“I don’t understand.” Your mind is racing as Hilarius levels you with a cool stare once more. So the pattern has gone since your arrival: a near-constant ebb and flow of information and confusion.

“We believe District 13 is alive and well.” And though his first words are slow and careful, doing their best to impress the same intelligence as before upon your unreceiving person, the explanation that follows feels like a blur.

“Think about it: a District with singular control of nuclear weaponry, responsible for spearheading a rebellion– that succumbs to one round of bombs? No. There had to have been a plan in place. Some sort of failsafe.” The pads of your fingers press themselves deeper into the sides of the simple tin cup before you, the heat nearly unbearable. You force yourself to concentrate on the pain rather than the uneasy feeling in your stomach. A trick. This has to be some sort of trick. A cruel joke concocted by Snow and his Gamemakers to goad you into a misstep so large that killing you would be the only reasonable course of action. Your eyes, harsh and unblinking, flicker with the mistrust pooling in your gut. Hilarius only sighs. 

“You don’t believe me.” His tone is resigned as he shifts, turning to shuffle through his bag for something.

“I–” You open your mouth to disagree, but the words die in your throat.

“It wasn’t a question. Here.” The object he pulls from the depths of his satchel is larger than you had expected, but you recognize it immediately from your time in the Capitol. They were a more recent development; these nearly pocket-sized projectors, and you swallow hard as Hilarius powers it up, inserting a small rectangular object into the side before pressing play. The video is grainy at first, and the man in front of you takes a moment to fiddle with the dials, bringing the picture into focus. Your stomach drops. 

The place, you know, immediately, having left just this morning after pressing a swift kiss to your mother’s temple. You recognize the ornate, Capitol-made carpets and the open door to your own bedroom. It is the people who take a moment to register—one glorious moment before the punch lands. Your eyes begin to water as the version of you in the video pulls Treech forward. As your lips meet in a kiss. 

“What is this?”

“A show of goodwill.” You laugh, harsh and brittle, at the response, shoulders stiff, blinking back tears.

“This is the only copy,” Hilarius presses on. “It's all here. The whole Victory Tour, every moment you spent together.” He wrenches the key bearing the recordings from the player, and the projection dies in a flash. Then, he does the unthinkable. He marches his way over to the sink and drops it into the garbage disposal, flipping on the switch to grind it to pieces. Your mouth falls open in shock. Still, your thoughts race with the possibility that this is all some sort of ploy. 

“How do I know that’s the only one?”

“I suppose– I suppose you don’t, for sure.” He clears his throat then, and his eyes meet yours with an earnesty so jarring you almost feel the need to look away. “I suppose you’ll just have to trust me.”

“But why– Why do you care?” This time, the questions are quick to bubble up, to overtake you. Hilarius eyes you warily before seeming to steady himself to respond.

“I was a mentor, in the 10th Games. Did you know that?” The question is quick to pass his lips, though he does not wait for a response. “The little girl from 8, she was my tribute. She was fifteen, but God, she couldn’t have looked older than twelve.” Your mind reaches out for a memory, nearly forgotten– A small child, a tank of snakes– You swallow hard.

“She would have been five when the rebels attacked, too young to even understand what was going on. It made me sick, watching her in those Games. Made me sick to watch the Games at all. And then, this year, my husband and I– We decided to adopt.” He stops to chuckle, a soft, natural sound. “I have a son, I’m not sure you knew that either. Plutarch. And every time I look at him, all I can think of is her. Wovey. Of how she deserved better. I want a better world for him. Just like I should have wanted a better world for her.”

The silence is deafening between the pair of you, echoing out through the near-empty house.

“Why–”

“I just told you–” Hilarius huffs, patience clearly reaching its upper limit.

“No. I heard.” You snap, though regret is quick to follow the lash of your words as all traces of vulnerability evacuate his face. “Why me?” Your mind flits back to Hilarius’s initial proposal: We need you, the Victors.

“Why us? The Districts, they basically hate us now. You made sure of that: forcing the same faces to show up every year and cart away two kids who never come home. And it’s not like things are much better in the Capitol. Sure, they’re warming up, but there isn’t a single place we can go without being recognized, so why–” Your mind is going a million miles an hour as you try to fathom Hilarius’s seemingly baseless decision.

“That’s actually exactly what I’m hoping for.” He smiles a sly sort of grin.

“What?”

“Look, you don’t need to worry about contacts in the Districts. I have those covered. And I would have to be an idiot to assume you’d be of any use sneaking around with all the eyes on you in the Capitol. No. I want–” He starts, but the dots have already been connected.

“You want a distraction.” He smiles, and though there is a touch of sadness to it, there is something else as well. Pride. 

“Exactly. When the time comes for us to carry out this plan, I need something the Capitol can’t look away from. Something so distracting that they forget everything else.”

“You need a show, and we’ve been performing since the day we won the Games.” And now you are smiling too, eyes wide like some sort of loon.

“I knew I picked you for a reason. So what do you say?”

You are silent for a moment, the weight of the risk settling itself around your neck like an open hand. But then you think of Treech. Of Fawn and Lennox and your mother. Of your father’s corpse laid to rest under the Capitol’s watchful eye. You think of Teff. Of his daughter. Of every tribute to take the stage in the town square. Of the first two who had died under your watch. Bee’s hair falling like water out of your careful plait. Colt’s empty eyes.

“I’ll do it.”

There were six Victors on board then, though you wouldn’t know it until almost a year later upon your first meeting in the Capitol. Still, life plodded unforgivingly forward, and though every day brought gratitude for the continued absence of the ‘Gem of Panem’s’ limelight shining down upon your personal life, it also brought a growing curiosity. What kind of connections did Hilarius really have in the other Districts? How do you develop a plan for rebellion without a singular space free from observance? And most important, who else knew? It was that question, more so than any other, that clawed at your mind and caught you scrawling undelivered questions into the corners of your brain. Who exactly would you be working with? Teff? Trawl? Treech? You absently hoped so, aware of the danger but hopeful the burden might be lighter if it was shared.

It is April when you speak to Hilarius again, and this time, he comes to you. It is one of those days when the sky is clear, and the weather not so unbearable when he appears at a distance as you sit, back to a nearby tree, watching Bluebell graze not too far off. Your sketchbook is open, flattened across your lap as you pencil in a lazy outline of the horse, following the movement of her muscles. You barely lift your head in greeting at his approach.

“You here to call me back to the Capitol?” Your tone is light, though it is brimming with caution. Hilarius doesn’t reply, and his silence reeks of truth. When you lift your eyes to meet his, he only nods.

“Fuck. How long have I got?”

“About an hour. I’m here to collect you so you can get your things together and say your goodbyes. Train leaves at 2:00 pm.” Say your goodbyes. Stays in the Capitol were always temporary, still the invitations never came with the promise of returning home. You swallow the thick bile in your throat, mind traveling back to Hector. To his anger. To his lifeless body on a stretcher. You snap your sketchbook closed. 

“You bring a horse?” You question, and Hilarius grimaces distastefully at Bluebell.

“I don’t ride.” You snort at his unserious expression, lip pulled back in disgust.

“I could show you how–”

“I know how. I choose not to.” His tone carries a finality to it that you choose to respect, though not without casting a teasing smirk in his direction.

“You go ahead of me, I’ll catch up,” he promises, watching as you hike a steady foot into the stirrup before swinging the rest of your body atop Bluebell’s back.

“Whatever you say,” you chuckle, giving him a mocking tip of your hat as you pass by. A smile lights his face then, earnest and wide, and you feel accomplished in the dismissal of his cold exterior as you take off for the barn, heels digging into Bluebell’s sides. 

Riding to you has always felt like the closest human experience to taking flight, the wind peeling its way across your face, pinching at every inch of exposed skin. The first time your mother had ever watched you ride, she’d nearly forbid you from ever taking to the saddle again, legs tight around the horse’s belly, arms out like an angel. The men on the ranch called you crazy, but with that dull look of recognition in their eyes, like they were watching a ghost.

“Crazy like your father,” someone had finally admitted to you in passing, and the pride from the sentiment nearly punched a hole through your chest. But you’d never felt crazy, fingers spread wide with the air coursing through them. You’d simply felt free. 

You arrive at the train five minutes before its scheduled departure time, with Hilarius presumably having disappeared into another car. Still, you do not find it lacking in company, and in spite of the looming knowledge of your destination, you cannot suppress a smile as Teff turns to face you. 

“Well, if I’d known you were gonna be here, I wouldn’t have taken my time.” You are practically beaming when he stands to pull you into a warm embrace. Behind him, you note Reed, sending you a quick wave in greeting. You nod back. 

“Any idea what this is about?” Teff asks as he pulls away. You only shrug.

“The usual, probably, take us out of our boxes and show us off. Make sure nobody ever forgets about the Hunger Games,” you mutter bitterly before twisting your grimace into a smile. 

“How’s Seeder?” Teff is glowing with pride as he recounts his daughter’s latest misadventures, the girl teetering on the edge of her terrible twos. And for a moment, that’s all that matters: his soft smile, his beautiful daughter. For a moment, you indulge. And then the train lurches forward.

You nearly jump out of your skin when Lux boards the train, making a beeline for the place beside yours. Still, you allow her to wedge herself between you and Teff, stifling a laugh at the quick pat she delivers to his knee and the awkward look of surprise she leaves in her wake. 

“What the–”

“So?” Her question is pointed at you, eyes brimming with open curiosity.

“So what?” Her tone is lively, teasing even, and your shoulders tense at the seeming change in her demeanor. But she looks relaxed, at ease almost, as though she knows something you do not. 

“Please, don’t be coy; it’s not a good look. Even on me.” To her other side, Teff makes no effort to hide his prying gaze, which flits between the two of you in an easy pattern.

“Coy? I–” 

“Hello? The Victory Tour? Don’t think we all missed out on the fact that a certain somebody had to pay a visit to 10,” she chirps, a jovial sort of mischief practically pouring from her smile.

“Lux–” You hiss, suddenly conscious of every movement on board, slight or otherwise. Several seats away, Octavian shifts in his chair, smirking quietly at something Antonia has just said. Beau hisses in discontent as a drop of condensation from the drink he’d poured upon arrival hits the leg of his pants. Reed’s head doesn’t so much as lift at her comment, but Teff watches, his dark gaze calculating. You wonder what he’s thinking. Your chest feels so heavy.

“Seriously, were you dropped on your head as a child? What happened?” Suddenly, it’s all too much, and your fists open and close around nothing. Treech would know what to say, how to smile just right, and skirt around the truth; you only babble awkwardly.

“What ha– How do you–” You sound like an idiot. 

“Please, the two of you shared a room for years. You didn’t seriously think none of us would notice, right?” You swallow hard. She has a point. You only wish you were better at this. The game everyone except you seems to know how to play just right.

“Nothing– Happened,” you choke out, awkward and stilted. Just over Lux’s head, Teff scowls in disbelief. You want to give in, to confess. It would certainly be easier that way, for the time being at least. But Lux remains a mystery to you, and Teff, with all his sympathy, knew Treech was a mistake the first time around.

“It was awkward. Maple was nice.” So you feign bitterness, forcing your brows together in an ugly grimace, and you pray Treech will do the same, though the thought of his open scorn, blistering and harsh as it had been all those years, sends a shiver down your spine. Lux only groans in response before flipping her head in a vicious circle to observe you dead on, hair batting Teff in the face. 

“Have– Did Heavensbee come to check in on you?” Teff stiffens immediately, abandoning his futile attempts to pull her perfect blond tresses from the spots where they are stuck to his lips.

“Lux–” His tone is a warning of its own.

“What? I don’t see any cameras, and even if there are, it’s not like–”

“You’re being too bold.” Teff chastizes, and the remark seems to cut her down like a blade, all the ease she came on board with draining from her face, leaving the hardened exterior you’d grown accustomed to in your years of being acquainted. 

When she drifts off with a drink pressed between her fingers, she almost looks like a ghost, but it does not prevent the moment from playing over and over in your mind. Does not eradicate the sadness that pools in your gut at what you now know she has lost. A girl, curious and excitable, buried beneath a cool facade. You wonder how often she mourns the person she was. The train jolts, coming to a halt, and a woman’s voice, clear and crisp, announces your arrival in District 4. Mags boards first, with Trawl trailing just behind and you note the way his eyes linger on Beau before he makes his way over to you. You do your best to shake the look, to shake the recognition that passes through you like a wave, drilling yourself with a wordless reminder to keep your own face in check when Treech steps foot in the compartment. To be cordial and stiff. Unbothered with a tinge of resentment. To make the Capitol believe in the existence of nothing at all between the two of you.

Your indifference is mediocre at best and certainly not helped by the fact that you nearly choke on your drink the moment he fixes his gaze on you. He only looks away, practiced in playing the part, but his hand comes up to scratch at the back of his neck, and you know it's just for show, the tell-tale habit exposing his nerves. He makes the rounds, and you watch carefully from your place at the bar, gaze honing in on the easy smile he plasters across his face as he shakes hands and offers embraces. By the time he reaches you, you’ve already downed the glass of posca you were working on upon his entrance and are making quick work of a second. 

Treech speaks to Teff first, questioning Seeder’s well-being just as you had, before pulling Trawl into a half-hearted hug. And suddenly, there he is, standing in front of you.

“It’s good to see you.” His voice is stiff, eyes dark and unblinking. You couldn’t read a thing off his face if you tried. He stretches out his hand, and you eye it cautiously before placing your drink down on the bar to slide your palm into his. You almost wish you could look away, his cordial mask making your skin crawl, but then he squeezes your hand, a movement so slight you barely notice, and you relax into the touch, shoulders dropping as your face morphs to mirror his. 

“Wish I could say the same.” You squeeze back, and if you weren’t watching so intently, you might have missed the slight pull of his lips upward– The look of amusement pooling at the corners of his eyes. Beside you, Teff disguises the beginnings of a laugh with a cough, loud and resonant. Trawl only smirks. But none of it matters. The rest of the world has fallen away because Treech is still holding your hand. 

When he does finally release you, having kept you in his grasp just a moment too long, he is hasty in his departure, spinning on his heel to find a seat towards the front beside Maple. 

“I see things have gotten more tense?” Trawl teases as you shrink back into your seat.

“You have no idea.”

Press tours, as Hilarius calls them, are always the same– surprisingly apparent in their lack of actual press. Instead, the greater part of these visits to the Capitol are occupied by networking, another word Hilarius likes to apply. Late nights spent sucking in the muddled air of some club or other, sticky with sweat and alcohol, and praying for an escape. 

“Tigris.” The greeting sounds more like a sigh of relief passing your lips, and you sink back down into your chair, having started with anticipation at the sound of the door opening. She gives you a nod, eyes soft and sweet, before stepping to the side to allow Leto to enter with a rack of clothing. 

“They’re all so–”

“Short? I know. Look, they’ve been killing me with these requirements, but trust me, not a single one is under the length they’ve called for. Also, I’ve made some adjustments– Things like tulle and ruffles don’t actually count, so we’ve even managed to push the boundary a little.” Tigris gives you a meaningful look, and even Leto seems to pity your situation, having grown more gentle over the years. 

“Thank you.” And you are thankful, really, the gratitude shining from the wrinkled corners of your eyes. 

“What have you got for me?” Your nails drum listlessly against the side of the coffee cup firm in your grasp. Nights like this always go late, and though sleep has long since become a luxury you can never quite afford, it never hurts to be safe.

“Well, Fabricia–”

“Please, you know I’m not interested in that crap. What have you got for me?” Tigris stifles a smile, though you can feel the excitement radiating from her figure as she selects several pieces from the rack. It was always impossible to be too upset in one of her designs. 

“This one’s my favorite.” She flips the hanger, the dress splaying itself across her forearm, and you can’t help the grin that spreads slowly across your features. 

“It’s gorgeous.” The top is corseted, with several thick bones running through the fabric and a delicate piece of ribbon lacing it together. The bottom, though, is what draws your eye. In spite of its length, the silhouette of the saloon-style skirt is obvious. Your mind draws forth a memory, frayed around the edges, of your mother’s wedding dress, wrapped in butcher paper and stowed safely in a box beneath her bed. Of Fawn, nearly six, traipsing around in a pair of too-big boots, the fabric slumping off her shoulders and spilling onto the floor. It looks like home. 

“I know we usually try to avoid the whole cowgirl thing, and let me be very clear, this is by no means an open invitation to wear your workboots, but–”

“Tigris, I love it. Thank you.” 

There is something uncomfortable about the fit of the suit Titania has selected, and Treech wonders distantly if she meant for it to choke him as his hand comes up to tug at the collar. A collar, you know, like a dog? Your words from years before echo in his head, taunting him. The button-up feels stifling, and his fingers reach for his throat, itching his chin instead in some odd, avoidant pattern. He considers undoing the first few buttons. Considers granting himself some air. But in the same way, the shirt is a prison, it acts as a shield. He is no stranger to the lingering eyes of the Capitol– To the way they stick to any piece of exposed skin, hungry for more. Treech swallows hard, irritated by the mere thought. There is a knock at the door. 

“Just a second.” Absently, he thinks it must be time to go, taking caution to fidget once more with his shirt before turning to leave. The person on the other side does not wait, however, and he is nearly knocked over by its swinging open. 

“Titania, what the hell–” The words die in his mouth at the appearance of Coriolanus Snow, armed with his characteristic cold demeanor. “You.”

There is an accusation in the word, simply uttered, and if Snow were made of the same skin and bone as his fellow man, perhaps the sentiment would have struck a chord. Still, he smiles all the same, the wolfish expression wiping the humanity from his features, and Treech resists the urge to shudder. 

“Sorry to disappoint,” Snow chuckles, malice seeping from his tone. “It’s been a while, no?”

“Never long enough,” Treech speaks through gritted teeth, fists curling into two identical balls at his sides. Distantly, he recalls a night many years ago. One where Coriolanus Snow had found his way into the arena. He wonders how it would have felt to kill him then. Coral had come close, that much he knew. Still, he considers how it would have felt to sink his axe into Coriolanus Snow’s skull. Would he have smiled? Would he have watched his blood spill out onto the arena’s marble floor with a grin? He had taken no joy in the deaths of his fellow tributes, but some darker part of Treech tells him he would have watched Snow die with a sneer, wretched and angry, stretched across his face. Men like Coriolanus Snow didn’t tend to learn any other way.

“What do you want?” Men like Coriolanus Snow also didn’t tend to show up without demands. 

“I have a proposition of sorts.” Snow replies, his voice level and unemotional. He takes several steps across the small room, placing himself before the vanity pressed against the back wall. His fingers, long and delicate, reach out to trace a photograph, one Treech had meant to stuff in his pocket, to keep a secret. His sisters and his mother peer out from the image, seeming jostled in their attempts to crowd the frame. Treech remembers the moment with ease, himself behind the camera, his family in a fit of laughter. The corners are worn down, but the love is there. The love will always be there.

“Cute,” Snow chuckles, and it is harsh like the winters back home in 7. As he draws his hand back, Treech resists the urge to grimace at the soft flesh. In the Districts, an unscarred hand, one free of callouses and rough skin, would be seen as a sign of weakness; here, however, he knew it to be a point of pride. Pathetic. That’s what his father would have said. And yet here he was, back to the wall, rooted to the same spot he’d been in when the other man had entered.

“As you well know, we’ve been cultivating the Capitol’s taste for people like you for quite some time now.” People like you. Treech wants to scream. Wants desperately to become the animal Snow thinks he is. Instead, he does nothing. 

“And for the most part, our efforts have been a success. Recently, however, we’ve been encountering a new need. The people of Capitol desire your company. Private company.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Treech’s voice feels dangerously low, even to himself. 

“What do you think it means?” And really, he never needed it spelled out for him. The answer was there, lingering in the open space between them, hot and oppressive. He feels silly for ever thinking a couple extra buttons could protect him, but more than that, he feels like throwing up.

“You can’t seriously expect me to–”

“There would be benefits, of course, should you choose to comply. And, though I’m sure I don’t need to tell you this, consequences should you choose to become a thorn in my side.” Snow’s gaze lingers on the picture beside his fingers as they drum an eerie pattern. 

“Fuck you.”

“Either way, I’m certain you will eventually come to the right conclusion. Perhaps I could even stop others from sharing your same fate.” The implication is clear. He is talking about you. “Influence and power aren’t really so distant from one another. Try to see this as a positive.” Snow glances at the photo once more before turning to face Treech, the corners of his lips curling into the beginnings of a smile. 

“Oh, and don’t let this nasty business ruin your night. I’m sure you have plenty of fun ahead of you.” And with that, he is gone, and Treech is alone, resisting the urge to curl in on himself, to shed the tears brimming at the corners of his eyes. He wants to go home, but not to the Victor’s Village. He wants to return to a place where his father slept. Wants to hear the echos of his sisters’ laughter from another room. He wishes briefly he were still young enough to crawl into bed with his parents, wishes he could stay there forever. But it’s just a fantasy, and on the other side of the door, he can hear someone calling his name. Telling him it’s time to go. It’s time to go. It’s time to go.

The club is packed by the time you arrive, ushered in with the other Victors from your car. As you sweep through the entrance, you crane your neck in an attempt to catch sight of Treech, but he is nowhere to be seen. A tug at your elbow, however, informs you that you have company, and you square your shoulders, pasting the semblance of a smile to your lips before spinning on your heel. It is only Lux, and the relief that passes through you is visible in the way your frame shrinks, sinking back down into its natural state. 

“I need a drink.”

“Way ahead of you.” She tilts her head in the direction of the hand not laced around your arm, indicating a glass full of something you can’t quite identify. “C’mon, bar’s this way.” There’s nothing rough about the manner in which she pulls you through the throngs of people, her grip more of a guiding force than anything else, and you realize it is not often people handle you with this sort of care. When she finally releases you, you barely register the loss of her touch, its gentle pressure seeming almost to ebb away as the pads of her fingers lift. Behind the bar, a man barely disguises his grimace at your appearance, and you try to brush off the piercing look of recognition in his eyes as he grits his teeth.

“You got any white liquor?” He huffs out a laugh, presumably at the expense of your cheap taste, but moves for the shelf behind him nonetheless. 

“Neat. Please.” You manage, flashing a glance at your shoes, flimsy little things with straps winding up your calves. Your face is flushed with the embarrassment of it all when he finally sets the glass before you, and with little forethought, you lift the cup to your mouth, downing the liquid in a single, desperate go. Unlike the stuff you would snag back home, it travels down your throat with surprising ease, pooling in your gut with a biting warmth. 

“I’ll take another when you get a chance.” Beside you, Lux leans back against the bar, snorting softly into her own drink. 

“And I thought I needed this,” she jokes, her hair gathering in a pile on the smooth marble surface as she tilts her head back. 

“I don’t really get out much back home.”

“Frankly, I’d be shocked if anyone got out at all in that honky tonk town of yours.” She smirks playfully, and you know there's little venom behind the jab, but you choose to bite anyway.

“Excuse you, we happen to have a world-class dance hall–”

“I’m gonna stop you right there– There is no world in which you stomping around in some dilapidated building counts as getting out.” You’re laughing now, a rare endeavor, but you can’t help the way it bursts from your lips at her quick retort.

“It’s not– You can ask around– Really, it's more of a barn than a dilapidated–”

“And is there a bar in this oversized shack of yours, or just the stench of desperation and a dirt floor?” She quirks her head at this, goading you.

“I’ll have you know we laid a brick floor just last year–” Behind you comes the clink of your second glass of white liquor hitting the bar. Lux juts her chin in the direction of your cup, her lips curling into the beginnings of a smile. 

“Alright, cowgirl, I’ll take your word for it. Now, how about you finish that and I show you what a real dance floor looks like?” And it feels good, being friends with Lux. Like in some distant universe, you could have been nothing more than two girls in a bar, excited for a night on the town. As the second drink hits your tongue, you play at resisting, groaning in faux annoyance at the fingers that lace between yours, pulling you towards the floor, but really, it's a relief. At the bar, you’re a sitting duck, incapable of blending in and waiting to be approached. At least out on the dance floor, you’re a moving target. 

At first, there’s a heaviness to your motions, unaccustomed to moving so erratically, but slowly, you feel yourself loosen up. Before you, Lux appears almost entirely at peace, her body wrapped up in a gentle swaying movement, eyes shut. You fight a smile, dipping your head back and allowing the music to flood your senses. Time seems to slow, nearly grinding to a halt while simultaneously flying at an unprecedented pace. When you open your eyes once more, you’re unsure if it’s been minutes or hours, but suddenly, the room feels stifling and you’re drenched with sweat. Still locked in her own trance, Lux appears entirely unbothered as you jerk your head around, looking– no, searching for something. Someone. Treech. 

Several sweeps of the room reveal he is not on the dance floor or seated at the bar, so, squeezing Lux’s shoulder in warning, you begin pushing your way back through the crowd. You spot him the moment you break through the swarm of bodies, his gaze already fixed on you, an unreadable expression tugging at his features. He’s settled into a booth, arms splayed out across the back of the seat, and a woman on each side. The girl to his left tugs at the fabric of his shirt, her pointed nails like claws as she fumbles the top button, freeing it from its hold. Her eyes are heavy with a sharp sort of hunger, and for a moment, some irrational part of you fears she will unhinge her jaw and swallow him whole, licking him clean of muscle and flesh until he is nothing more than a pile of bones. She only leans in, appearing to inhale his scent deeply before pressing her mouth to his ear, words you cannot distinguish from afar passing her lips. His eyes never leave you, welling with some odd mixture of pleading and regret. And guilt. The guilt is what overwhelms you, the sentiment coming off of him in waves. It feels like a shot to the chest. 

And really, you knew it would be like this– That this is the way it has to be, but the sting it leaves is raw and biting as it burrows deep within your skin, and you feel the sudden urge to throw up. To curl up and sob and stomp your feet and scream and tug at your hair with the same ferocity you had as a child, incapable of stifling your own pain. You shake your head in a feeble attempt to make the image go away, eyes slamming shut, and your nose scrunching with the effort of it all. Nothing changes, so you school your features into the meanest grimace you can muster, forcing its weight upon him, before spinning on your heel in search of some quiet place where you can teach your lungs to breathe again.

There’s something angelic about the way you look out on the dance floor, Treech thinks, your features glowing with sweat, hair forming a messy halo around your face. You look lighter this way, the way you sometimes did when you slept, like the world was slipping away from you. Like you are slipping away from the world. It’s irrational, he knows, but some desperate part of him wants to watch you like this forever, arms spread over your head, chin tipped up towards the ceiling. It’s all he can think about, the image etching itself so deep into his skull he almost doesn’t notice that you’ve come back down. That you’ve turned to push your way through the crowd. That you’re nearing the edge of the dance floor like a wave cresting on the shore. And then it’s too late, because you’ve broken through and you are looking right at him.

If he wasn’t watching so intently, he might have missed the stagger in your step, hand dropping to your stomach as though you’d been shot. But he sees it all, feels it like a dagger in his chest when you square him with a glare. And it’s all he can do, not to reach for you in that moment, jaw clenched so hard he wonders if his teeth might split in two. Instead, he palms his drink, bringing the glass back to his lips and finishing off the bitter liquid inside.

“Can I get you another?” the woman to his right asks. He only nods in agreement.

You allow yourself a full fifteen minutes in the bathroom before leaving to rejoin the mix outside. Not long enough to arouse suspicion or saddle you with a punishment, but a welcome break all the same. The first five minutes are spent in tears, and the next ten collecting yourself. You use the pads of your fingers to blend away the wet trails forged down your cheeks and a hand towel to clean up the now smudged makeup around your eyes. All the while, you remind yourself to breathe. To forget. To let go. 

You accept the first drink offered to you as you push your way back into the crowd, barely eyeing the contents of your cup before downing them with a rather unbecoming haste. From then on, it's a blur. All you know is that the glasses in your hand never stay full for long. Sweat seems to cling to every inch of your body, pasting your hair to the back of your neck and keeping your dress glued to the tops of your thighs. Around you, every face seems to curl into the same disgusted leer. You don’t care. You push on, allowing your anger to drive your body. It isn’t until Teff catches you, swaying on your feet by the bar, that you realize how deep you are in it. He coaxes you into a seat and watches as your greedy hands wrap themselves around one glass of water and then another. Anything to negate the way the room seems to spin out of control, steadiness just out of reach. 

Eventually, time slows, and the crowd begins to thin. That is when the exhaustion hits, your shoulders slumping with defeat. 

“You wanna talk about it?” Teff coaxes, his face gentle and inviting. You only shake your head, keeping your eyes trained on your finger as it draws careful circles around the rim of your glass. Eventually, Lux finds her way back to you, settling into the seat on your left and allowing her head to dip forward and touch the counter. The slow rise and fall of her shoulders reveals that she is asleep moments after making contact with the cool marble surface. Around you, though, the music remains deafening. Suffocating. Again, you find yourself drifting towards the bathroom, craving the solitude and quiet. With your back pressed to the icy tile wall, everything feels distant, as though your head is underwater. A part of you wishes you could stay like this forever, isolated and numb. Someone knocks on the door. 

You don’t register the woman who pushes past you into the room, only that the tulle on her skirt itches your wrist as it brushes up against you. Still, you square your shoulders and set your jaw into an apologetic smile, dipping your head as you inch past her. You’ve nearly broken free of the back hallway when you feel it, someone pulling at the edge of your skirt, grasping at the fabric as you pass by. You expect it is the woman, intrigued by your presence, or worse, upset, but when you turn, there is only Treech.

He appears almost disheveled, eyes wet and red around the rims, and he reeks of liquor. You pull away, taking a quick step out of his orbit, but he moves faster, hand darting out to wrap itself around your wrist.

“Please–” 

“Don’t– Don’t apologize to me– I knew, we both knew this is how it has to be. I just– I didn’t–”

“No,” he is pleading with you now, all his walls lying in rubble at his feet. 

“Maybe it was better before– Maybe that’s how things should be, how we should have stayed.”

“Don’t say that.” 

“What else is there to say?”

“I spoke to him. It can– I can make this work, make it better–”

“You spoke to him?” Hilarius, it must be, you think. Then a jolt passes through you. “We can’t talk about this here.”

“Who cares where we talk about this?” And there’s a carelessness in his words that jerks you back into reality. 

“You’re drunk.”

“It’s not like you’re sober.”

“No Treech– You’re hammered– What–” 

“I’m gonna fix this–” He keeps pressing on, and you can’t suppress the concern that spreads itself across your face. 

“Yes, yes, I know, I talked to him too, but you can’t just–”

“You talked to him?” Something between panic and rage flickers in his eyes, and suddenly, he appears almost wild.

“Yes, but– Look at me, we can’t talk about–”

“But he promised– Well, maybe he didn’t, but he said–”

“What?” 

“He can’t– He can’t make you, I won’t let him–” He’s panicking now, the force of it causing him to shake, and it’s all that you can do to reach out and steady his shoulders. To pray that the warmth of your palms will bring him down to Earth once more. “Let him? What are you–” But it doesn’t get any farther than that, because before the full sentence can leave your mouth, the man in front of you is doubling over to throw up. 

“Oh my god.” 

When he stands back up from the hunched position he fell into, you note the pool of vomit at your feet, but it’s not what concerns you the most. Treech’s eyes seem almost to have emptied out, as though the life itself has left his body. His face is entirely blank, gaze fixed on some distant scene you’re all but certain doesn’t exist. 

“Treech–” You begin to speak once more, but it doesn’t matter because a tug at your elbow reveals Teff and Lux, and you know without asking that it is time to leave. Distantly, you’re aware you may never have the chance to have this conversation again, but then you are tugging Treech into a Capitol car, and the city is streaming by in a strange mix of blurred lights, and the moment is over, buried beneath the dirty floor of a club you’ll never visit again. All that remains is his labored breathing against your shoulder, forehead doused in sweat as it rests against the crook of your neck, and the feeling in the pit of your stomach that this is the beginning of the end.

The days in the Capitol all seem to blur together, and you find yourself craving the return home in spite of the task set before you. By the time the meeting rolls around, you are struggling to keep from flitting about your room and have to clench your hands in two identical fists to keep them from shaking. One wrong step and it’s all over. You slip carefully from your apartment before riding the elevator down two floors to Hilarius’s suite. The Peacekeeper in the elevator with you stands at attention, and you square your shoulders, keeping your eyes trained before you. This whole thing should appear as nothing more than a standard visit. A time to touch base with your Capitol wrangler. As far as you knew, the plan was as follows: Hilarius would host a series of meetings with the Victors, going over the usual humdrum repeated on these trips. Except, one of those meetings would be different than the others. Your meeting, where Hilarius had managed to organize for all the Victors who were in on the plan to come together.

You force a steadying breath as your hand lingers on the doorknob. What is behind this door? Or, more importantly, who? A name sinks deep into your chest like a prayer, but you refuse to even think it, afraid reality will only douse the sparks of hope flaring up inside your ribcage. With one final thought, you open the door: Please let this work.

You are not the first to arrive, though the other presence in the room does send a jolt down your spine. Octavian. Perhaps the last person you expected to see, the District Two man, the very first Victor of the Hunger Games, seems relatively unfazed by your appearance. 

“You look surprised.” He says it like a fact. 

“You don’t.”

“Can’t say I didn’t think you had it in you.” It almost makes you smile, a sort of pride blooming in your chest. 

“I never thought–” 

“That’s good, I suppose. At least for our plans.” He pauses then, and for a moment, you believe he has finished speaking, before he begins anew. “You might understand– At least better than some. The first Games were–”

“Brutal.” And it’s true, without some fancy backdrop, there was something real about what happened in the arena, and not just for the tributes. It was human and it was horrifying. Even the Capitol had shied away. 

“No one moved, you know, when the clock struck one. We all just stood there, stupid. And then the Peacekeepers started shooting. Took out one of the kids from Five and both from Nine. But it could have been any of us. We were all the same to them back then, without the betting and the odds.” You had never been able to stomach rewatching the Games, and any memory you had of Octavian’s was faded now, but it struck a chord nonetheless. 

“And then Hector.” Of course, Hector. Hector, who seemed to haunt that apartment upstairs, no matter how much time had passed. 

“You don’t have to–” 

“No, I do. I’ve never said any of this out loud before. I think– I think if I don’t say it to someone now, while I still have a chance, I’ll die choking on it.”

“I understand.” And you do. Because really, you are always thinking about it. About Bee and Colt and Brandy and Skinner. Fawn and Lennox, your mother and father. But you had hardly spoken those words out loud. Your anger, your motivation. You stuffed it all down. You had to, to survive. 

✰Coriolanus Snow whose nose rubs against your clit as he eats you out like a starved man. Holding your hips down so you don't squirm. Whose cock drools as you pull on his hair, rutting his hips into the bed, waiting to stuff your cunt full.

✰Sejanus Plinth who takes his time with you. Kissing up your thighs and teasing your clit. He loves it when you push his head down, needy for his tongue to fill you. But he's ever so sweet, helping you cum with wanting anything in return.

✰Festus Creed who has you face down, ass up. Teasing your hole until you're crying, your weepy little cunt so desperate for his mouth. He'll spank you if you whine too much. Sometimes if you're too noisy for his liking, he'll edge you and then ruin your orgasm, or he'll use your mouth to get off while you don't get anything.

✰Treech who has his eyes on you while he snacks on your sweet pussy. He wants to watch every movement you make, the way your body twitches and your chest heaves as you cum. He wants to hear you try and hold back your moans, sucking your bottom lip between your teeth.

✰Reaper Ash whose so gentle and caring with you. Sucking on your puffy clit while his fingers circle your needy hole. He slips his fingers into your pussy, enjoying the wet tightness of your walls. He loves it when you moan his name so sweetly, your loving boyfriend the only person on your mind.

✰Tanner whose addicted to your sweet taste. Who wakes you up with his head between your plush thighs. Dragging an orgasm from you before heading off to the slaughterhouse for the day. Who drinks up your juices as you meekly tremble from overstimulation.

✰Jessup Diggs who wants you to ride his face. If you're too shy to put your body weight on him, he'll grab your hips and pull your body down himself. Helping keep you up right as your thighs tremble from how good his tongue makes you feel. He loves that when you start to approach your release you can only focus on that. Rutting your pussy on his face until you're cumming, leaving him with a smile and a mouth covered in slick.

Star's notes -> All of my favorite Ballad boys (Not you Coriolanus)

(Requests are open!)

Tanner: He's sweet and shy with you. He doesn't want to scare you by going to fast or by accidentally breaking your boundaries, so he prefers you starting contact. Of course, he gets more confident as the relationship goes on. He likes when you guys hold hands. When walking around town his hand is usually intertwined with yours. When he wants to hold your hand, you'll see him tapping his thigh anxiously and clenching his fists almost like the prospect of doing it was the most nerve-wracking thing he'd ever done. Just look at him softly and ask him to hold your hand, make an excuse. He loves it.

"Mmm... Tanner... can you hold my hand? Please? 'M Cold..." you whisper looking at him with those pretty eyes of yours. How could he say no?

His face was covered in a red blush and grabbed your hand softly, his other hand lying on top of it. Your hand in the middle of both of his because he genuinely thought you were cold. Your soft smile and the feeling of your lips on his was all the gratification he ever needed.

Treech: He is nervous to hold your hand. After years of working out in the woods and the lumberyard, gripping onto the axe... And his stupid need to impress you means he had a few cuts and bumps. He kind of hates how rough his hands are, yet is never saying no because he likes making you happy. There's nothing sweeter to him than how you gently trace his hands and press kisses to them. He will notice your hand getting closer to his and will intertwine his fingers with yours.

Watching the sunset out in the woods near a creek with the love of his life next to him was a perfect way to end his day.

He noticed your hand creeping towards his and hesitantly placed his hand on yours. Your soft hands were a juxtaposition to his rough ones. So different but held by each other. Holding hands turns into you, softly tracing his hands.

"I'm so lucky..." he mumbled pressing a kiss to your forehead.

"Why's that?"

"Because I have you."

Sejanus: He LOVES holding your hand, especially when you're just relaxing at his house. It is a simple act of intimacy and he lovessss it. Out in public he'd much rather have you hook your arm with his, he thinks it's cute especially since his Ma and Pa do it. you will be the future Mrs. Plinth, he has decided. Just because you like holding his hand. Most times he softly reaches out. At first, he just places his hand on yours for a while before intertwining his fingers with yours.

As his fingers interlocked with yours, you sigh happily. He was so sweet, and smiled at you brightly, bringing your hand up to his lips.

"Thank you (Y/N)," he said, looking at you with those stupidly love-sick eyes.

"For what Sej?"

"For loving me, my beloved."

Coriolanus: Coryo is an asshole. If you go to grab his hand in public like in class or something, he pulls away. Has swatted your hand to keep it away. Holding hands is something he does to subtly show you are his in public. He doesn't hold your hands as much as he holds your wrist and your hand wrapped around his pointer finger. In private he's a bit kinder, doing a "come here" motion with his fingers. When you put your hand in his, he will press a chaste kiss to it and then just... hold it.

You pout as the blonde next to you lightly swats your hand away in class. He's so mean.

Later in the hallway, he's reaching out for your hand and you, while stubborn, simply give in.

His hold is tight on your wrist, and you grab onto his pointer, whispering he's hurting you. He loosens his grip a bit.

In his room, in the apartment he hates and loves, your head on his chest as you read a book, he motions for your hand. You softly place your hand in his, and he places a kiss on your wrist, almost whispering an apology.

"Mm... Coryo...  Why can't you do this all the time," you whispered, laying your head on his chest, one hand in his, the other in his pretty blond curls.

He looked to the side, unable to meet your eyes. Truth was he didn't know why he did it. So people couldn't see how he cared for you? So people couldn't see that you're his soft spot?

"I don't know," he whispered.

There was a short silence before you hummed and mumbled, "I know. It's ok... just don't grab my wrist again. Or I'm gonna need more kisses."

Reaper: I think he is a big physical contact person. He loves having his arm around you or wants to be touching you all the time. Sometimes it's too much especially in the heat of the summer, so holding hands is the way to go. He will just grab your hand and doesn't even notice he's done it. He honestly just likes having you next to him.

You had been complaining of the heat since the morning. And hot it was. Especially with the human heater that was your boyfriend.

"Noooo it's too hot," you whined as his arms wrapped his strong arms around you, engulfing you in even more heat.

He lets go, albeit with a small huff. His hand is then reaching out. A compromise, you would think to yourself. You wouldn't die of heat and he could touch you. There was a small smile that spread across his lips as your hand met his.

Jessup: I think he's not too big on physical contact. One reason is he works in the mines and you work as a seamstress. He thinks he'll get you dirty and he doesn't want that especially if you are working on something. He would rather you initiate contact because then he knows it's okay. And yes, he knows you could easily wash your hands or go wash up, but he hates the thought of making you go through so much trouble. So, as a compromise, you hook your pinkie with his. You can 'hold his hand' and he doesn't have to worry about getting you dirty.

“Jessup pleaseeee,” you pouted, trying to hold his hand as he stubbornly took it away.

“You have to sew after this break you’re taking. You’ll get things dirty,” he whispers, looking at you with a smile.

You huff and curse your talent for sewing for keeping your sweet loving thoughtful boy from holding your hand.

You feel his pinkie hook onto yours and you smile brightly.