Standing still had never been so hard.  

He’d long since grown used to the Capitol’s frantic, garish energy--every moment as bright and hectic as a fever dream, one person’s heaven and another’s technicolor hell.  He’d adapted to it, grown used to being the monochrome lifeblood pumping through drugged and diseased veins--draped in white and gray, as silent as the grave they’d barely escaped (and some wished they hadn’t).

Maybe he’d felt like that once, in the early days he never allowed himself to think about anymore, but now--now--!  He’d never felt so alive, every hair standing on end and every nerve tingling and every beat of his pulse hammering like thunder between his ears.  In the very beating, bloated heart of the Capitol’s celebrations it was too much.  The citizens were cheering and fighting and passing out left and right behind the wall of Avoxes, a barrage of noise pressing relentlessly against his eardrums. Normally he’d stand cringing and deafened, senses overwhelmed by the assault (and the thought of the mess to clean up after).  The first time was such an ordeal he was almost relieved to find himself assigned to the Tunnels during the next year’s celebration, yet now Wonsik trembled with the urge to join them, to fling himself into the madness and shout and cheer with his stolen voice and something, something other than standing here like the lifeless piece of scenery they saw him as.  But more than anything was the urge to tear mindlessly down through the twin rows of white and gray, down to the hovercraft waiting still (too still) at the end.  And pry the ing door off its hinges with his fingertips if he had to.  

A feeble breath puffed against the inside of his veil.  Taekwoon was okay, had to be okay.  There would be no celebrations if he weren’t.  The Capitol would piece his corpse back together and resurrect it before letting the Games end without a victor.  But still he stood shaking, each earsplitting second that crept by nothing short of torture.

It was taking so long.  Resurrection or not, they were definitely piecing something back together.  Wonsik blinked quickly--he was a statue, he was scenery, only his eyes showed beneath the veils and robes and it wouldn’t do to let them get wet.

The creak of a metal door, a sudden hush that lasted half a breath.

“The Silent Killer from the Forests, the Lion hungry for blood, OUR VICTOR OF THE TWENTY-FOURTH HUNGER GAMES, Jung Taekwoon!”

The roar that followed was like a hammer to the sternum, but Wonsik took the frenzied moment to turn his head just enough to peer straining down the column.  The victor was flanked by his team and half a dozen guards but Wonsik could still see him slowly making his way down the path.  Was that a limp?  A slightly different-colored patch of skin?  Were his shoulders that stiff and straight before, or were they straighter?  He didn’t realized he stared too long until a gentle nudge from the boy next to him jerked his gaze straight ahead again (lucky for him, another Avox and not a Peacekeeper).

The cheers died down only to roll along with the procession like a wave--nearer and nearer until finally, finally Wonsik could see him without turning his head--eyes glazed and downturned, staring out from behind a mask of makeup hiding both familiar features and new scars.  The lopsided pace was painfully obvious, now, bringing him closer bit by bit--  And now he was close enough to touch, close enough that if Taekwoon just turned...

Adrenaline surging, Wonsik reached out a shaky hand.

For a sparse moment, fingertips brushed against skin smooth and glossy against rough callouses, cold as ice to the touch.

Cold as metal.

Wonsik didn’t know how good Capitol prosthetics were, whether they let you feel or not.  If someone lost a hand or a foot in the textile mills back home, they were lucky for a piece of wood to strap over the stump.  But whether Taekwoon felt it or Taekwoon just knew, he was turning, looking up…a gaze hazy and unfocused lifted up, still leaden with sedatives and smothered with painkillers.  

But when Wonsik caught his gaze something glinted in his eyes and they sharpened, and for a splintered second he saw Taekwoon staring back, shattered and broken but alive, and something in Wonsik’s chest melted even as he struggled to swallow.

The procession didn’t halt.  

You came back Wonsik mouthed behind the veil as they went on, and didn’t doubt for a second that Taekwoon heard him.