Dean knows what he did the arena, what it cost him. No one else does because no one else was there, no one else had to make those choices. There are things heâll never forgive himself, not ever. He endured what came after- being the Capitolâs darling, their favourite show pIece and party favour- and found it comforting to not have to make choices. To not have to hurt or kill or survive. All he had to do was let it happen, and that was easier to live with than fighting for- and winning- his own life.
When he began to mentor other Tributes, though, he started drinking. Never while they were preparing for the Games; never while they had a shot at survival. He did the best he could by them, gave them the best chance he could manage. But as their chances started to fade, he started drinking. tHere were a couple tributes whoâs deaths he doesnât remember, and heâs grateful. Mentoring is a terrible, deadly joke on Victors. It makes you complicit in murder. He doesnât know a single victor who wouldnât destroy the Games if they could; he doesnât know a single one who doesnât hate sending kids to their deaths.
Blaine hadnât looked likely. Pretty and soft; the child of a wealthy family but still Reaped because everyone in the Districts were equally disposable. Dean didnât try to lie to his Tributes about their chances; everybody knows only one Victor emerges. But he tries to give them confidence in themselves, a reason to fight. He told Blaine to find something and hold on to it, something the Capitol couldnât see him take into the arena with him (Dean had taken Sammyâs laugh with him. He must have left it behind when he came out, though; his brother hadnât laughed in years). Heâd thought Blaine might last a while; he might be pretty and soft, but he wanted to live. Never underestimate someoneâs will to live; Dean, of all people, knew that, too.
It was the first time in a few years Dean had actively campaigned for his Tribute. He could be charming, personable, and he knew the knids of things people liked to hear about Tributes. He sold Blaine to sponsors, deciding that the kidâs life was worth more than his own dignity. People already liked Blaine; he helped them come to adore him with anecdotes and character sketches. He doesnât remember, now, everything he said then. and Blaine did a lot of it himself; singing at night or when he was lonely was brilliant. Blaineâs voice was sweet and rich and the Capitol swooned over it.
There was a point, though, that he wished Blaineâs death. As the Games went on, Deanâs smile flashed less often; he said Blaineâs name less often. It wasnât because he didnt like the kid, either. It was because he liked him. He liked how Blaine smiled sometimes during training, big and bright and hopeful. He liked how Blaine touched his hair, pushing it out of his face with an annoyed huff, or carefully combing it back. He liked Blaineâs sweet voice that made the Games fade into nothing, made Dean believe in goodness and life. If that boy came out of the arena, if he survived, he wouldnât be the same. Heâd lose his smile. He might lose his songs. Heâd rather see Blaine dead than the Victor.
That is, until it was down to Blaine and two others. Then Dean redoubled his efforts, a hurting, hot hope blooming inside of him. when the first of the three died and it wasnât Blaine, Dean cheered. People clapped him on the shoulder, patted his back, but he was only looking at Blaine. And finally, when he faced off with his oppenent, Deanâs heart was in his throat, fists clenched. He didnât care if the other Tribute had family to go home to, if someone else was waiting and hoping. He didnât say a word and didnât move, but he willed Blaine to live. He willed Blaine to do what he had to, silently told him that it would never be his fault; Dean would carry that for him if he had to. Just live, kid. Just come home. Even if you never sing again. Even if youâre not the same: just live.
And when the other Tribute fell, when the look on Blaineâs face said he couldnât believe it, that he didnât want to feel his hands and didnât want to hear the cannon, Dean sighed and slumped back in his chair. His vision blurred as the music played, as everyone around him cheered and screamed and cried. He had to get moving; he had to be there when Blaine came out of the arena. but for a moment he just let himself be grateful the kid was alive.
and when they were home, while Blaine was sleeping the sleep of the near-dead, Dean kept watch. He brushed dark curls off a damp forehead and waited for the nightmares. They didnât come, not then, and he was grateful for that, too. He got hungry anddecided to start cooking, telling himself to stop worrying aobut Blaine. The kid had survived the Games, he could endure Victory. But he couldnât leave Blaineâs house. He couldnât lett e kid wake up alone. So he cooked, and waited, and when Blaine finally woke up, he offered food. He didnât insist on talking; he wanted Blaine to come to it in his own time. You couldnât rush this.
It hurts to see Blaine sit at the piano, stroking the keys but not playing. It hurts that thereâs no music in this house. The look in Blaineâs eyes accuse Dean of being complicit, of letting this happen to a boy who deserved better (but didnât they all, the children of the districts? Shouldnât they be allowed to live without this kind of fear, to have to carry this burden?). he doesnât push, though; he just makes small talk, pattering banter, to cover all the things Blaine canât say yet. to chase away all the songs Blaineâs not singing.Â
it hurts, but Dean can take it.Â
Theyâre close in a way that no one else could ever be to them. They talk, and Blaine is affectionate. Dean doesnât understand how or why, but Blaine lays his head in his lap, crawl into his bed, sits with him, and it makes Deanâs heart ache. Heâs been alone for so long. Even though Sam visits and stays for days or weeks; even though he has friends. None of them know how you go into the Arena alone and you come out alone and youâre alone for the rest of your life.
One day Blaine talks about music, and Dean asks him to play. He says no, and Dean leaves it. He wants to hear Blaineâs voice, almost needs it now to believe Blaine will start living again instead of surviving. But he canât push, he canât insist. But he hopes.
Blaine doesnât talk about his family. Only once he mentions that they havenât come to see him. Helpless rage fills Dean at the thought and he thinks if he had five minutes alone with Cooper he could beat an appreciation of Blaineâs troubles into him. But he doesnât say anything about that either, just lets Blaine say it because he needs to. He does pull Blaine to him, though, arms around him and stubbe-rough cheek resting on curly hair. itâs easy to be this intimate with Blaine; the kid sleeps in his bed because of the nightmares. Every time Blaine wakes in a cold sweat, or screaming, or crying, Dean is there. He remembers what it was like alone with that, waking in the dark with blood pounding in your ears and your heart racing, trying to remember if youâre here and now or then. He always puts his hands on the other when the nightmares are hard, he always says his name in a soothing whisper. Heâs always gentle then, even though his own heart is pounding becausehe also remebers Blaine in the arena. He pulls Blaine to him and talks until theyâre both calm and they both fall asleep. After those nights, itâs easier to touch him during the day; itâs easier to let him know heâs not alone, not ever alone, as long as Deanâs here.Â
The Games are approaching and Dean is extra careful with both Blaine and himself. Heâs touchy; he knows heâll have to witness two more deaths. He feels like heâll come out of skin or turn to ash if you touch him wrong. Somehow having Blaine here makes it easier, though. Just knowing someone else understands. Having Blaineâs warmth at night beside him makes it easier, too. He wanted Blaine to know that heâs not alone, but heâs starting to believe heâs not, either.
And then Blaine sits down at the piano. Dean doesnât expect him to play, but he likes to see him there. the way his hands run over the keys like they contain the secrets of the universe. The peaceful look on his face just being near music. He lifts his hands, he touches the keys.
And suddenly the house is full of music. Blaine is playing. Deanâs breath catches in his throat at the sound, something in his chest breaking open. And then Blaineâs voice starts, husky and slightly out of tune, but still beautiful. Still there. His voice rises and rises, following the music, filling the world. Deanâs heart shatters and he turns away, tears in his eyes. Itâs been almost a year since Blaine survived, but today is the day he starts living again. Itâs a gift Blaineâs giving to himself, not some shiny token bestowed by sponsors. Itâs life after so much death; itâs the sun in spring.
Itâs a fucking miracle.
