, like a half-baked forest labyrinth. Jasmine snakes the stone pillars and archways; blossoms are scattered everywhere in a haphazard fashion.

(Each and every flower is in a state of full bloom — it's all too perfect to be natural. But Wisteria can let herself believe the illusion if she doesn't look too long.)

In this glass chamber, Wisteria feels simultaneously more protected and more vulnerable than ever. Something about the see-through walls leaves her feeling exposed, raw. She feels like a sheltered princess dancing in her private garden, never to step foot outside of these walls. The lush foliage indoors almost feels like the native grasses in Nine under her palms, but past the windows is a sprawling city more alien than anything she's ever known.

Stars sparkle from above, skylights shine from afar. Then comes the distant sounds of piano keys twinkling from within. Wisteria gently snaps her journal shut, lifting herself off the grass. It looks like someone else has discovered her short-lived haven, and she's curious to find out who.

Wisteria ambles through the lamplit menagerie, trying to uncover where the music is coming from.

Whoever is playing the piano doesn't stop, not once. The song occasionally dips into dissonance and stutters at parts, but always picks itself back up. It's not perfect but it's achingly honest, which Wisteria thinks she likes more. Each note weaves something new into the tapestry of the song, blurred by the damper pedal's milky sound. Wisteria herself weaves through the pebble paths, building a portrait of the musician in her mind's eye.

Well-shaped hands, fingers gentle but quietly assured in their owner's presumed solitude. Nails, neat and trimmed, as required of a practiced pianist. A carefully poised demeanor in the sunlight, only revealing an artistic sensitivity away from the scrutiny of eyes and ears.

Self-indulgently, Wisteria adds the wispy curls and startled eyes of the girl from yesterday.

The music grows louder as Wisteria draws closer to the source, like a moth to flame. It's not long before she comes upon a clearing in the menagerie, where she finds a beautifully ornate piano nestled between peonies and pavement.

Someone up there must be smiling down on her, because behind the piano is the girl she hoped to see, the girl from Ten. Her eyes are closed and her brows are pinched in concentration as she sways with the ebb and flow of her own music.

Wisteria makes no effort to conceal herself as she settles down a couple feet from the piano. She stays quiet and just listens, letting the notes wash over her. After the song peters out into a sustained silence, Wisteria claps.

Ten startles, much as she had the first time Wisteria spoke to her. Her eyes bolt to Wisteria's with a wary spark of recognition, expression easing just slightly as if she expected to see somebody else. Still, the rest of her seems ready to dart away from the piano, from Wisteria.

"You've got a real gift, you know," Wisteria whispers, hands tucked behind her back.

Ten regards her cautiously, as if trying to gauge Wisteria's intentions. Her brows set over her round eyes, schooling her face into something more guarded, less girlish. It makes her look more mature, intelligent, aware. But her features are rendered soft underneath the firefly glow of the lamps, and her sophistication wavers underneath a current of something self-conscious.

Wisteria continues to look at the girl, waiting for her to run away, hoping she doesn't. She gets her wish, at least for the moment — Ten remains perched on the piano bench.

"It was littered with mistakes," Ten responds at last, massaging her wrist. "I fear my fingers have gotten stiff."

"I thought it sounded beautiful," Wisteria says.

"Perhaps to the untrained ear."

The immediacy of Ten's response stings. "Ouch."

Ten flushes. "I — I must apologize. I didn't mean to imply…"

Wisteria raises an eyebrow.

She sighs, starting from scratch. "I don't often play for an audience. The songs I play in privacy are for my own personal indulgence, as unrefined as they are. They are up to no sort of standard." Ten averts her eyes, her hand soothing the skin on her collarbone. "I would never subject an audience to something so unpolished."

"A real shame, I think," Wisteria says. "I would love to hear this in a jazz bar. Or a concert hall."

"Those two places are nothing alike."

"You'd definitely know better than me," Wisteria admits. "Point is, I'd love to hear this anywhere."

Ten looks off to the side, hesitant. The words that leave her lips are stilted, unsure. "Thank you, then."

Slowly, Wisteria meanders toward Ten and the piano. Ten bristles slightly, but she allows Wisteria to approach, her gaze flickering between Wisteria… well, and any other direction. Wisteria eventually settles on the side of the piano, leaning against the vintage grey wood. She and the girl fall into a lapse of silence, one that Wisteria feels strangely compelled to fill. Ten intrigues her in a way only answers will satiate.

"Where's that guy you're always with?" Wisteria asks.

Something passes over Ten's face. "Do you mean Asahel?"

"Guess so," Wisteria replies. "Seems real protective of you."

"Quite," Ten mutters.

"Also seems like there's something going on there."

"What do you mean?"

"He volunteered, and hasn't left your side since. I mean, it doesn't take a genius. Reads real romantic, I think."

Ten purses her lips. "I… suppose it is."

"And he calls you Miss," Wisteria hums. "What's that about?"

She seems embarrassed to say. "He's, ah, one of my father's employees."

"Employees?"

"My father runs an enterprise," Ten explains. "It's not large-scale, but quite efficient nonetheless. He supplies premium-quality cuts of meat to the Capitol. Primarily steak."

"Oh," Wisteria's eyes widen. "So you're rich rich."

Ten flushes, but nods. Wisteria isn't exactly surprised by her guess being correct, but she is by the girl readily admitting to it. She cracks a sly smile. "Explains why you talk like that, then."

The girl blinks, looking puzzled. "Like what?"

"All posh and stuffy."

"I do not," Ten protests, scandalized. Her brows furrow deeper as Wisteria's grin breaks wider. "I don't!"

"Maybe stuffy's not the word," Wisteria says, even though it most certainly is. She's honest about the next part, though. "I don't mean it in a bad way. I think it's cute. You're a real lady."

Ten gives Wisteria what she can only describe as a polite glare, mouth set in a neutral pout with narrowed eyes. Wisteria can't help but snicker, can't resist prodding further.

"So, am I right?" Wisteria straightens her spine, attempting to hold herself in that uptight, dignified manner Ten does. She also tries to copy Ten's tone and inflection, though she's not fully convinced she pulls it off with the same charm.

"I'm quite famished; if only I had a pastry to nibble on. I fancy myself a midday nap. Butler, might you escort me to my upstairs quarters in my inhumanly large mansion? And would you be so kind as to prepare my stallion, so that I may take an evening dash across the fifty-acre courtyard?"

Ten huffs slightly. Wisteria catches an undeniable glimpse of amusement before Ten tucks a stray curl behind her ear, obscuring her face with the gesture. "You have an overactive imagination."

"But you're not telling me I'm wrong."

"You have an overactive imagination," the girl repeats, "but… not inaccurate."

"Which means I'm right."

Ten gives an impartial hum. "Try five hundred acres as opposed to fifty. But the rest is passable."

"That is an ungodly amount of land."

"I am inclined to agree."

Another smile stretches across Wisteria's face. "Forget the fifty acres. If everything else I said is correct, then it's more accurate to say what I have is really good intuition."

"Only if you have a history of it," Ten challenges. "How am I to know whether your assumptions about me aren't merely a fluke?"

"I'd say I'm generally good at reading people. I keep my thoughts — assumptions, I guess — in my journals." Wisteria holds up the leatherbound in her hand, the one she had brought to draw flowers. "This one's new, so there's not that much in it yet."

"You brought a new journal to the Hunger Games?" the girl asks wryly.

"I can fill one out pretty fast," Wisteria insists. "Give me a week and see how far I get."

"I believe you," Ten says, the corners of her mouth lifting just slightly. "Though, it's a strange pastime to think so much about what other people won't tell you."

"Are you calling me nosy?" Wisteria gasps, mock-insulted.

Ten offers her nothing but the slightest of smirks. "If that is how you choose to interpret my words."

"In my defense, I'm usually not," Wisteria protests. "I'll go ahead and admit to the overactive imagination part. It's true that I like making things up about people. I think it makes life more interesting. But it's also true that my guesses turn out right sometimes — like with you."

"Hm," Ten sniffs playfully. "Since you are so adamant about your above-average intuition, I suppose I shall reserve my doubts until I see proof otherwise."

"The generosity of my fair lady cannot be underestimated," Wisteria shoots back, with a less-than-graceful curtsy. Nonetheless, it seems to catch Ten off-guard; Wisteria watches with thinly-veiled amusement as Ten's face blotches pink.

"There is absolutely no need for that," Ten mutters under her breath. She points at Wisteria's journal. "Do you keep anything else in here, besides your transcribed fantasies about strangers?"

"You really didn't have to word it like that, but yes. I write poems, and I draw." Wisteria flips to her most recent page, where inked flowers stretch from corner to corner. She angles it for Ten to look, and she does, very quietly.

"It's kind of weird, actually," Wisteria continues. "My journal randomly disappeared this morning."

"…Oh?"

"I'm not sure what happened, or if someone took it, or…" Wisteria trails off, still unsure what to make of the whole thing.

"…It really is quite odd," Ten murmurs, her eyes stubbornly affixed on the sketched flowers.

"It gets weirder. When I left my floor half an hour ago, my journal was just sitting there, in front of the door." Wisteria shrugs. "Maybe someone found it and somehow knew where to return it or something."

"Or something," Ten repeats. "Kind of them — whoever it was."

"Yeah. I don't know. At least I have it back. It just feels a little weird to think someone else might've seen what was inside."

The girl nods, eyes meeting Wisteria's. "It's not as if it's so profound or sightly, but…"

"It's personal," Wisteria finishes. "It's mine."

Ten doesn't say anything in response, but she doesn't need to. Wisteria is quite assured the other girl understands. The silence in the garden feels easy with Ten, just like it did with Emilio on the trains.

"I've got a weird ask for you," Wisteria whispers after a long moment.

Ten looks at her inquisitively.

"I was wondering — could I draw you? Right now?"

She blinks. "Why?"

"No reason, really," Wisteria shrugs. "No reason except that I'd like to, if you'd let me."

Ten appears hesitant, but not disinterested. "What do you want me to do?"

"Whatever feels natural," Wisteria replies. "Don't feel like you have to do anything."

"Easier said than done," the girl mutters.

Wisteria laughs, and it feels easier than it should. "You could play another tune," she suggests, gesturing to the piano. "You seemed real relaxed."

Ten gives her a look. "You can't judge me if it's not up to par."

"Don't worry. Anything will sound good to my untrained ear, remember?"

The girl reddens. "Please — that's not…"

"I'm joking. Sort of. I really think anything you play will sound beautiful."

Ten, still red, says nothing. But she breathes out, long and slow, placing her hand on the porcelain keys.

Wisteria's fantasy changes. She is no longer a princess-in-captive, but an artist commissioned to paint the illustrious young lady before her.

Ten is the elegant, newly-wedded wife to an extravagant nobleman who owns the beautiful menagerie. She is soon to be more woman than girl, but for this moment, the same youthful pink of her gown flushes her cheeks. She still looks light.

"What is the name of my mus—" Wisteria stutters. "—musician?"

"Falo," she answers. "And yours?"

"Wisteria."

"Hm." Falo turns, a small smile playing on her lips. "Fitting."

Soon, soft piano swells around Wisteria once more. She lets her eyes flutter shut, basking in the warmth of the melody and the garden. Falo's smile stains the back of her eyelids, and Wisteria draws what she does and doesn't see.

Kieran Locke • District One Male

District One Suite / July 6th, 2:55 AM

It starts the same way every time: Kieran wakes up to the sound of someone slamming their fist on his door.

He shoots upright from the hotel bed, his eyes still bleary from sleep. The pounding gets louder, faster. He stares at the door; whoever is behind is insistent, cusping on desperate.

"Who is it?" Kieran shouts, his voice hoarse.

"Kier!" comes a boyish voice from the other side. "Open the door, Kieran — it's me!"

In a couple of bounds, Kieran is at the door, unlocking it with a flick of his wrist. He opens the door because no matter how many times he's had this dream, he never seems to learn his lesson.

In barrels his brother. He's a strong boy of sixteen, nearly as tall as Kieran. Aurelius is the same age and height as he was the last night he was alive. His brother shoves himself against the door, slamming it closed with a bang. The knocks somehow return without a source, even more ravenously than before.

"Lock the door!" his brother demands, straining to keep it shut.

Kieran watches the whole room shudder with the force of whoever, whatever's outside. Dust even starts to spill from the ceiling. "What's going on?" he asks, uncomprehending.

"Just lock it." Aurelius's voice cracks. "I said lock it!"

Kieran twists all three locks. As soon as he slams the deadbolt into place, Aurelius bolts away from the door. His chest is heaving up and down, and there's a wild, frantic look in his eye as he watches the door convulse on its hinges.

"Hey, what's wrong?" Kieran says, furrowing his brows. "Aurie?"

"We have to tell somebody," he mumbles under his breath, not looking at Kieran. "We're all going to get in trouble…"

"We're not," Kieran assures him. "We took care of the mink coat, the watch, it's all gone. It can't be traced back to us."

His brother shakes his head again and again, as if in a trance. The words keep spilling out of his mouth, almost as if Kieran wasn't there at all. "We have to tell, she's dangerous…"

"Who is she? Reverie?"

"She's dangerous, we're all going to get in trouble," Aurelius whimpers, his entire body trembling. His green eyes glance outside the window, like he sees something far off in the distance Kieran can't. "She's coming — I don't want to die."

Kieran turns to the windows as well, trying to peer past the blinds. He doesn't know why he hasn't noticed the Peacekeeper cars and sirens until now, but there must be hundreds of them swarming the street, wailing on and on. Their lights bathe the inside of the hotel room in psychedelic red and blue.

"Nothing is going to happen to you," Kieran says, attempting to put his hands on his brother's shoulders. "She's not going to — she wouldn't—"

Aurelius pushes Kieran away from him, so forcefully that Kieran falls against the corner of the bed with a hard thud. Kieran stares up at him with wide eyes, but Aurelius doesn't even seem to see him.

"You don't believe me, do you?" Aurelius says in a quiet voice, backing towards the windows.

"I — of course I do," Kieran protests. "But—"

His next words die in his throat as he watches a darkness overtake the windows behind Aurelius.

"Oh, god," Aurelius whispers, voice breaking. "She's here."

The glass behind Kieran's brother bursts with a deafening shatter. Kieran can do nothing but watch as a jagged shard of glass plants itself in Aurelius's back, out through his stomach. His brother's eyes bulge — he claws helplessly at the wound, only succeeding at spreading it open further. Blood pours out of the incision in his abdomen like a fountain — there's so much, there's so much and it won't stop spilling—

She yanks the glass out of him, the sound a sickening mix of crunch and squelch. Kieran watches as Aurelius crumples to the ground, gutted like an animal. He only saw his brother get stabbed once, but when Kieran looks down at the body, he sees ten grisly wounds carved through his stomach and chest — exactly how he found him the first time. Exactly how she did it.

Kieran's shaking eyes drift towards Aurelius's face, desperately fighting what threatens to rise in his throat. Where his brother's green eyes once were are nothing but gouged out holes, black, impossibly black. It spreads out, fizzing into static that roars in Kieran's ears and consumes the edge of his vision.

He notices too late the shard of glass pressed against his own cheek, dripping red with Aurelius's blood. The glass kisses into his skin, smearing something wet.

"Beautiful," Reverie whispers, enraptured. Her voice is tender like the edge of the knife.

Kieran's gaze is still fixed on the corpse of his brother. "Aurelius," he whispers weakly.

Reverie grabs Kieran's jaw and twists it to face her. "You made me into this. You should've listened to him," she coos, soft as scarlet. But the eyes that bore into his are Aurelius's, green and cruel. Her smile belongs to him as well. "And now it's too late."

𖥔

Kieran wakes up, for real this time. His entire body is slick with sweat, the sheets underneath him drenched.

As he always does upon waking up, Kieran feels overwhelmed with the profound sense that he's lost something. He didn't even know there was still anything left to be lost.

Instinctively, Kieran fishes inside his pocket to feel the familiar gloss of the guitar pick. Just as quickly, he remembers it's gone — he had lost it at some point during training, but he doesn't even know when or where. At this point, it could be fucking anywhere.

(If Aurelius was alive, he would've been so angry. He wouldn't have spoken to Kieran for a week.)

Kieran peels the covers off his skin, shivering as the cold air assaults his body. He's had this dream enough to know there's no shot of him getting back to sleep. The only thing he can do is find something to stave off the gnawing feeling in his chest.

He makes his way to the door, hesitating the slightest bit before wrenching it open. Sure enough, there's no Aurelius, no Reverie, only the common room swathed in inky darkness. The glow of kitchen appliances illuminates Kieran's way to the refrigerator.

He swings it open. Unfocused, he grabs the first thing his gaze gravitates to: a bottle of brandy on the side shelf. Without thinking about it too much, he grabs it and takes a long swig, just to loosen up. He doesn't count the number of times he swallows; the only thing he feels is the burn as it hits the back of his throat.

Wincing, he throws a glance over his shoulder. He yelps loudly when he makes eye contact with a figure standing a few feet behind him, painted blue by the icy fridge light: Himeros, looking as presentable as ever. He's wearing a coat like he just got back from somewhere.

"Jesus," Kieran hisses through his teeth, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Why are you just standing there?!"

"Exercising my free will."

"Why didn't you say anything?!"

"Like what?" A Cheshire grin stretches across Himeros's face. "'Boo'? 'Lovely night we're having'?"

"No," Kieran scowls. "Whatever. You just… surprised me."

Himeros's eyes crinkle into crescents. The expression does nothing to settle Kieran's nerves. In fact, Kieran can barely discern where iris ends and sclera begins in the darkness. He quickly looks away from Himeros, too easily reminded of the eyeless Aurelius from his dream.

"You're up early," Himeros comments, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Three-and-a-half hours early."

"Got thirsty," Kieran says, a half-truth.

Himeros eyes the bottle of brandy still in his grip. "Right."

Kieran coughs, shoving the bottle back into the refrigerator. The door slams shut, and darkness swallows the room once more. "Why are you awake?" Kieran asks Himeros, blinking rapidly in an attempt to make his eyes adjust to the dark.

"I usually am," comes the man's melodic reply. "I don't sleep much."

"Really?"

"Yes, really. I know — it's hard to believe since I still manage to look so flawless."

"…Right." Kieran's unsure why the guy's fishing, since he doesn't seem like he's in short demand for compliments. "I, uh, think I'm gonna try to go back to bed now."

"Wait." Himeros cocks his head. "Tell me — did you happen to lose something?"

Kieran blinks. "I — yes."

A flash of gold streaks across Kieran's vision. Only when Himeros holds out his open palm does Kieran realize what it is: the missing guitar pick. "Is this yours?"

Kieran makes a leap for it, but Himeros flicks the object toward the ceiling, catching it in midair. He watches Kieran stumble forward with cool eyes.

"I thought so," Himeros whispers. "You might want to be a little more careful about where you leave your belongings."

Kieran's jaw tenses. "Where did you—?"

"Found it on the ground, right in front of the suite door like it was begging to be found. Who knows who could've walked up on it?"

Something about the man's tone makes Kieran feel uneasy. "Give it back," he demands.

"Why should I do that?"

"It's— it's mine."

Himeros cocks his head. "I'm wondering about that, actually. Is it really yours? Or…"

"It doesn't matter."

"It's not, then," Himeros decides, tapping his chin. He pretends to scrutinize the guitar pick, flipping it between his fingers. "Gold, eh? Let me guess — it belongs to brother dearest?"

"That's not any of your business," Kieran grits out, eyes flitting to Reverie's closed door.

"So it is your brother's," Himeros declares, triumphant. "Didn't peg you as the sentimental type, but I really should've. A little good luck token? A reminder, even?"

"Keep it down," Kieran whispers forcefully.

Himeros smiles. "She's not here, if that's what you're afraid of."

The apprehensive feeling in his stomach turns into something bitter, something worse. "She's still at the Two suite?"

Himeros only shrugs. "Your guess is as good as mine."

"Shouldn't you know?" Kieran sneers. "As her mentor?"

"I'm her mentor, not her keeper. She's a grown little lady — where she chooses to sleep has nothing to do with me." Himeros pinches the guitar pick between two fingers, holding it up next to his eye. "Let's get back to the topic at hand, shall we? This is your brother's, yes or no?"

"It's not."

"Lying to me. Cute. How about you admit it's his, and I'll give it back."

"Fine," Kieran grits, clumsily attempting to yank the pick out of the air as Himeros tosses it around. "It's his. Happy?"

"Say, 'please, can I have it back?'"

"'Please, can I have it back?'"

Himeros's response is immediate. "Mm. No."

"But you said—"

"I lied to you. Doesn't feel so nice, does it?"

Himeros slowly meanders around Kieran. Kieran turns around with him, refusing to let the man out of his line of sight. But it's like there's some sort of delay with his eyes, because he feels dizzy trying to follow the man's movements.

"My advice?" Himeros drawls. "Throw it away."

Kieran takes an unsteady step toward the man. "I didn't ask for your advice."

"I'm giving it to you anyway."

"Why do you even care?" Kieran scoffs.

"I must admit I've taken your case quite personally," Himeros starts, his voice low and velvety. "I'm soft on you, Kieran. I like underdogs. And I'd just hate to see something as small as this…" Another flash of the gold pick. " …fuck you over later."

Kieran can't tell whether Himeros is giving him a warning in good faith or if he's implying something more sinister. The latter is enough to make his skin crawl, knowing the Victor's reputation. "You wouldn't."

Himeros gives a noncommittal hum, abruptly switching the conversation. "You've seen how Reverie fights, haven't you?"

Kieran clenches his fists. "Obviously."

"She's frightening," Himeros whispers. "I'd recognize Violet's technique anywhere. She's a real piece of work, that one. But she sure raises them cutthroat — or she finds the ones that already have that capacity in them. Either scenario is terrifying."

Himeros moves closer to Kieran, dropping his voice even lower. "Reverie really wants this. I think you already know that. She will fight with tooth and nail, and if it comes down to it, bone. Sincerely, it's in your best interest to do as I say — who knows what would've happened if she found this instead of me."

"She was the one that killed him," Kieran spits. "And his guitar pick can't fucking hurt her."

"It's not about what his guitar pick can do. It's about what Aurelius could've done. Are you understanding me, Locke?"

Kieran wants to say that Aurelius clearly couldn't have done shit — he wants to say ten stab wounds was fucking overkill, but he doesn't. Kieran keeps his mouth shut, because he knows his answer isn't the one Himeros is looking for. But the images stamp themselves all over the inside of his skull: Aurelius's body, Reverie covered in his blood, his casket being lowered into the ground forever, her alive and smiling—

"Don't tell her," Kieran chokes out.

"I won't have to," Himeros says softly, "if you get rid of it."

"I can't." Mustering the words feels like pulling razor blades out of his throat. "I can't."

Himeros sighs, then tilts his hand. The guitar pick spills to the floor — Kieran drops to catch it.

"I was hoping I was wrong," Himeros mutters, looking down at him. The man looks even more imposing at this angle. "But the more I talk to you, the more I see Nile in you."

Kieran hoists himself back up with immense effort, pinching Aurelius's guitar pick between shaking fingers. It takes a moment for Kieran to register Himeros's words. Something hard grows in his throat. "That Career boy you killed has nothing to do with me."

"Humor me, then," Himeros says. "Let's say you beat the odds. You kill your little girlfriend and you leave the arena, victorious. What then?"

"I'd go home," Kieran whispers roughly. "What else?"

"That's what he said, too," the man replies, voice impossibly light. "He wanted to go home so badly."

"Until you took away his chance to do that."

"I mean, we both wanted to live," Himeros murmurs. "I just wanted it a little more."

"You make it sound like it was a test of wills." Kieran clenches his fist, the pick piercing into his palm. "But it wasn't a fair fight — you stabbed him in the back."

"That's what it took, yes. I think of it as a mercy. He never would've gone home, not the way he wanted. I took him as close as he could get."

With each sentence, Himeros becomes more repulsive in Kieran's eyes. It's too similar to the events of that night, too close to what transpired in the De Lu Iris. "You think of it as a mercy?" Kieran spits, his lip curling. "Does that make you feel better about killing somebody who trusted you?"

"What I feel — felt, is irrelevant. I had to. It was him or me, and it all came down to pragmatics." Himeros lifts up his hands, as if to visualize weighing two options. "I could kill him. Nile couldn't have killed me. I could let myself be whored out, used up. Nile couldn't have. This life would've broken him. Winning would've broken him."

"How the fuck could you have known that?"

"You can just tell with certain people," Himeros breathes. "You can tell when they're too soft, too fragile. That sort of beauty could never last in the Games. He couldn't admit it, but he never would've survived this life I'm living. I look at you, and I wonder the same thing."

Without warning, Kieran takes a swing at Himeros. His mentor catches his wrist in midair and instantly twists down. Kieran cries out in pain as his legs go slack underneath him.

An empty vial falls from Himeros's coat and pings against the ground. Seconds pass before it finally rolls to a stop.

For the first time ever, Himeros looks a little less than composed. A couple strands of hair have fallen in front of his face and he's glaring at Kieran with these eyes, these livid eyes. "You righteous shit," he seethes, "can't you see I'm trying to help you?!"

"Huge help," Kieran laughs bitterly, his vision swimming. "Telling me I'm too weak to win."

"Let me put this into perspective for you," Himeros hisses, tightening his vice grip around Kieran's wrist. It takes everything for him not to cry out again. "You just want to go home. But Reverie is thinking bigger than that — she wants it all. She wants the money, the notoriety, and she wants to never need anyone else ever again. There's no way for her to truly understand the full price of victory, but I think she's willing to pay it. She's a survivor, and I think she can survive what comes next."

"But what about me?" The corners of Kieran's eyes start to prick with something unbearably hot. "Why do you think I can't?"

Himeros shakes his head so slowly, so pitifully. "Because I think she could survive killing you," he whispers, tracing a finger feather-light against Kieran's cheek. "But can you survive killing her?"

He lets go of Kieran's wrist. Kieran stumbles backward into a chair; it makes a deafening screech across the kitchen tile as Kieran flails out to grab it, to steady himself against it. When he coughs, he can smell the liquor on his own breath.

Himeros picks up the fallen vial, tucking it back into his coat. "I'd advise you to think about whether you'll be able to live with yourself after it's over," the man murmurs, scraping his eyes over Kieran one last time. "Because if not… well, don't prolong your own misery."

Kieran can't suppress the violent shiver that dances down his spine. The look in Himeros's eyes — it's like he doesn't see Kieran, or even a person at all. It's as if he's picturing how Kieran's casket will look before he sends it back to One: sterling silver to match Aurelius's gold.

a/n: happy easter! the lord has rizzen. this is part of a double upload with linds! :D here's my most anticipated pregames chapter (besides party!) i barely squeaked it out. everything i do is for you guys to wonder what's wrong with me.

a huge thank you to goldie and logan for taking peekies at the chappie! i'm so ever-grateful for their feedback ;;

today's title is from a popular idiom. [in the tone of who's a good boy] who's a cruel mistress? who's a cruel mistress?! [points to fate] YOU ARE! YES YOU ARE~!

qotd: favorite tribute duo/trio?

deuces,
babbling brook