The night before the Games was noisier than ever, but Taekwoon’s mind was shuttered, silent as a tomb.  He’d made his peace already, dry-sobbing onto Wonsik’s shoulder, and now there was nothing left but to face his fate.  

The last round of interviews came and went.  Taekwoon sat stony and silent through them all.  His refusal to speak was nothing new, and the host had gotten quite good at fumbling along by herself during the one-sided interviews--she even got the crowd cheering for him and shouting his name during some prattle about his ranking.  It fell on deaf ears.  If she noticed the fire in his eyes cooled to ash, it never came up before they were ushering him off the stage to make way for a career tribute.  “The Silent Killer from the Forests!” the announcer bellowed for the last time.

He could feel his mentor’s heavy gaze on him as he climbed down the stage.  “It’ll have to do.”  Taekwoon barely made out the words, a deep rumble beneath the high-pitched shrieks of the crowd, and for the first time he stared defiantly back.  The other stood with his hands in his pockets, looking as out-of-place in his white suit and sparkling bow-tie as ever, but the eyes on him were...sad?  Taekwoon jerked his gaze away to stare straight ahead as he stormed off to the waiting room.

--

There was nothing magical about the rooftop view when he was alone.  He knew Wonsik probably couldn’t get away tonight, not with so much to prepare for the next day, but there was nothing better to do.  If anyone asked, he was clearing his mind for the slaughter tomorrow.  The entire Capitol had thrown itself into one last celebratory frenzy--the night sky was on fire, lit by a thousand exploding fireworks, with the city lights below flaring ten times as brilliant.  Without Wonsik’s shining eyes or insistent tugs on his sleeve to point out something he found beautiful, all Taekwoon could think was that he hadn’t seen the stars in weeks.  Not since he left home.  What would Wonsik’s face look like if he could see stars instead of this light pollution?   

“Enjoying the view?”  

The deep voice set every hair on edge.  Taekwoon’s fingers curled to dig crescents into his arms.  “No,” he snapped, barely loud enough to hear over the crackling of fireworks.  They must have masked his mentor’s footsteps, too--he should have heard him before he made it halfway up the stairs.  Taekwoon set his jaw, stare boring into the wall as he waited for the other to scold him for it.

Instead there was a quiet rustling as the man sat next to him, and Taekwoon’s glare could have melted holes in the wall.  A long moment passed.  Normally Taekwoon would have relished the silence (or what was left of it with the racket down below), but now it just unnerved him.  He was contemplating heading back downstairs when the other spoke.  

“You should have made alliances.”

Good.  Scolding was familiar.  So was arguing.  Taekwoon slouched over his knees, scowling.  “I don’t need to befriend people I’m going to kill.”  

The man heaved a long sigh, so resigned Taekwoon dared to hope he’d spoken his fill, but no such luck.  “If you haven’t listened to anything I’ve said so far, listen to that.  You can’t win by--”

“Think I haven’t watched the Games before?” Taekwoon cut in, voice quiet still but every word drenched in venom.  “You do too well, they send monsters at you.  Dry up your water sources.  I don’t know, make a volcano pop up under your feet.”  It was more words than he’d said to him in the past week, and by his sharply raised brows the other was just as surprised as Taekwoon.

““You need to survive.”

“What would you care about that?”

“Do you need me to care?  If you don’t want to do it for me, do it for your family--” (Taekwoon balled his hand into a fist, wondering how much trouble he’d get in if he attacked a mentor) “--or your district...hell, do it for that Avox you’ve been sneaking around with.  --Sit down, I haven’t told anyone.  You’re not the only one who can’t sleep at night.”

“What do you want?” Taekwoon snarled.  His voice now echoed in the glass casement, smothering even the shrieking fireworks, but he didn’t care.  He whipped his head around to level his stare at the other, only to be met by the same weary, leaden gaze as before.

Taekwoon’s shout echoed two, three times before the man answered.  “What else?  I want you to win--”

A voice drifted up the stairwell, and for the first time Taekwoon was glad to hear his ’s voice call out.  “Yongguk?  Are you up there?”  His mentor didn’t answer, but footsteps were quick to follow the echoes.  They stopped suddenly, just short of the entrance.

“Just talking, Jaehwan.”

A doubtful hum.  “Okay…”  You’re wasting your time went unsaid, but Taekwoon could practically hear the words ringing in his ears.  “It’s late, shouldn’t you be coming down?  Don’t forget about tomorrow.”  At that Taekwoon almost laughed, and couldn’t hold back a quiet snort--of course, a long day for his mentor tomorrow, sitting in the stands and chatting with officials, or whatever it was mentors did while their charges slaughtered each other on the screens above.  So tiring, surely.  

Of course, maybe his was simply too scared to address him directly.  For all the talking he did, it was rarely to him.

“I know, I’m coming.  You should try to get some sleep, too,” the man added as he rose.  

--

Sleep.  He should sleep.  He lingered out of sheer stubbornness for a few minutes, but the sanctuary had been invaded, and what little appeal the rooftop held was gone.  Every thought he tried to keep at bay came flooding back--his support team wouldn’t be the only ones watching the screens tomorrow.  He hoped his family wouldn’t cry too much when they watched him die.  He hoped Mother would cover his sisters’ eyes.  With a force of will that drained him to the core he shoved the thoughts back.  His head swam.  He waited, fireworks ringing dull and distant in his ears, just long enough so no one could say he followed his mentor’s advice before dragging himself down the stairs.  

As he reached his room, he knew something was off.  The sound of his bare feet on the carpet was oddly muffled, the beep of the door sliding open barely heard at all.  By the time he lowered his body to the bed, it felt like it belonged to him.  He was watching someone else behind his eyes--foreign limbs draping long and careless over the side, a stranger’s hands curling white-knuckled into the sheets.  A stranger who just sat and stared glassy-eyed at the floor, breath loud and reedy until it diminished to faint puffs that came too shallow, too far between.  

He had come here to do something.  Sleep.  He came to sleep.  The body didn’t move.  It should, it was easy.  Get up, undress, lie down and rest.  Nothing happened.  The limbs stayed splayed out in front of him, the dark plush carpet stayed fixed in his vision.  

A strange sensation grew at his back (his? it was his).  A faint but firm pressure between his shoulderblades, more insistent and immediate than the usual dull ache from training too hard.  It moved.   Faint finger-taps up his spine to the base of his neck, then inch by inch down again.  Air moved through his lungs.  Circles, now, slow and deliberate over shoulderblades, down the hunch of his back.  The sheets were cool and soft against his hands as feeling crept reluctantly back.  They left lines in his palms where he gripped too hard.  He gulped a deep breath into neglected lungs and the hand on his back (of course it was a hand) paused.  It slid back to his shoulder and gave one short, sharp squeeze.

The pent-up breath wheezed out all at once.  “Wonsik.”  A hum behind his ear, low and fond, and the hands kept moving--slow, practiced, as if they’d done it a hundred times before.  Perhaps they had.  

The weight on the bed shifted.  His eyes burned when he blinked them, and Taekwoon wondered how much time had passed.  But now a pair of slim white boots moved into his field of vision Wonsik was crouching in front of him, eyes searching until they caught his gaze, lips curling into a soft smile when he succeeded.  Taekwoon tried to return it but his face felt too numb to move.  As if reading his intention Wonsik’s smile turned wide and warm before he reached to touch a pair of fingers to his chin; then slow and cautious, guided his chin to follow him as he stood.  Taekwoon forced his eyes to move, his neck to unlock.  With one last force of effort, he took a deep breath and felt the last of the unnerving numbness drift away.  He was himself, he was here, as little as he wanted to be--  And so was Wonsik.  

“You’re here,” he said aloud, not sure if he meant to.  Did he sneak away?  Light still crept under the door from the hall outside.  As if reading his thoughts, Wonsik smiled sadly and shook his head before motioning with his hand--two fingers touched to his lips, then arm lowered palm-out.  Asking him if he needed anything.  The only communication Avoxes were allowed to make.  

His stomach clenched at the formality.  “This is the last time I’m gonna see you,” Taekwoon heard himself say.  It felt so cliche, like he was watching the last scene of one of his ’s sappy romance movies--the lovers would weep and sob and throw their arms around each other and profess their love one last time in words too poetic for him to bother understanding.  But there was no swelling music, no heartfelt confessions.  Just a quiet cold ache in his chest that froze every word in his throat.  But Wonsik didn’t need words.  He lifted a hand to brush rough fingers over his cheek, eyes soft before his brow ridged in a sudden frown.  Pulling back so suddenly Taekwoon wondered if he was angry, Wonsik shook his head in one sharp jerk and yanked his thumb across his throat.  He stepped back, stern facade slipping, and nodded once.

“Not the last time…?” Taekwoon ventured out of habit.  “I’ll win and come back.”  It was a lie, and sounded disgusting on his tongue, but Wonsik beamed--watery, trembling lip not hidden by the usual hand over his mouth--and nodded again.  

Movement stirred outside and Wonsik turned away, eyes wet and smile fading.  But with one quick glance at the door Taekwoon closed the distance between them and kissed him on the cheek, just at the corner of his lips where he liked it most.  “I’ll come back.”

--

The glass chute waited at his back waited like a mouth.  He knew, theoretically, that it led to the arena floor somewhere above--but as the back of his neck prickled and sweat beaded at his spine, it felt like an open coffin.  

People were moving in front of him, nothing more than smears of violent colors in front of his eyes (and none of them were Wonsik).  His fingers twitched.  He should be holding something.  A club, a gun, that fencing sword he’d gotten so good at.  But they started with nothing but the clothes on their backs: sturdy denim pants and a waterproof jacket lined with fleece.  He vaguely remembered Yongguk saying this meant a cold and wet arena.  The stylist leaned forward and tucked a scrap of paper into the seam in his collar.  

“Your token,” he said, brow furrowing.  Taekwoon’s chest tightened even as his face remained stony.  It was all he could do not to unfold the paper to look at the shaky writing.  But as he stepped back into the chute, he couldn’t stop a hand from brushing over the seam, feeling the crinkle of precious paper inside the cloth.

“I’ll come back,” he said aloud, barely a breath, and the lift rose.

A/N:  Aaaand that's the last of my actual chapters; I still have an epilogue waiting and am very tempted towards a sequel, but I hoped you enjoyed it even if it didn't live up to my original hopes.  Thank you for sticking with the story, I would love to hear what you think <3