Taekwoon wasn’t used to being the one who talked, and the Avox was quick to understand.  

They escaped to the roof every night now.  Taekwoon wasn’t sure what his excuse to himself was anymore, and found it hard to care.  The games were only a few short days away--there was no time to figure anything out, no need to wonder about what it meant for the future.  He knew he didn’t have one.  

Maybe it was all just selfish, a way to distract himself from his ever-darkening thoughts.  But each time the Avox stood beaming back at him (eyes sparkling, cheeks bunched up behind his hand) when Taekwoon opened his door to the soft tapping, and each time something flipflopped beneath his ribcage at the sight.

The Avox spoke with his hands, and his hands were never silent.  Their conversations were a blur of gestures with Taekwoon slowly repeating his interpretation, watching for the telltale eye-crinkling smile to light the other’s face each time he guessed right.  The boy was impossibly patient, all encouraging nods and fond smiles, even when one failed guessed followed another.  Only when his hands stilled would Taekwoon speak up on his own, prodding with a comment or question to get him going again.  

Even during the day when they couldn’t talk, when all eyes were on him and his skull ached with the endless stream of noise, the hands spoke more than words.  One hand squeezing his shoulder as the other brushed imaginary dust from whatever coat the stylist chose that day, fingers brushing against his knuckles (gripping his fork so tightly it trembled in his hand) as he set food on the table.  Taekwoon was always careful to hide his smile.  He didn’t want to get the other in trouble.

But best of all was when they just sat in companionable silence on the roof each night, enjoying the peace, resting in the knowledge that neither demanded anything of the other.  At least that’s what Taekwoon hoped the other felt.  There were limits to what they could talk about, after all.  Too often the other’s smile would falter as he paused mid-sentence, pinwheeling at the edge of what he hoped to say before his shoulders slumped in defeat and he waved a dismissive hand.  Taekwoon would slip one of the hands tucked into his elbows out to gingerly pat his knee--he’d noticed the Avox seemed to like touch, however awkward it felt for Taekwoon in the moment.  And each time he was met with a sheepish smile (and ears tinted pink) before the Avox frowned in thought, then ventured on to something else.  It was slow going, and they had so little time.  Taekwoon tried not to think of how little time he had.

Bit by bit Taekwoon learned more about him.  He was a year younger than Taekwoon, loved sleeping and listening to music (rather, eavesdropping on it when he could), his hair had been black before the District 7 stylist team decided to dye the Avoxes to match the look they planned for their tributes.  Unlike Taekwoon he loved the night view, even pointing out his favorite splashes of color among the gaudy lights.  

But he never volunteered a word about where he came from, and Taekwoon didn’t allow himself to ask.  Yet the more he resisted, the more he wondered.  Who was he before his sentence?  What had he lost?  Did he leave family behind, like Taekwoon did?  Did he still think about them?  And most of all, what had he done to anger the Capitol enough to take his tongue and his freedom?

He wished he had something he could share in return, but his life had already been picked to the bone and laid bare for all the world to see, sanitized for a Capitol appetite.  The Avox asked about him anyway.  At first Taekwoon wondered if it was because he wasn’t able to watch the broadcasts, until he asked what District he was from (holding one finger at a time up to ten, then another two, before pointing at Taekwoon and tilting his head) and Taekwoon realized--he was giving him the right to share that about himself, or choose not to.  

So “seven” he muttered, surprising himself with the pride in his voice, surprising himself even more as he went on.  “It’s weird, here.  Without trees.  Never been away from them before.  It’s like…”  He trailed off, absently tugging his sleeves up to his knuckles and tucking them against his legs.  He was never good at metaphors.  Or talking.  He shrugged.  A faint pressure on one hand startled him, and he looked down to see the Avox’s calloused hand laid gently over his.

He glanced up at the cautious eyes watching his and felt his lips tip into a stiff smile.  His hand seemed to turn palm-up on its own accord beneath the others, and Taekwoon’s smile reached his eyes as he felt the Avox’s fingers intertwine with his.

The Avox, the Avox.  Taekwoon hated only knowing him as the Avox.   

That’s what the others called him--or any of the servants--in the same tone they’d use to name The Chair, The Rug, The Floor.  A piece of furniture, part of the scenery.  

An idea took root in his mind as he drifted to sleep that night, and when the next day came Taekwoon wished he could leave his training early for the first time.  

During dinner Taekwoon lifted a pen from his mentor’s pocket and, feeling as furtive and rebellious as if he’d robbed a storehouse, kept it hidden against his skin throughout the day.  That night when they met, he pressed them into the boy’s hands with a swell of pride.

A spark of panic flickered in his eyes and he shook his head violently.  Taekwoon didn’t miss the way every muscle in his body seemed to tense at once.  

“At least tell me your name.”  

The other didn’t look at him at first, eyes still fixed on the pen as he worried a lip between his teeth.  A long moment passed in silence before he gave a single, sharp nod, eyes flicking towards the doorway before snatching the pen out of Taekwoon’s hand.

One by one, shaky characters took form on the paper before the Avox dropped the pen like it burned him and slipped away--but not before pressing the paper into Taekwoon’s hands.  He unfolded it slowly and pressed out the wrinkles.  

Wonsik.