Avalanche Chapter 4, a hunger games fanfic

Chapter Four

Burial

The door to the woman's right opened up. One half-hour, exactly as promised. Delevingne could barely turn her head now. She was about to fall asleep, and she knew… she knew…

Well. There wouldn't be much after that.

"…you have an hour with her, before I have to send you back."

The words were hard to make out, but from her spot on the bed, she could see a woman in scrubs with pink hair, talking down to someone. Oh, it was so far away, how she wished to get up close to…

…wait.

Delevingne sat up straight, for what could be the last time, and her swimming vision cleared as she looked the pink-haired nurse, Laetitia, she presumed, in the eyes. Her expression remained unreadable, but her eyes conveyed a sort of… sadness, to them.

"Good evening, Missus Fabergé."

"Laetitia."

The nurse didn't respond to her, instead leaning down to a boy, and whispering to him.

"Go to her."

And with that, the woman turned around, sharply, and closed the door behind her, never to be seen again.

Delevingne glanced down.

She felt like she had been doing that for two years now. Glancing down. Down, to her left, to the people below. All of the smiles, and all of the joy, and all of the laughter. Not any of that reached her here, so far from home. So close to the promise of it, to that of a speed recovery from her lung disease, to that of reuniting with them, and yet, every one of those promises were broken, in the end. She never saw Desmond since she fell ill that day. She never saw her son grow up.

But Fete was right there, now.

He was right there…

He stood by the door, motionless, staring at her with wide-eyes. How old was he now, nine? The last time she saw him he was only seven years old… and in such a long (short) time, he had changed so much. His hair was longer, less well-kept. He looked paler, somehow. His eyes were larger, and with caution, he took a few nervous steps towards her.

Did she even know him anymore?

What could she say?

"C'mon, c'mon, we can make it!"

He was screaming the words at the top of his lungs, and yet Fete couldn't hear a thing of what he was saying. Past him, the wind barreled, the chill so intense, so absurd that the cold seeped into his very bones, that he was dying that it was killing him over and over from the inside out. Blood pumped through his ears that it blocked out the noise of even the wind, tearing his soul limb from limb.

"C'MON!"

He couldn't see anything. It was a whiteout, this high on the mountain, but to him, it was all red. Bloodsoaked red.

It was all so loud, and all so much… but he took Gil's wrist, and he pulled, and pulled, and kept on pulling, because he had nothing left to do.

They were able to cross the rest of the chasm.

The caboose managed to coast to the edge of the mountain, and they were able to get out. They could make it, it was just a short walk. They could make it, it wasn't that far. They could make it to the peak, the indescribable peak, that peak where everyone went to, where they fought, and murdered, and bled, and cried to reach it.

There had to be something there. There had to be… some sort of cure! Some sort of medicine! Something— anything! Why would they make the peak so tantalizing, make it such a trek, such a journey, just to let them down?

"C'MON!"

Gil's grasp was getting weaker in his.

They were… they were running out of time.

(No.)

(No, no… no.)

(He made a promise. He made a promise. He couldn't break that promise, not now, not ever.)

(He had watched so many die before him, incapable of stopping it. Why couldn't that change now? Why could that change here? It had to. Because he made a promise. He swore to Mourna. He swore to himself. He swore to the stars in the sky, to his mother and father, wherever they were, that it wouldn't be the same, ever again.)

(Gil couldn't die here.)

(He couldn't.)

Just a little further, just a… a…

His foot stepped onto a stone.

…

…and around them, was a pavilion. A pavilion made of stone, with an arc towards the back, falling into ruin, but still highlighting the full moon in the sky, the stars in the distance…

…and nothing higher than that.

…

…they were here.

And nothing else was.

The boy was unresponsive. He stared, eyes wide, unblinking. Unmoving, but certainly not unfeeling.

What was going on through his head now, she wondered? What could he be feeling?

After all this time, after two years in Sanitus Sanctuary… she couldn't tell. She wondered if she could ever tell at all.

…

"…you know, my son… they used to call this day Christmas Eve."

She turned away.

(Was it to look back outside, at the people assembling in the streets… or so she didn't have to look at the one she left behind in the eyes? She wondered… she didn't have an answer. She never had an answer. She never could quite say what was happening in her mind, not as she was rotting away in this bed…)

(She just kept on talking, so she wouldn't have to look him in the eyes, as the snow came down, as the laughter came up. And as she did, the memories flashed in the back of her mind…)

"They told me about Christmas once, when I was your age," she rasped. The people in the streets were sitting down, quieting as they huddled together, in blankets, in jackets, sharing what they had to keep warm. There were those in top hats and nice black coats assembling on risers in front of them, holding black folders.

Just like they did back then…

"They used to celebrate it every year, on the 25th of December…" she managed to say. She didn't quite know what to say at all, "I don't know what they celebrated, but it brought them so much joy that they even celebrated the day before… and I love it. I loved it so much I married your father on it…"

…

"I wonder if they know that they're celebrating Christmas Eve even now, down there. I wonder if they know what the festivities are about."

…she turned back to look at Fete.

He was frowning. He was unresponsive.

…

(…she loved him. She loved him so much.)

(She didn't know anything about him. People changed in two years, and despite how much the same Fete was to her, he was unrecognizable. But Delevingne loved him. She always would. She would love him until the very instant where she could love no more.)

(She loved him so much that she was willing to stay in District Eight for him. She loved him so much she was willing to give up everything for him. Her lungs were poisoned by the toxic air, but she stayed. She desired nothing more but to stay, than not to leave. Because that was what a good mother did for her son. And that was what she believed in doing, regardless of the scandal, regardless of how the tabloids screamed her name like a curse.)

(But now, she must.)

(Now, she had no choice but to say goodbye.)

(She didn't know him, but she loved him still.)

(Until the end of her, she would love.)

…

…down below, the choir of Capitolites in the streets had assembled onto the risers, the crowd silencing to listen to them, the belltower ticking ever closer to Christmas Day.

And they sang.

It was all a lie.

A red herring.

Nothing more than a ruse, than a plot to make everyone converge. A plot to start conflict. To give direction to the tributes.

That was all the peak was.

…

He stared, unblinking at the display. At the stone monument at the top of the mountain.

…

(…nothing, nothing at all.)

(All of this, all of this running, all of this chasing, all of this scrambling to the top, to find hope, to save Gil… all of it…)

(Meant nothing.)

(…)

((…))

((what was there to say?))

((what was there to do, even?))

((it was over now))

((he failed))

And he fell to his knees, eyes open, mouth agape.

…

…a single tear fell from his eye.

…

…and.

he screamed

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"

Fete slammed his fists into the ground.

And again,

and again,

and again and again and againagainagainagain— because WHAT could he do?!

He SMASHED his fists into the ground, again and AGAIN AND AGAIN, because NOTHING had changed.

And AGAIN AND AGAIN AND AGAIN, because there was nothing he could do!

AGAIN!

AGAIN, UNTIL HIS HANDS BLED, UNTIL TEARS CLOUDED EVERYTHING, UNTIL HE COULDN'T EVEN FEEL THE POUNDING

"aaaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"

(Because it was a failure. Everything was gone.)

(Everything was gone…)

…

In… and out. He breathed.

…

(…he stared down at the monument, at the stone, at the red of his bloodied fists staining it now.)

(It was all over.)

(It was all over…)

(…)

"Fete."

(…)

"Fete."

. . .

(And he glanced back, to attention.)

And his heart almost stopped at what he saw.

"G… Gil, what are you—?!"

"Fete, let me do this. It's my last chance."

Fete didn't protest.

He was so breathless, so utterly out of steam, so broken, so shattered, that Fete had nothing to say. Fete didn't even want to say anything, and Fete couldn't even if he did.

Especially not now, as his mind just stopped.

Especially not now, as Gil stared him down in the eye, pleading with him, begging him…

And especially not now, as Gil was there.

Kneeling, on one knee.

"In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan…"

"Fete."

The choir sang, their voices reaching to the Heavens, everything being permeated by their enchanting vocals. Everything silenced, except for them.

"Earth stood hard as iron, water as a stone…"

Did they know what they were singing, even? Did they know what they said, what the words meant?

Maybe not.

But perhaps, it didn't matter.

"Snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow on snow…"

All that mattered now was him.

Him.

And she reached out.

Reached to him, reached out her hand. To the boy, that frightened boy. To the boy she was forced to leave, to the one she only wanted to have now. To him. To Fete. And she spoke up, voice rising above her rasp, using all of her might just to speak.

"Fete, take my hand."

"In the bleak midwinter…"

(He stood still.)

(…please.)

(Please.)

"Fete."

…

He glanced up, eyes wide. And for once, they saw each other's eyes.

"Long ago…"

"I don't have much time left, and we both know that."

(…)

(…Gil wasn't looking away, and Fete had nothing to say.)

(Was this real?)

…Gil wanted to look away now, but stopped himself, inhaling sharply, in… and out… and in… closing his eyes, stealing himself…

…

((…it was getting harder to breathe))

((…))

((he had to do it))

((do it now, or forever hold his peace))

And he finally opened his eyes, looking directly at Fete.

"I… you… you've always been there."

((oh, Fete was so much better with words than him…))

((…))

"I've stayed by your side, and I know you don't know why I did… but this is why. You are why, Fete. You're brilliant… and you're wonderful…"

((…))

((just… try))

"You've always been there…" he gulped, "and I've always been waiting for the right time to ask. It never was… it never was…"

…

…it was silent.

Fete only stared in disbelief.

"But there is no other time. And there is no other place, now… and I've never wanted to take it fast, but if I only have this time left to do it… then I have to ask."

…

"…Fete…"

((…don't say it, Gil))

((don't say it, because he wouldn't refuse))

((don't say it, because he would never say no))

…

((but they both knew he would))

((and Fete knew what he would say back))

"Will you marry me?"

…

He nodded.

"Yes."

"What can I give Him?"

The choir sang in the distance now, but it rang everclear in Fete's mind, ringing, and pounding, and ringing… its beauty bringing nothing but agony to his conscience.

He walked forward, without being aware that he was doing it, just finding himself compelled to move, as if this was all there was left of him. Because, in a way, it was.

"Poor as I am?"

And there he stood, as the snow fell down, and the stars shined bright, overlooking the magnificence below. His heart couldn't take it. He couldn't think at all, the weightlessness in his chest overtaking him.

Could he do this? Could he really do this?

It wasn't a question of what he wanted. Because he knew the answer to that, down in the pit of his heart, his very soul.

It was only a question of if he had the strength.

"If I was a shepherd…"

And now, he glanced away from the sight. He couldn't focus on it, not anymore, as he only had one thing he wanted— one thing he needed to do. The one thing left in this world for him.

"I would bring a lamb."

…

("Fete…")

"Fete…"

("Take my hand, Fete…")

"Take my hands…"

…

"If I was a wise man…"

…

…it was all he could do to stop himself from crying, from running away, right then and there.

From screaming.

From finding whatever God existed above him, find whoever wrote his fate, his life, the very series of tragedies and sorrows that were his very existence, and tearing Them to nothing, to curse Them for destroying everything, for annihilating his very joy.

And so of course he would.

Of course, now, he took the hand of the one he loved.

And he stared that person right in the eyes…

For once, he could see what those eyes meant to him.

"I would do my part."

…

…love.

Nothing but love.

Love, unrequited. Love, love that promised not to leave him alone. Love that told him that everything would be alright, that at the end of the night, when daybreak was found, it would all make sense again.

…

"Still, what can I give Him?"

…

…what could even be said now?

What would his final vow of this ever after be?

…

…Fete knew.

He had always known.

And it all came flooding back…

("Fete.")

"Gil."

He looked him in the eyes now, holding hands under the moon, under the stars, at the peak of the mountain, with the broken arc above them shining evermore. And he knew what he had to say.

("I know that our time here, together… it's quite brief.")

"I know we don't have much time left with each other."

…he gulped.

((words, don't fail him now))

("But I need you to know…")

"But now, more than ever, you have to know that…"

…

The two stared at each other.

Words… words, don't fail them now. Now that they were here. Now that they had the chance, the opportunity to say it, they couldn't squander it. They would say it, say it now, and say it right.

"I love you."

…

"And I've always loved you."

…

"And I always will."

…

"All this time, I've wondered if all of this, all that's happened to me, after all this time, all that's broken my spirit… I've wondered if it was too much for me to bear. Too much for me to take."

…

"I've thought about leaving this world for the next one thousand-thousand times over. I've considered ending my agony for days, and weeks, and years… but I never have. I've stayed. I remained here."

…

"And you are why."

…

"You are why I wake up every morning, my beloved."

"You are why I chose to persist, day in, and day out."

"You are why I continued on, and on, and on… for the hope that I could see you again. For the chance to see your smile."

…

"I knew you would always be there, if I only ask."

…

"And forever and ever… I will choose you, every time."

"In every universe, I will choose to love you."

"Every time. Forever, and ever…"

…

He stood there, on the peak, holding Gil's hands.

…

And for once, it wasn't a lack of words.

There was nothing more to be said. Nothing left to express that would slip out. Nothing left for him to say.

That was everything he had longed to say to Gil.

And not a word was it was a lie.

…

…and Gil only had one thing left for him to do.

One thing left for the boy of little words to tell him.

The only words either of them desired to hear.

"I do."

And all at once…

They kissed.

And the world fell away, as they did.

And nothing else mattered, as it happened, nothing else in all of space in time.

It was only them, forever and ever, eternity expressed in a single instant of longing and love and affection and passion. There was no future. There was no past. All there was was them. All there was was them, together, holding hands and melting into their embrace.

Forever.

And ever.

The End

(Delevingne finally smiled.)

("That's all I needed, Fete.")

Thank you.

("Thank you…")

(…)

…

(…)

…

(…BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP—!)

…

…he was falling.

("…mother?")

…and he fell out of his embrace.

("…mother?! M… mom! MOM!")

He fell to the ground, collapsing from Fete' grasp. He gasped, getting onto his knees.

"G… Gil?"

("MOM! Wake… wake up! Mom! MOM!")

"Resist it! Wake up, WAKE… no, no!"

…

"Give my heart."

BANG!

…

… …

… … … …

"Give my heart…"

…

…people don't change.

…

…they don't.

People don't change, and stories and fantasies stay the same. Nothing ever changes, real or fake. It's the same story, over and over and motherfucking over again.

Nothing will ever change. Not for Fete Fabergé. Never for Fete Fabergé.

…

…what was he thinking, to assume that he could change this?

It was set in stone from the beginning, really. Fete was always the failure. He couldn't change the fact that he was doomed to watch, to never change his story. He could scream all he wanted. Love all he wanted. Tell everyone it would be alright, hold on, hold on, hold onto him… but no matter what happened, the wind would sweep them away.

Delevingne.

Melanie.

Desmond.

Gil.

He was doomed to watch, every time. Doomed to never save them.

Hold on… hold on.

…

… …

… … … …

(What was the point anymore?)

(What did it matter?)

(He didn't have anything to hold onto, anymore.)

((and he never did))

((and he never will))

((…))

((look at Gil's body, on the stone. does he know that his body holds the flower that Fete put into his palms? does he care that his corpse has been well taken care of? Fete couldn't ask him. Gil was gone))

((what about everyone else he had lost? what about Melanie, forever fourteen? what about his mother, her memory reduced to nothing more than a Christmas Eve in a hospital bed? what about his father, who he never got to see until he was dead and buried?))

((what did he still have to go on for?))

((what did it matter that he was still here?!))

(…)

((everyone that would miss him was already gone))

((no one would care if he died right here and now))

((nothing mattered now))

…

… …

… … … …

((maybe it never did))

…

A single tear fell onto the stone pavilion as Fete stared down below him.

His husband's body slept. And it would never wake up. Ever.

…

And he turned around, stumbling back down the descent.

And he stumbled out of the pavilion, and through the train station.

And across the mountainous gap, across the sea of snow, he used the tracks as a bridge.

His head was so, so empty now.

His heart was dead.

He couldn't see where he was going.

In his left hand, he held the lighter.

It was a fickle thing. It created a light so tender… so calm… but it came with fire. Fire, fire, fire… (burn him alive)

And in his right hand…

…

(Here he stood now, at the precipice.)

(Above the great canyon, on the train tracks. Hundreds of feet above the ground, but with thousands of feet of snow all peeking over his head.)

(A clap could bring down a snowball.)

(A shout could bring down a shelf.)

(But what could bring everything down?)

(What could douse this flame… this terrible flame, burning in his chest? This flame, that destroyed his mind, and his heart, and tormented his soul? What could douse the hellfire within him?)

(What… what could…?)

…

"…In the bleak midwinter…"

(What could kill him?)

"Frosty wind made moan…"

(The answer lied in what he lit in his right hand.)

"Earth stood hard as iron…"

(In what he now threw into the canyon abyss.)

"Water as a stone…"

(It fell. It tumbled, down and down… down and down and down…)

"Snow had fallen, snow on snow… snow on snow on snow…"

(The stack of dynamite that the Sponsors had gifted him.)

"In the bleak midwinter…"

(…)

"…"

(…)

"…"

(It was time to end this.)

"Long ago."

…BANG!

…

And it all fell away.

Snow had fallen.

Snow, on snow, on snow.

Metric tons of it descended onto the floor of the arena— so much that not a single tribute still alive could guess how much of it there was. A flood of white that could only be described as apocalyptic, a wave of pure destruction, a wave of decimation and cold that promised fresh and empty demise.

The wave cascaded in a horrific manner, and first, smashed into the bridge of train tracks, bringing it low, destroying every last bit of wood and metal. What was once a marvel of engineering had been reduced to rubble, as if it was a sandcastle, and the tide had risen. All of it rained down into the abyss below, a lone boy falling from the sky, body limp.

The forest came next, the wave raining down onto it. The station down below had been buried, the trees all torn and snapped, as if they were nothing more than toothpicks. Mutts of Sudba Sodaniya's creation had been forged and went unused, now unsalvageable as stray boulders thrown by the tidal wave of white destroyed any evidence that they once existed.

There was a girl from District Seven, going by the name of Avonlea Asher. She survived everything— the bittercold of the nighttime, the starvation of the day. The Bloodbath, the Careers… the Capitol watched her ascend to the Top Five with bated breath. Watched her outlive Mew and Junebug and Delilah and Gil, watched her persevere, the fourteen-year-old hoping to get home, wanting to find her way back to her sisters…

She stayed at her camp in the woods, and without warning, found herself buried alive, her screaming drowned out by the incessant rush of the hellish downslide.

And down below, the last three tributes camped in the city below were taken aback by the wave without warning…

It had been eerily quiet for the past day.

Tranquility wasn't what Rubin expected from this. The peace. The silence. Not an enemy in sight, no conflict…

…it… it just wasn't what they expected. They just weren't sure what to think of it. What to make of it.

When Mew died, and those the lovebirds from Eight ran away, Rubin didn't know what to do. It had come as a massive shock; those two, of all people, had managed to kill them? Mew Cecelia, the sword fighter extraordinaire? Mew Cecelia, the jokester, the talented?

Of course, they knew Mew was going to die one of these days.

Rubin just… didn't expect it to be so soon.

…

After the Eights had managed to make their getaway, Rubin didn't even want to continue up the trek to the mountain.

It was a bold sentiment, certainly, or, at least, bold in how not bold it actually was. The whole purpose of their alliance was to hunt and kill, achieve power, fame, and glory. All of them knew that, when they chose to come. They had been preparing for years, in fact. They knew they might die. They knew others had to. They knew that was the way the Games were.

Yet somehow, just one of them falling managed to change their mind.

…

Mirus and Pippin parroting their sentiment was what shocked them the most.

"I mean, I suppose that's smart," Mirus had pointed out, eyes glazed over as they stared at Mew's bleeding body that night, "the mountain seems to be chipping away at everyone else already, so… we could hide away where the resources are."

His voice betrayed them when he said that. That wasn't why Mirus decided to go along. But Rubin didn't point that out.

"We could be like kings…" Pippin had said.

She tried to smile.

She couldn't.

…

The two of them were sleeping now, in one of the buildings. The trio had built a small fire, in the hearth, and in the evening moonlight, it was simmering away now. Soon it would die— but that was alright. There was more firewood, there was more food, there was more water. They could stay here for a while.

They would be safe.

They would be calm…

(…)

(…Rubin hadn't ever been hesitant before.)

(They sought honor. They sought glory, they were after the rich splendor and the spotlight that came with emerging victorious, the obsession, the limelight, the majesty…)

(…that's what they told themself, anyways.)

(Well, maybe not. That's what everyone else told them they ought to do since the day they were born into Two.)

(They had never questioned it once. Not when they volunteered. Not when they trained to kill. Not when they slaughtered the girl from Three and the boy from Five. But it was only now, as they watched Pippin drool in her sleep, and Mirus snuggle into himself for warmth that they thought… Did glory have to come at such a high cost?)

(So they hesitated.)

(There were only a few of them left now. Rubin could probably take them by their lonesome.)

(So why, why did they hesitate at this golden opportunity…?)

…

… …

… … … …

Rumble…

Rubin's attention was quickly brought to the windows.

RUMBLE…

…!

"Wake up…" they whispered, stepping backwards. They took a step.

And another step.

And another and another and ANOTHER AND ANOTHER

"WAKE UP YOU TWO, UP UP UP UP!"

They slammed the door open, now openly bolting as the noise got closer and louder and closer and louder. Pippin groggily opened her eyes, leaning up as she rubbed at them, Mirus yawning.

"COME ON!"

"Rubin, what's…" Mirus said, but before he could finish the thought, Pippin gasped from the other side of the room.

"FUCK, RUN!"

She had jumped him, and he flinched as she took him by the shirt collar, yanking him to his feet.

"Pippin—?!" he gasped, lagging as the girl put a death grip onto his wrist, dragging him from their little house.

"No time, just run—!" she shouted, and in the distance, both of them could hear Rubin screaming, and screaming, and screaming their names—

(But Rubin had woken up just in time.)

(And they most certainly had not.)

(The snow on snow on snow didn't have much farther to traverse now, the wave was finally running out of steam.)

(Fete Fabergé had fallen from the sky and had been submerged into its embrace.)

(Avonlea Asher had been buried under the ice already.)

(And Rubin could escape. The snow didn't have enough left to cover the whole town— they could make it. They could outrun what was left and make it to a safe spot. They could rest to live another day.)

(But the snow had a vengeance.)

(And the snow took the roof and smashed it.)

(And it took the windows and broke them.)

(And it took the fire and doused it.)

(And it took the inside of the house, and those in it, and submerged it in the cold, in the ice, until the rest of time had finished passing.)

(Rubin Dais could escape it.)

(But Mirus Zuli and Pippin Merveilleux would never see the daybreak again.)

…

… …

… … … …

It was dark outside.

It was the middle of the day, or… maybe not—she hadn't been paying attention— but regardless, she could see storm clouds brewing on the horizon. Not a speck of rain had hit the outside pavement yet, but they were so gray, practically black, that it felt like nighttime to her.

Her parents weren't home.

She felt like they weren't ever home.

And, it was so, so quiet…

…silent.

(…it would be silent forever, now.)

(They were all gone.)

(Everyone was gone.)

(No more jokes. No more fights. No more late nights or conversations of weekend ice cream. No more hugs and laughter and tears and shouting and cheering or anything ever ever ever again. They were gone. They took the noise with them.)

(Her heart was just as silent now.)

…

The television had been paused ever since she saw what happened. That felt odd. She had practically been glued to the screen all week. She left work. The little landline on the wall had been ringing and ringing— probably her boss, demanding that she came to work again. But she couldn't. No one could even fault her for that, and she doubted anybody would so much as try their hand at doing so.

((it was just like it was six years ago))

And it was disaster…

"Gil Meshke has been struck with Delilah Rovos's dart— what an upset! The crowd goes wild!"

…after disaster…

"Fete Fabergé and Gil Meshke— the wedding planner's wedding! What a beautiful moment folks, what a beautiful Games…"

…after disaster…

"Gil Meshke has placed sixth in these Games…"

…after disaster.

"And the avalanche— we don't know who's going to survive that! We've lost track of the tributes' vital signs, everyone! This is gonna be a rough night!"

…

… …

…

All Mourna Pimm knew was that it was so, so very dark outside.

The screen paused on the very instant Fete went under the snow. It was the instant that she couldn't bear it anymore. The instant that she decided she wouldn't take it, that it was done, that she wouldn't, she couldn't she… she…

She felt…

(Mourna didn't know what to feel at all.)

(She felt dead.)

(…how ironic then, that she was the only one of them to still live.)

(…)

(Did her parents know?)

(When they were pregnant with their second daughter, did they know it would end up like this? Did they think themselves funny, naming her the one who mourns?)

(Because sometimes, it felt like that was all she knew how to do: mourn.)

(She was always mourning. She could never stop it. Every day, every day for six years she had been in mourning. Melanie… Melanie. Melanie Melanie Melanie… the girl she lost. She mourned for what she didn't have. For all of the weekend ice creams she never ate. For all of the designs that would never make it onto the page, all of the teasing she'd never do.)

(She mourned for her parents, though they still lived. She mourned for how they didn't care, for all of the days they left her behind, for all of the times they should've been there but never were. For all of the times she needed them, for all of the midnights she woke up full of nightmares of that broadcast and cried, and no one was there to comfort her.)

(And now she would mourn for Gil.)

(…)

(She felt like she already had been, almost.)

(She mourned what she didn't have with Gil, and now wouldn't have. And maybe that was selfish of her to do, but she had always cared about him, always thought about him every hour of every day. Everything was about Gil. Gil Gil Gil Gil Gil Gil Gil… Mourna wanted him. She needed him. And that was wrong of her, she knew that, she knew— they were in love with someone else. And he died that way. He wasn't for her to have. He never would be.)

(She should've been able to accept that.)

(But they were in love with… him.)

(Fete Fabergé.)

(Fete, who didn't comfort her when Melanie was beheaded in the ocean.)

(Fete, the drunk who hid away in his apartment, rotting away in his alcohol day after day after day…)

(Fete— pathetic.)

(All he knew how to do was wallow. All he knew how to do was cry, all s/he knew how to do was feel sorry for her/himself, all she knew how to do was mourn and mourn and mourn and mourn…)

(He was pathetic.)

(She was so pathetic, and she hated it, she hated herself… she…)

(…)

((he was her only friend))

(…)

((she only had him left in this whole wide world))

(…)

((and soon, he too would be gone forever))

…no.

She had had her knees curled up into her chest, head buried in her lap. But, ever so slowly, she found the courage to look at the horrible commentator on the projection.

The paused image of falling snow, of Fete, fucking him of all people, being dragged under. A horrible tableau, one that would kill her again and again every night as that ship with Melanie's head did.

But a number, too.

A number, bouncing with the static under the commentator, in a cheery yellow that was mocking her every move.

Got cash? Call your District Mentors today to donate to the Ratings Point total! Sponsor your favorite tributes!

…

…Fete was rich, wasn't he?

The Fabergé Wedding Company, it was partially Capitol owned, at some point. That's what Fete had said in the Interviews, wasn't it? People came from the Capitol, the Capitol itself, to be married in a Fabergé wedding. There was power and prestige to that, wasn't there?

And money.

So much of it that an orphaned teenager could live off of it for years…

…

((all she had left, in the whole wide world))

(("I'm sorry."))

(("I'm so sorry."))

(("I should've done this sooner."))

…she picked up the landline, and made a call.

(…)

((was this death?))

(…)

((it felt like death))

(…)

((no one was really sure what death was, he supposed. there could be something. maybe this was it then. an eternity alone with his thoughts))

(…)

((well, he'd like to be left alone by them now))

(…)

((he's had enough))

Who was even left?

It was morning. Morning for the fifth day.

The town was empty, no one else was here, Rubin knew. Of course, how would there be? Here they stood, at the highest point in town— the Square. One of the only places left not buried in the mountain of snow…

(Like… like Mirus. Like Pippin.)

(They left them behind…)

(…)

Everywhere they looked, white. Snow, snow, snow… in the distance, mountains, but the snow formed a sea in between, it created a barricade that could not be crossed.

So why were they still here?

Who could be left in all of this?

Someone had to be. After all, they were still here.

And they hadn't heard the twenty-third cannon…

…

(…Rubin was so very tired.)

(It was time to go home.)

(It was time to end this tiresome contest, no matter the cost…)

(…)

((he was cold))

((…freezing even))

(…)

((strange))

((in death, he thought he wouldn't be able to feel anymore))

((was he alive?))

(…)

((he didn't want to be))

(…)

((the fire… it was smoldering))

(…)

((couldn't it just die already?))

(…)

((he didn't want to hurt anymore))

…

"…"

" …e."

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

…a parachute?

Rubin glanced up to the sky, looking for the noise. They knew, they knew what that noise was. They hadn't watched every Games since they were a child to not know what that was. And they searched the sky. They searched, and searched, and…

There it was.

…

…but it wasn't coming for them.

…?

…

…oh, naturally.

In their left hand, they tightened their grip on the sword— Mew's sword. And they stepped forward.

They would end this, here and now.

"Fete."

(…)

((…no.))

((no, don't do this))

(…)

((don't, please don't))

(…)

((leave him alone, leave him alone! He was done now! Leave him be!))

"Fete."

((no))

(…)

((He was supposed to be done this time. ))

(…)

((Why did he still live? Why couldn't he just stop dancing? He was tired of pretending. He was tired of playing this game, over and over, tired of going on. Couldn't he stop? Couldn't he just leave? Couldn't he just let someone else take the crown?))

((Let someone else live their life, live their fantasy. Let someone else get through the day. Let someone else, with more to live for, with more time and joy— let them win.))

((Just… just leave him alone.))

"I'm sorry."

(…)

"I'm so sorry."

(…?)

"I should've done this sooner."

((…))

(…)

…Mourna?

…

"I'm sorry, Fete."

…

…he listened.

"I… I don't know if you're still there. They lost access to everyone's vital signals… but, if you're getting this message, I guess it means they found you."

…what did she do?

"I just don't know what to do anymore."

…what is there to do?

"I… I saw everything. I've been watching from home. I haven't stopped watching since you two left."

…

"And I… I don't know what's left for me."

…

"If you get out of here alive, Fete, then you're basically set for life… so I hope you don't mind that I took some of your money to get this audio message here. Well, that's not all I did, but… it's attached to the parachute."

…

…beep. Beep…

"I just don't have anything left."

…

"He was all I had, Fete. I know that seems selfish, coming from me, but sometimes I felt like all I had was Gil. Because when Melanie… when she left, I didn't know what to do."

Beep. Beep. Beep…

"My parents won't even notice that I'm sending this. I don't think they've ever noticed. Melanie would. Gil would. But they're gone."

Beep. Beep. Beep…

"But I guess I'm just like you, then. I've lost so much, You've lost… you've lost more."

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP…

"Please, Fete. Come back, be the one to come back this time. I… I can't lose another… another friend."

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

"Please, don't make me lose you."

…

"I know I've been a terrible friend to you. But please, Fete. Come back. Come home."

…

"…well, this is Mourna Pimm, signing off.

"Good luck out there… feet."

…

…there was something resting beside him, he could feel it.

("Please…")

…

…he couldn't change.

…but maybe, he should try.

Maybe he should still try.

Was it even possible to change? Was it possible, with him, how he was? Could he still live on?

Who for, even? They were gone. All of them were gone.

But Mourna cared? She cared enough?

What was it about him that made him worth the effort, to anybody? Who would still want him, as he was? Why, why?

…

…should he still try?

…

…what would they all want from him?

All of them, all of them together. What would they want, if they were still here? What would Gil want? Desmond? Delevingne? Melanie? What would they want from him? What did they see in him at all? They took a look at him, all of him, and decided that he was worth it. They wanted him to live. Him to be… happy.

Did he deserve that?

…

Maybe. Maybe not.

…

…a sword lay behind him, on the surface of the snow.

But maybe, he could try.

And he took it.

And all at once, Fete Fabergé burst forth, above the surface of the snow.

"So it's you."

Fete was disoriented, as he tumbled out of the snowbank, crashing onto the cobblestone of the starting village, but he knew who was speaking to him, and as he stumbled, brushing the snow off of his pants, hobbling over with Mourna's sword in hand.

He felt weak— so weak. Weaker than he had ever felt, really. Buried in an avalanche… surviving to the dawn, somehow. All of this was happening so indescribably fast to Fete. The girls attacked, and Gil died, and he died, but… somehow didn't, all in the span of a few hours.

And now, after everything, this was the end.

Before him stood Rubin, Rubin Dais. The one who tried to kill him now, twice. The one who would probably succeed. He twirled a sword in his left palm, throwing it to his right and back to his left to test the grip. To his left, the snow on snow on snow he brought low.

And to his right…

The daybreak.

…

Cautiously, Fete took a few steps forward, Rubin doing the same to match. He eyed the boy.

"It is me," Fete said. His voice was hoarse, but he still carried on. They began to circle each other, getting ever closer, but keeping their distances…

Rubin's steps were light, their feet barely touching the icy stone. Their gaze has a subtle weight to it, a seriousness. They seemed not to know what to say.

"…we're all that's left, you know," Rubin told him, after a brief pause. They both knew this. They both knew what they were about to do. It was simple— kill the other, go home.

(And Fete had to ask himself… could he do such a thing?)

(…)

He stopped circling, and when Rubin looked to him, the rising red sun formed a halo over Fete's head.

The sun was rising, and so did Fete.

He stood tall.

He tightened the grip on his sword.

(Gil would want him to live.)

(Desmond would want him to live.)

(Melanie would want him to live.)

(Delevingne would want him to live.)

(So he would live.)

And he swung FIRST—!

It wasn't that easy. Rubin jumped to the side as Fete did this in a marvelous twirl, the gymnast skidding a bit on the icy ground but keeping their balance— before striking back. Fete managed to deflect this, just barely—

(It was so close to hitting his neck…)

Fete found himself skidding back as well, but unlike Rubin, it was a messy stumble, and he stopped himself falling by a hair. And the two made eye-contact once more.

The first pair of blows had been made, and both were unscathed by each others' weapons. They stood, for a few moments. Rubin twirled their sword, eyes full of cold, cold fire.

"You're slow."

(Fete knew he was.)

(He was slow, and weak, and tired, and untrained, going against someone who was fast, and strong, and energetic, and professional in killing.)

(Were the odds even slightly in his favor here?)

Rubin swung another attack, Fete ducking, and another, Fete barely deflecting, and another, and another, and another—! Fete only managed to not get sliced open by Rubin's skill by the skin of his teeth. Another blow, and another, and another… Fete couldn't get a single hit in—!

CLASH! Fete slid back.

CLANG! Rubin pushed back at him, shoving, and shoving and shoving…

BAM! Fete stumbled at the sheer force of Rubin's power, getting knocked back, again and again and again…

The people of the Capitol watched from their screens in anticipation, waking up at the earliest opportunity to catch a glimpse of the marvelous display at dawn. The final bets were being made in gambler's rings— who would win? The trained, determined Two? Or would the half-Capitol underdog take the cake?

"Fete! Fete! Fete! Fete, we believe in you!"

In a secluded white room, one they weren't allowed to leave until the Games were over, a punk lesbian and an old man in gaudy neons watched from their screen, the less heavily edited footage weighing more heavily on their minds. As mentors, they were allowed to see it like this… raw, and not undercut with cheesy music and commentary. As they watched the teenager scramble to win against Rubin's skill, ever so slightly, the woman shook, sipping from her flask in anxiety…

"Come on Fete, hang on, you're almost there…"

In District Eight, a sixteen-year-old who had stayed up the whole night watching felt the slightest ray of hope for the first time in weeks. She watched as he got up, her heart pumping at a rate she hadn't felt since her sister was taken many years back. She prayed, if there was Anybody left to hear her, that They would help, that They would let her win just this once, that They would let him come out victorious…

"Please, Fete, please…"

And, in an office in the training building, past a white door in a labyrinth of hallways, a tall man in a suit watched the affair from total darkness, looking at the live footage.

He needed that boy to win.

He needed a hero to present to the public eye, and he was the most perfect hero for them he could imagine. He could destroy the Districts with ease with his avalanche, and survive. He could bring humanity to the Games, even as his lover was dying. The Districts took everything from him… yes, he could spin that narrative— if the boy emerged triumphant. The half-Capitolite… the perfect contender.

He just had to win one last duel. That was all.

"Fete…"

SLAM! And all at once, Fete found himself being blown back. It was the most decisive blow Rubin Dais had delivered to Fete in the whole battle, and Fete screamed.

Mourna's sword was struck into the air, Rubin swinging their sword in such a powerful arc that it whipped Fete clean off his feet, the sword landing in the snowbank, just a few feet away from him. Fete had the cobblestone with a THUD, and deliriously, he reached for it, on his knees—

But Rubin was faster, stamming their blade fright into the ground.

Directly

through

Fete's

hand.

…

… …

(…)

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH—"

Io the commentator himself gasped at this, the Capitolites clutching their pearls everywhere in the city.

Lane and Deco turned away in disappointment.

Mourna screamed with him, sobbing into her hands.

And Head Gamemaker Sudba Sodaniya clenched his fist in frustration.

"You're the one who started the avalanche, weren't you?"

Fete couldn't hear anything. He couldn't even see, much less think, not as the pain, such blinding seering, AWFUL pain coursed through every inch of him, eyes watering as he gritted his teeth, a constrained shout caught in his throat.

But Rubin still glared down as Fete struggled, not smiling, not even frowning. Their face was perfectly neutral, a type of pure hatred that couldn't properly be expressed at all.

Fete couldn't even respond. His mind was utterly overloaded.

Rubin blinked, waiting for a response. But they never got one. Instead, they just reached for the sword, Mourna's sword, picking it up in the snow.

They stared at their own reflection in it, contemplating as their mouth drew into a line. They didn't look at Fete's writhing body as they spoke, their back turned to him.

"…maybe I ought to thank you for that," their voice was dead. They didn't even know they were speaking. How could they? How could they possibly…?

(They would have never been able to kill Pippin and Mirus. They knew that, deep down.)

(Never in their life would they have been capable of that.)

(…when they got home, did they have to live a lie? For all of time, did they have to pretend? That the two of them meant nothing to them? That they were happy with this, how it all turned out?)

(With their life, with the honor and glory their parents told them to pursue, over and over again? Did they have to pretend that they were alright, with the fact that they had killed? That they were fine with the blood soaking into their palms that it reddened them to no end?)

(What did they have to live for, really? Who could they be after all of this was over?)

(…)

(…Fete couldn't defeat them.)

(His form writhed on the ground, he couldn't think, his head spun as he blearily watched Rubin pick up Mourna's sword, staring at it.)

(They were going to kill him any second now.)

(…)

((…))

(…no.)

(Not this day.)

((he still had work to be done on this side of the veil))

(Wedding shops to save.)

(People to remember.)

(Lives to help.)

(He couldn't die here.)

(So… he knelt up.)

(And he pulled the bloody sword free from his hand, without a care for how numb it felt, as red was coating the icy stone.)

And the people of the Capitol watched.

And the mentors watched.

And Mourna watched.

And Sodaniya watched.

Rubin Dais was the only one without eyes on Fete that morning, as the sun crested above the horizon, as the daybreak made itself known. They were the only one who didn't see him, they were the only one not anticipating anything but this.

And by the time they saw him on the reflection of Mourna's blade, Mew's sword was already impaling their heart.

…

… …

… … … …

(They met Fete's fiery gaze after a few seconds.)

(…)

"…thank you."

…

… …

… … … …

Fete took the blade out of their heart, and they fell to the ground, with a cannonfire in the distance.

…

And Fete fell to the ground as well.