curl up + die /av, 92nd quarantine

[✌ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ]

A V

The world shifts while he's still looking at it.

In that strange, offhand way that it often does. Feels like every time he finally thinks he knows how the world works, the rules change on him again, it’s infuriating to the point of madness. He’s not good at disruptions to his routines and he’s still reeling days later, the change sharp, painful, like the ache he sometimes gets in the twisted scar in his shoulder.

Just before Andal’s crowning, every channel on the television switched to a lockdown alert, sort of like the ones that went out after the bombings a few years back. Inter-district travel was closed again, people could only go home if they were a minor or had a dependant waiting for them.

At first, he'd ignored that rule. It couldn't apply to him because he knew that when the games ended he was free, at least that's how it always was before. A week ago, he'd packed his bag and gone to the station with Storm.

But that was a week ago and he's still here.

Avriel's only family is either dead or not speaking to him. There’s no one depending on him.

He leans his forehead against the window of his apartment in the training centre, a palm flat against the glass as he gazes down at the near empty street below.

It feels like someone's wrapped a hand around his throat. "It's the middle of the afternoon and I've never seen it so dead out there," he says softly into the phone, "They're telling people not to go outside."

But that's supposed to end in a couple of days. He knows this fact before most people thanks to the deal he made.

The other end of the line is so silent that for a moment Avriel wonders if he's talking to no one. How easy it would be for Eden to just put the phone down on its side and leave it there on the desk in the office while he just keeps rambling on.

He was supposed to be gone for two weeks and now it's been three.

"Are you still mad at me?" he asks.

He wasn't going to let Eden's attitude when he left for the reaping bother him but truthfully he can't stop thinking about it. He hates messing up, even though it feels inevitable with him. He's clumsy, bad sometimes with his hands no matter how deft he is with anything mechanical. Sometimes it's like he just forgets how to hold onto things and they fall, splinter and crack open.

Maybe he holds too tight.

Avriel shuts his eyes and listens hard for Eden's breathing. He thinks about the colour of his eyes and the way they light up sometimes when he's looking at him. The light in the room hits hem just right or something and he can see brightness around his iris, a ring of gold.

"I- I might have done something fucking stupid," he admits quietly into the void, "But they knew about Billie- they knew about her leaving me- Nine.” He pauses, the hand tightens around his throat at the feeling of her name leaving his mouth. He hasn't spoken about her in a long time, over a year now, at least not since Theo's funeral. "Said she's in Six,” he tries, but it's useless, his voice comes out strangled.

It took everything in him the moment he found out about where she was not to do everything he could to reach her. He'd lain awake that night, wondering if Flynn had seen her and if he could get him to check on her. He wanted to write her a letter, send it to that fancy school she was at and a week or so later get a letter back that had her handwriting on the page.

He wanted to hear her say his name, for her to reach up and hook her arm around his neck and drag her down to her level. He wanted to melt in front of her the way that he always had and spill every single last secret he had left to give her.

He wanted to know if her hair was longer or if she'd cut it short again, he wanted to know if her arm felt bare from where it was missing the bracelet he'd given her because most days it felt like it was burning a hole where the chain touched his skin.

He knocks his forehead against the glass once, fist tightening around the phone as pride and pain combine to create a whole new horrible feeling. "Anyway, it sounded like a threat so I said I'd do it," he says, "I said I'd do whatever if they left Duke and her alone.”

The promise had also secured an advance of vaccines sent to Nine on the train and he'd gotten it in writing that he could go home if he followed through on his 'obligations'. Ten arrangements had been whittled down to eight and all of them had to be done within the next two weeks.

Avriel did a commercial two days ago for toothpaste and then last night, a magazine cover shoot to come out in the spring. They'd painted flowers on his skin and put a knife in his hand. "Act like you're going to throw it."

A rose with one last thorn.

And he stood there turning it over and over in his hand like he'd never held a blade before until they finally took it away again.

”Maybe," he says, "Maybe I'll see you soon?"

But he can't stop thinking about the look in Eden's eyes that last morning and the way that it felt like the same way Duke was looking at him a few days before he asked to go to boarding school.

"I need to get away from you."

He opens his eyes to see Gloria getting out of a car on the street below before making her way into the building. Come to collect him for the third job.

Something rolls in his stomach and he has to pull the phone away from his ear to keep himself from screaming into it.

Tonight is a gala, some benefit to support the districts in their time of need. There’s a suit hanging on the back of his bathroom door and a short speech for him to memorize as an honoured guest.

He taps his forehead lightly against the glass again once before pressing the phone back to his ear too hard.

"No," he answers firmly, "Eden, I'm gonna see you soon.”

[✌ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ]

A V

He sent Scout home with Storm on that first day, when he'd thought that he'd be getting on the train just a few hours behind. Avriel hadn't known then that he wouldn't be going home for another two weeks.

The apartment is truly empty without Scout there. Avriel stands there in the dark at two in the morning, bow tie undone around his neck, back resting against the door, his hand still on the lock after he turned it.

It feels like there's a current under his skin.

Neon light from the city falls into the darkness, crowding it, making it hard for Avriel to stay in the shadows.

His mouth lays flat in a thin line, his eyes run over the wood flooring, searching out the familiar cuts in the wood and the patterns in each plank. His heart lies steady in his chest, it's the only thing to break the silence except for the sound of the building's automated air filter.

Eventually, he pushes off the door and drops his keys on the counter as his free hand works at the top button of his dress shirt. There's a beer smell to his clothes, not that he was drinking tonight. His jacket smells like smoke, not that he was smoking either. Avriel slips out of the coat and lets it fall to the floor in an unceremonious heap before slipping into the dark kitchen.

He dumps yesterday's coffee down the sink and then fills the filter with grounds from the cupboard. He makes noise, lets himself clatter about and break the silence because there's no one left in the building that he could possibly bother.

The coffee maker starts to spit and hiss at him. Avriel leans against the counter and crosses his arms.

There's a number in his pocket, lipstick on the note paper and a 'call me' scribbled overtop of the words. Some diplomat's son that had kept trying to get him alone so that he could try and play word games with Avriel.

But Avriel was busy being arm candy for some influencer off style street. She barely let him get two steps away from her at any given moment before her hand was searching out his.

He tucks his hand into his pocket, alone in the quiet of his apartment, too late to protect it.

The way she squeezed so tightly, it's hard to remember the way it felt when Eden took his hand after he'd come home early last year. He runs his finger over the back of his other hand, tracing an E out again and again lightly as if he can set everything back to how it was before tonight.

The coffee maker beeps and Avriel rouses himself. Then he sees the light blinking on the landline on the kitchen counter, telling him he's got a message waiting.

So he pours himself a mug and hits play.

Then listens to thirty seconds of staticky silence.

[✌ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ]

"Avriel?"

"Yes?" he asks, turning to look back at the woman sitting across from him. There's this knowing look to her eyes that wasn't ever crafted to demean him but he finds it unnerving anyway. This person is looking at him in a way that he doesn't like to be looked at, in the way that most everyone does, as if he's a strange specimen that they've found under the lens of their microscope rather than a person too.

She's holding a hand up to the man in the booth of the studio, her other is extended towards him as if she is trying to coax an animal rather than interview a person.

"My question was, how did it make you feel, when you realized that the other boy was dead?"

"Reece," Avriel corrects her, gaze steady on the collar of her shirt, eyes flicking only briefly to her own to make contact before flicking away again. "Reece Jackson, he played the guitar and he was in love, I think."

"Yes," the woman's tone is light and forgiving, sorrowful too, empty, like a bucket with too many holes. "You killed him," she says. It isn't a question. It's a statement. Everyone knows that he did, everyone saw it live on TV.

"I was-" he starts, then stops, "I had to-"

But that wasn't true. He hadn't had to do anything.

"You were glad?"

"Relieved," he whispers with a nod.

"Why did you unmask him?" she asks, leaning forwards. Her tone grows softer, as if all of it is just a secret between them, as if none of this is going to be broadcast to all of Panem. "You could have just left him, why did you do that?"

"I needed to see his face," he answers without thought.

"To be certain?" she asks.

Avrile shakes his head, no, "I'd never killed anyone before." Six days into the games and he'd somehow avoided it. He'd been in life or death situations all week but never anything as black and white as that moment. He remembers it vividly still, he struggles to wear anything tight on his head without panicking because it always feels like he's wearing a mask again.

"But why look?" she asks, insistent.

"You don't understand," he answers abruptly, nearly cutting her off, eyes drilling holes into hers only seconds after not being able to look at her, "Asking me isn't going to help you, how could you ever understand?"

His hand is curled into a fist against the arm of the chair and he can feel his heartbeat in his ears, can feel his body reacting to her failings with anger and he wants to stop but he can't. All he can do is see Reece's masked face in his head, laying there on the mossy lip of the lake where the canoe shed stood. His axe was beside him, his hand still curled loosely around the handle as if he could fight his way to Aspen's side even in death.

There was no need, he sent her to him less than two days later.

He was jealous of that once, in the middle of summer a couple of years ago, when the house was too big and empty and he couldn't get any of the girls out of his head. This idea got planted beneath the tips of his fingers, roots running up to his heart, to his mouth until it bloomed on his lips, "Should have been me?" he asked the silence.

And felt the pain of the axe in his ankle again, biting too deep.

"If I didn't look, he was always just gonna be that mask in my head," he mutters, hand unfurling slowly to grip the arm instead, to give the illusion of calm, to match the illusion of choice. "He would of stayed a monster."

"So you made him human," Hendrix Fernwood says and leans back in her seat.

Avriel shrugs.

"It would have been easier on you if you hadn't."

"Yeah."

"You're an odd sort, Mr. Baptiste," Hen says, gazing straight at him. Out of context, the phrase could be taken as insulting but that knowing look is still in her eyes, there's still that strange acceptance there for what he is.

He decides that he hates it.

"Yeah," he says and drums his fingers once on the arm of the chair, "I've been told."

"I'm not sure if you know this, but Reece's death, many of your admirers call that your epiphany," she says, "The moment you decided to win."

"To live," he corrects.

"Is that not the same thing?" Hendrix asks him, not out of rudeness but pure curiosity.

"No, it's not," Avriel says but offers no explanation.

It's just something that had to come first. He hadn't thought about winning yet, not really. It'd seemed like something good to dream about but in the back of his mind he knew with certainty that if it came down to just Areto and him left alive, it was always going to be her. She was better than him in most ways, she deserved it.

She still does.

Hendrix is quiet for a moment, as if collecting herself. For the first time all afternoon, Avriel sees something in her gaze that he doesn't understand. There's a sharpness there, a gun behind her eyes and it's aimed right at him. There's something else there though, something he didn't notice before but seems impossible not to see now. It's there, quiet, underlying everything.

She opens her mouth, gearing up to hit him with a question crafted to be brutal but he speaks first.

"Are you alright?" he whispers.

She pauses, brow furrowing slightly as she works to understand where the question came from, where she slipped and gave the impression that she was anything but measured.

He leans forward slightly, hands on his knees, "You just seem like you might be in pain."

Hendrix is silent for a long moment, long enough that Avriel drops his gaze and sits back again. Maybe he read her wrong. After another moment, he drums his fingers against his knees, the left hand first, then the right.

"But is that not why you killed your ally the next day?" she says suddenly, as if woken out of a trance, "Was that not part of your plan? You couldn't hope to beat a career in a real fight."

He stares across the small space at her, a slight incredulous smile on his lips, that some people would later take as smug.

"No," he says.

His fingers are digging into the legs of his pants, his body is tense to the point of shaking. Part of him knew that this was coming, this particular angle of that night because it was the same one he'd come up with.

"No," he repeats, "I had no idea that was- that she was going to-"

"Be there?" Hendrix cuts him off, on the offence now that he'd tried to unfurl a piece of her, "That was good luck, wasn't it?"

"Yeah," he answers without thinking, "I wanted to find her." It was all he'd wanted to do. He can shut his eyes and be there again in the dark that night, absolutely no light except for the faint yellow sparks of her fire through the trees, leading him to her like a beacon. He shuts his eyes, seeing it, feeling the heat against his chest, holding her in his arms one last time again.

"So you could kill her."

"No," he opens his eyes and stares steadily back at Hendrix now, lining the pain in his eyes up with hers, measuring himself against it. "If I was going to die, I wanted it to be at her side."

"Then why, Avriel," Hendrix gestures at him, "Why am I talking to you today and not her? We all saw the moment, we watched you kill her, we were there too."

"You weren't," he answers, "If you were, then you'd know."

"We'd know what?"

"I'm here because she loved me," he says.

She gazes at him and he at her and he can tell that she believes him but it doesn't matter because that's not what this interview is about. She's supposed to make him look strong, to make him intimidating and admirable for the roll out of District Nine's impending industry change. When they told Avriel what it was going to be, he laughed in the council's faces.

But he's still here.

Avriel stands then and picks a pen up from the table between them. He holds it over his heart, and stares down at Hendrix. "It was like this," he says. "She put one hand over mine, and started pulling," he wraps his other hand over his own for a moment. "Then, she stabbed me here," he says and moves the pen over his thigh, "The shock pushed me forward as she pulled. It all happened in less than a second."

He drops the pen then and it falls to the floor between them with a clatter.

"I killed my best friend."

Then he sits back down and stares at Hendrix, in quiet coldness. His hands are tight in his lap, gripping each other until his knuckles are screaming white and shaking.

Hendrix' gaze drops to his lap before moving up again. She can see without having to ask him that he's reached his limit.

"Would she have done that for anyone else in the top four?" hendrix asks anyway. That pained look is back behind her gaze though, she's aiming her gun with a shaking hand.

Avriel stares back at her. He never thought about that. Somehow, in all these agonizing years of missing her, he's never considered that.

"No," he answers finally, "She would've fought until she couldn't."

"So then, your being there is truly what killed her."

"Yeah," he says, "I guess."

"No, Avriel," she says, digging, "You know that's true. You killed her."

"Okay," he says.

"Now then, let's talk about Aspen," Hendrix says, sitting back. The lights go down around them, as if it's only now that they're getting to the climax of the interview.

Avriel shakes his head.

There's a pause then. Hendrix stares at him and he just shakes his head again, hands shaking in his lap. They're open now, unfurled, palm up as if in surrender. There's a curve to his shoulders, nearly folding him in half in the chair. The cameras are already panning away when he stands, wobbly now, used up.

He can't breathe.

She stands quickly and crosses to him, hands reaching to steady him but he stumbles back, away from her, Avriel's not meant to be touched. He can't be held.

He's pushing his palm deep into the knotted scar in his shoulder, mouth opening and closing. The studio lights come up again, there are people moving onto the soundstage, gathering, too close.

A phone is ringing somewhere. The lights are too bright.

Hendrix has a hand on his arm and is using that gentle, measured tone to try and calm him. She's saying words at him, built and structured carefully and there is a bottle of water in her other hand for him. There's a steadiness to her that he can't match.

He can't get the feeling of Areto's arms around him off his skin, so tight he can't breathe.

And the way the knife felt in his hand.

Then as it broke through her skin, her flesh and muscle. Her heart.

"We're done," Hendrix whispers kindly, and coaxes Avriel back into the chair, "It's alright, we're done."

But it's never done.

He's always there, in that moment.

No matter how far he runs, he's always just going to end up back there with her.

[✌ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ]

Six blocks away a television flicks off, staticky heat holding onto the vintage display for just a second too long before fading to black.

He sits there for a long moment, fingers steepled against his lips and stares at his murky reflection in the blank screen, the victor's demonstration playing out once again in his head. He's been to the museum too often, he's watched the holo program of the fight too many times to count, spent countless hours on the forums picking apart that one fight but it's never been enough. He's always wanted more.

A neon clock on the wall ticks the seconds by, analogue tech from a bygone era counting down the minutes as he sits there motionless, deep in thought.

"Haven," he whispers, breaking the stagnant silence.

A gentle chime sounds and a warm, cheerful voice emits from the speakers of his entertainment system, "How can I be of service?"

"Place the bid."

There's a short pause, then the chime sounds once again, "Alright, the bid has been placed."

He stands, then presses his thumb against the trigger of a ball point pen that was lying on the coffee table next to the release forms. The nib springs out, fast, sharp. He gazes at it for a brief moment, then lets it fall, not even waiting for it to land before turning to leave the room.

[✌ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ]

A V

It’s the same song, again and again and again. They turn him into a rent-a-victor, like he’s not a person, just a prop. There’s a party every night for three days.

The first one isn’t bad, just some old ladies who want him to play cards with them and take pictures with their grandkids. They arrange him like one might arrange a mannequin and then awkwardly stand beside him.

”Pretend you’re going to kill me,” one says, ”I’ll be Aspen”

Like it’s easy.

Just simple, to relive those moments, over and over.

But after his performance at the interview, he woke up to a manila envelope of photos on his doormat. A woman in the street, walking, hands combing through thick dark hair. His thumb traced the curve of her jaw, he pressed the pads of his fingers lightly against the matte photo paper, calluses getting caught on the sterile smoothness as he tried to remember what it was like to actually hold her.

Billie.

They sent him hundreds of pictures of his little sister in Six, the message was loud and clear, we can do whatever we want, when we want.

So he gives in, in a way that he thought that he already had. There are no sarcastic quips while Gloria runs through his schedule for the day, he just stands there silently as his team applies his makeup and dresses him in clothes that he'd never pick out himself.

And he pretends to kill old ladies with a spare knitting needle at parties.

Each time it becomes a little bit easier. If he downs the drink they give him when he walks through the door it’s just numbing enough for the loud music and the barrage of people and smells and sounds to be slightly bearable.

Except he’s never liked the numbness or the loss of control that comes with it. He doesn’t like how it brightens him, makes smiles easier and pulls him into the arms of other people, it makes him feel like a puppet.

It makes him feel like he’s not really even there.

That’s bad and it's good all at once but when midnight hits at party three and his contract for the night expires, he’s already halfway across the front lawn. There are buttons missing from his shirt and a black payment card clutched in his hand that he found on the floor of the ballroom.

There’s a lipstick mark on the back of his hand and one on his neck just below his ear too and tears are slipping down his cheeks, it’s all just a little too much.

The bass of the sound system reverberates still through his bones, there’s perfume and smoke clinging to him and his jaw is wired shut with it, the pain of it.

He uses the card to buy a cab back to the training centre and then drops it on the lawn before getting in the car, fingers shaking, pressing too numbly at the buttons on his phone to dial the right numbers.

He gives up, just clutching it in his lap for the short drive back, then slips out of the cab before it’s even fully stopped.

It’s with his apartment door shut against his back that he tries again, pressing the phone too hard up against his ear, sweaty, as the dial tone rings.

But it’s the middle of the night and there’s a red wine stain on his sleeve.

His head falls back against the door as the ringer stops. The phone is answered and Avriel just sits there, sweaty strands of hair damp against his forehead as Eden waits for him to speak.

But he doesn’t.

He just sits there all tense with his eyes squeezed shut and digs the fingers of his free hand into his own shoulder, palm wrapped over the crest of it, pressing down hard like he can push his own body through the floor.

He doesn’t realize he’s been holding his breath until Eden’s breathing becomes the loudest thing between them.

After a few moments, his hand drops away again, chest rising and falling to match Eden’s rhythm.

And if he doesn’t open his eyes, he can pretend to be home.

[✌ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ]

A V

"You know that's a myth, right?" she says as she slides into the booth across the table from him, "Coffee's only going to make things worse."

Avriel gazes at her over the rim of the white-chipped mug, the same kind that you can find in any half-forgotten diner in Panem. There's a permanent fill line around the inside from years of use and a little faded blue manufacturer mark on the bottom. Though he's hundreds of miles away from where he wants to be right now, nostalgia is tied to the porcelain. It's a little bit of home.

"For your hangover," she prods him.

His brow furrows the littlest bit in annoyance, "So?" he mutters, then swallows the last little bit of watery-sludge a the bottom.

The woman across from him smiles briefly before placing her hands palm-down on the table and leaning in closer. "So you're in one of those moods," she says, "What's wrong now, you privileged little shit?"

He wrinkles his nose at her, but it's teasing on both sides. From the first time they met, it always somehow felt easier with her. She had calluses on her hands that matched his own and a straightforward way of speaking that was a relief. Communication was simple.

"They won't let me go home," he says. He's only been stuck in the Capitol for a few extra days at this point but when stepping off the train is already torture for him in the first place, a week is a very long time. "Maybe they never will."

She leans away from him again, somehow slouching against the back of the faded red booth all while still commanding the space. Avriel often wondered if she knew just what power she held, if she did she'd probably never admit it. "Yeah, you're probably right," she quips.

The waitress comes back around then and refills his cup of coffee. She's pretty in a manufactured sort of way, the smile she keeps throwing at Avriel has yet to reach her eyes and her forehead is so smooth it's unnerving. She rests the coffee pot down on the table and then pulls a pad and pen out from the waistband of her apron. "What'll it be, sugar?" she asks him.

And the question is so mundane but her tone is too warm and he has to look away. "Two of the Miner's Breakfast."

"Oh," the waitress says, then scribbles down his order on her pad in black ink, "Hungry today?"

"Yes?" He glances up at her briefly, then drops his gaze away again, snaking cold fingers around the fresh cup of coffee as if he can borrow its strength.

"You got it." She scoops up the coffee pot and disappears.

"You're off," says the woman across from him, "If you let them get to you, you let them win." Her tone has softened, still sharp at the edges but kinder in the middle. Avriel taps the side of the mug and doesn't look at her either, just studies the pattern in the table instead.

"I'm not meant for this kind of stuff."

"Few of us are."

He wrinkles his nose again but this time it's to try and hide the exhausted tears threatening to spill out onto the table between them. "You know what someone said last night?" he asks. He looks up at her then, in an effort to bury the slight tremble in his voice. There are lines on her face that he doesn't remember being there, around the corners of her her eyes and her mouth.

"Hmm?" she asks over the rim of her coffee.

"I should've let Aspen win, would have been a better story," he says, then smiles, too wide, because when it happened he'd just nodded and then slipped away in the crowd but part of him still thought, probably.

"Not to me."

He stares into his coffee cup.

Breakfast arrives, two plates with eggs, toast and orange slices. The eggs glisten with fat, yolks a hard yellow, so different from the eggs his hens lay back home. He eyes them and thinks about Freckle and then about her on Eden's shoulder and then he just thinks about Eden. His mouth twists.

"You're different," he says.

"I'm not," she says.

He reaches out, breaks a yolk with a butter knife and watches it run down the side of the toast to pool on the plate.

"You are," he says.

"Why do you think that?" she asks.

"There's no one else left alive who knows what it's like," he says, "To be in the dark like that and how fucking horrifying it is. You think I'm the better story because you know my story."

"Sorry, love?" the waitress asks, confused as she stands there with the coffee pot tilted over his mug, already empty again. There's a pack of butter pinned to the table under her other hand and this careful look on her face. "Is there someone I can call for you?" she says gently under her breath.

"I'm fine, just-" he glances back across the table, then pauses. "I'm just- I'm practicing for a play," he finishes weakly.

"Oh!" The waitress brightens then, satisfied. She finishes pouring his coffee and lets out a cheerful, "Break a leg!" before leaving for another table across the diner.

The morning is moving on, more people have started coming in for breakfast. The sky's gone from that deep sort of blue-grey to grey tinged with yellow. Traffic has started moving down the street and people in suits hurry by, ears glued to their phones. They dodge each other, stepping too close to his window.

Avriel pulls his hood up, a weak shield from prying eyes and tucks himself further against the back of the booth. 

"Nice save," Patricia smirks and then breaks the other yolk with a fork. 

He smiles a little in response, as if he just remembered something funny.

And breakfast gets cold.

[✌ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ]

Paper tinged with the slow, unfortunate death of water damage pulls away from the wall in the upper-left corner of the dining room. It's the tiniest bit bent back, curling, it's hardly noticeable but he still sees it. It irritates him. "Haven," he says, "Call the painter again."

A chime sounds and a cheerful voice emits from a speaker on a shelf near the doorway, "Calling Sterra Blithe."

He goes back to his pacing then, fingers steepled behind the back of his head. He hasn't left the house in days, not since placing the bid. Haven, of course, comes with him everywhere he goes but part of him is afraid he might miss the confirmation if he's out in the world, no, best to wait.

"Haven, any messages?" he asks moments later when his pacing brings him into the grand room that spans the length of the house. He stops where he is, gazing out at a lush garden from floor to ceiling windows. The gardener comes daily to tend to it, gnarled old hands attached to a sun-weathered body and a face with drooping skin, someone who has made the choice to age naturally.

An odd play in today's Capitol.

A chime sounds again, "You have, one message, sent today at ten fourty-six."

He pauses, the call must have came in when Haven was calling the painter. A current runs under his skin, whether its nerves or excitement, he doesn't know but it makes his skin crawl and he has to squeeze his hand with his other to calm himself. "And?" he asks when he's ready.

"Your bid was refused."

He pauses, fingers pressing into the back of his hand one by one and then lifting, over and over. Of course he's upset, his bid had been more than generous, a king's ransom really, just under half his life savings. Sure, his intended activity might be viewed as unorthodox but if there's one thing he knows, it's that everything has a price. Everything, everyone, can be bought.

"Haven," he says softly, his tone brimming with barely concealed annoyance.

The chime sounds.

"Place the bid again," he says, "This time, offer them everything."

"Please specify 'everything'.

"My investments, the access codes to my bank accounts, the company, the deed to this house, tell them they can have it all."

There's a short pause, then the chime sounds, "Alright, the bid has been placed."

He gazes at his own reflection in the window and waits. His stillness invites the wildlife, birds flit back and forth over the rose bushes outside. A cat stops in front of the window and sits down, a gaze of seemed indifference aimed up at the birds passing back and forth a couple feet over its head. A bird stops for a moment on the ground and the cat licks its lips.

The chime sounds, followed by a little victory sound-byte of champagne being popped, "Congratulations, your bid was accepted. Your guest will be arriving three days from now at seven o'clock sharp."

He smiles, "Fantastic. Send out the invitations."

The chime sounds.

[✌ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ]

A V

This is the last one.

Avriel pulls the note off of the dry cleaner bag, pointer finger rolling the sticky side of the tape up into itself. Then he rests the bag on the back of the couch to untie the bottom. He works slowly, arm still moving funny from a couple nights ago. He already knows what's inside anyway, he can see the fabric through the thin opaque plastic.

Simple black suit, tailored, there's a rose tucked into the front pocket and diamond cufflinks clipped to the dress shirt. He gazes at the ensemble for a moment, trying to work out exactly what tonight's event might be but there's not much to go off of this time. If he's lucky it'll be tame, just one last gala and then an early night in.

So far, he's not been very lucky though.

Wordless for an empty apartment, Avriel starts to undress. The sun is setting outside, he's been watching it go, golden fingers clinging to the edge of the office tower's rooftops, holding on for dear life. It can't move fast enough for him. He pulls the jacket on over a pearly silk dress shirt and as he does, a hard rectangle pokes into his side from an inner pocket. Av reaches in, fingers falling on a smooth, white envelope.

A finger picks at the sealed corner, tearing slowly. There's no rush to his movements, no strength to go any faster even if he wanted to.

He stands there in the fading light and pulls a card out. A bit of paper slips from it and flutters to the floor between his feet. The front of the card just reads, 'Thank-you.'

There's writing inside but he ignores it. The Capitol seal on the front is enough to tell him who it's from and he's already listened to what his puppeteers have had to say far too much.

Instead he bends over to pick the paper up. The movement sends him to his knees, head swimming from the quick change in elevation. He doesn't notice the dull pain from hitting the floor though, his thumb's just working at the corner of the paper, trying to turn it over. It's rough around the edges, like it was torn away on one side.

Despite everything that's happened in the past few weeks, he still has it in him to get excited, his heart picks up speed, then finally manages to flip the paper over.

It's a train ticket, for the last trip out of the Capitol on the overnight route.

0200 hours the ticket reads.

And it gets hard to read the rest of the ticket, his hand is shaking or maybe his vision is blurry or the light in the apartment is fading too much from the sun setting low behind all the glass and steel monuments that the Capitol has built.

Avriel lowers his head to press his forehead against the wood flooring, cool against his skin. It feels like his heart might be beating just beneath his first layer, there's so much heat suddenly pressing up against the confines of his body. And he's smiling, he's smiling at the hardwood, maybe too big.

But it doesn't feel real, it just doesn't feel real that they'd really let him go home again.

Part of him figured they'd hold him hostage for forever.

His phone slips from his pocket and lands with a clatter on the floor beside him. It's vibrating, screen lit up with a notification from an incoming call.

'home,' it says.

Yes.

Av reaches out with his good arm and clicks 'answer'. For a moment, he doesn't say anything, gaze resting on the call screen. There's a minute or two of silence, where he shuts his eyes for a brief moment, trying to remember the exact way that Eden looks at him when he's trying to communicate something.

But somehow, he can't remember right now.

"Got a ticket," he says finally, "I'll be home by tomorrow night."

And he listens silently then, stupidly, for an answer.

"You're still there, right?" he asks, so quiet.

There's a tap against the receiver on the other end of the line and Avriel lets the breath he didn't know he'd been holding out slowly.

"Okay, cool."

[✌ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ]

Part of him thought that this day would never come. Until the auction was posted on the underside's black market, there'd been no reason to hope that it could.

For all of his life, he'd been taught that money could buy anything. Money was more than just currency, it was power, so he had spent his adolescence obtaining it. The price tag on having the 88th victor make an appearance at his party was already astronomical, let alone the cost of what he wanted out of this evening.

He hardly bat an eye at the various invoices, they were of little import, just small confirmations of the power that he held. The money that made it possible for years of longing to collapse in on itself and from the rubble bloom such a pretty flower of finality.

Over the last couple of days a slew of people had crossed the threshhold of his front door. An appraiser was the first to make an appearance, followed quickly by a notary and his lawyer. Then the florist had come, colour swatches and a tablet screen full of options for the party, the caterer next, an agent for one of the best string quartets Panem had to offer, his stylist team, the list goes on endlessly.

He hadn't had much time to ruminate on what he was doing, or the cost. None of it seemed important beside the illustrius shadow cast by the task at hand. No, his last few days have been only joyful, spent in triumph, as if his ends had already been met and thus was only the after party that he was getting ready for.

But in the early evening just before his guests were due to arrive in that sliver of golden sunlight that crept across the floor of the Grand Room, he found a moment to feel this strange sense of relief. It felt as if this weight that he'd been carrying for a long time now, was lifting. This burden that he had took upon himself would no longer be his to carry, after that night, he would finally know the taste of freedom.

How strangely bittersweet it felt then, to come to the end of the story.

He dresses in an ivory suit and cannot keep the serenity off of his face as his guests start to arrive. Some he's known for years, others are fresh faces, hidden behind usernames on the forum they'd all been on since the 88th and the victor's zenith.

It's only right that they should all be here with him.

It would be lying to say that he doesn't feel a sort of high, being the one to deliver unto them the object of their collective affection. He watches his friend's faces transform from boredom to delight, some with a hint of jealousy, as they see the decor and the flowers that fill every free space. Genetically enhanced weeping roses entwined with great boughs of pine in homage to Avriel's arena hangs from the ceiling on fishing line, a magnificent centrepiece. Petals fall slowly from above, regrowing and dissolving before they even hit the floor.

The bulk of the party arrives a full hour before the guest of honour is scheduled to. He's done this on purpose, champagne pours freely and an open bar is set up in the corner, no expense spared for the evening. He doesn't allow there to be a single person without a drink in their hand. Acquaintances fawn over his generosity as he glides through the crowd while close friends only shake their heads ruefully, mouthes twisted in jealousy for this legendary party.

Props are passed around, a party favour for his guests to wear upon Avriel's arrival. Everything is calculated, bent out of shape in order to elicit the exact reaction he wants of them.

He's never done anything halfway, since as long as he could remember. His mother raised him to stand at the top and tonight, a golden circlet rests on the crown of his head and a crystal-faceted champagne flute twinkles merrily in the candlelight. He's picturesque against freshly painted walls, the centre of a room full of moving parts. For a few minutes, he almost forgets why he's gathered them all, intoxicated from the attention, when a figure pauses in the doorway leading into the entrance hall.

He pauses mid-conversation, eyes gleaming in the dim light. Then, as the person takes a step back, he raises a gloved hand delicately. Haven turns down the music on cue and the light in the room dims further until the brightness from the entrance hall halos the latecomer perfectly.

His guests's voices fall to a hushed whisper and then into complete silence. They all shuffle forward, an unconscious mass leaning in to circle around the newcomer reverently, peasants at their king's feet.

His heart races beneath his silk shirt, jealousy strikes him quick and sharp, but he lets it fall away in the next moment, a smile affixing itself to his face.

He raises the champagne flute in greeting, then takes a deep, calming breath. "Avriel Baptiste," he says, tone warm and welcoming like he's practiced, "It is a great honour for us that you could join us tonight." He nods his head then and the room brightens slowly, showing off the victor where he stood frozen in the doorway, one foot slid back as if he was thinking of slipping away.

The victor doesn't move, Avriel isn't seeing him, transfixed by the appearance of his guests. His smile widens, wonderful.

"Oh yes," he whispers, gesturing vaguely at them all, "What do you think?"

Then he pulls a mask slowly from his pocket. The rubber unfolds stiffly, midnight black hair falling through his fingers, snout pointed up at the ceiling. "We wanted to greet you with a familiar face." Two dozen pigs stare back at Avriel, long tendrils of oily black hair hanging over their eyes, twinkling with delight beneath their heavy rubber brows. Perfect replicas of the mask the victor wore on the day that he killed the boy from Seven.

The victor stands completely still, brow furrowed, mouth twisted down into a deep grimace of some phantom pain. The room chitters in delight, the reaction is subtle but it's more than anyone usually gets. One of the reasons why the party loves him is for his usual stoic expression. The air of mystery that surrounds him because of it has always been tantalising but tonight, Avriel Baptiste is finally theirs to unravel.

"Come," he beckons gently, "Join us."

Avriel's hands curl into fists at his side and for a fleeting moment, the host wonders if that was too much too fast, but then they all see the victor's jaw clench in that wonderfully defiant way and he takes his first few steps into the room.

The music starts up again, masks come off, revealing smiling faces and an endless slue of fans that all want to occupy Avriel's time at once. As the host of the party, he hangs back, simply enjoying the revelry and the ridiculousness of watching the actor so out of his element. That familiar tinge of annoyance comes back, that unforgiving piece of him that finds Avriel's dislike of the limelight completely absurd.

The only thing he's ever learned how to love is a spotlight. It's all anyone here has ever wanted, what they crawl over each other for. For even a minute of fame, he'd step over the bodies of his most cherished friends and they, of course, would do the same.

But the victor shies away from all of it, to the point where it drives the host crazy.

Acceptance.

He takes a deep breath as he watches a guest drape an arm around Avriel's shoulders and hand him a champagne flute. The reason all of them have come together tonight is not only to celebrate the victor but to celebrate the end of an era of uncertainty. For years now, their main topic of discussion has been focused on one night in the arena.

For so long now, they've been divided on their beliefs of what truly happened.

Tonight, they'd have their answers.

He lets the party continue for the next few hours, gliding slowly through the guests, always staying just out of reach of Avriel, but so acutely aware of him that he finds it hard to focus on anyone else. There was never a victor before him that interested him in such a way, there'd never be one after. Whether the man knew it or not, his very presence was electric. The room was charged with an energy that felt foreign, sending the gathering into a strange frenzy nearly ahead of schedule.

But everything about tonight is planned, from the Victor's late arrival to the slow crawl of the blackout shutters moving down the large windows of the Grand Room in increments throughout the evening until they finally meet the floor with a gentle click sometime around midnight.

By then, the party is drunk, not only with champagne but with the absolute joy of having their idle within arm's reach at any given moment. they pass Avriel around amongst them cheerily, sweeping him away from a conversation then dropping him off again somewhere else. Drinks are handed to him, then given back to him again when he tries to leave them behind.

Words are whispered behind gloved hands, someone slips a pig mask over Avriel's head and he stands there for too long, like a cat who's had a paper bag dropped over their head. They watch, amused as his hands shake while he pulls at the mask but the edge slips from his fingers again and again. It isn't his fault, the drinks were spiked.

Avriel falls to a knee and the music stops abruptly.

As the victor's fingers finally hook on the edge of the mask, the guests shuffle back silently.

Avriel pauses, chest rising and falling too quickly.

"Wait," the victor says softly, holding a hand up as if it can keep him back, "What are you going to do?"

The host watches silent and still from a few feet in front of him, struck by the sadness in Avriel's voice. For some time now, he's forgotten what drew him to the victor to begin with. For all of his charms, it was the sorrow that he carried hidden beneath the skin that had pulled him in.

He himself understood that sort of pain all too well.

The light dims as he kneels in front of the victor, falling until it's just the two of them beneath a single spot of light. The jewels of his various guests glint in the imposed darkness of the room, light from the spotlight refracting dimly off of them. The host's fingers find the edge of the mask for Avriel and pulls it off his head slowly, tenderly.

For a long, quiet moment it's just the two of them. Avriel's gaze is so steady and bores into him so deeply that he forgets what he's supposed to say. Everyone else might as well not exist. Beneath the layers of finery he wears, beneath the thick skin and the cold steel that has always encased his heart, he feels a faint flutter.

It's an indescribable feeling to be looked at and actually seen.

"You're Xander" Avriel states, rather than asks.

He nods slowly, a thrill running through him at hearing Avriel Baptiste say his name. "Yes," he says, "This is my home."

There's another pause then. The light beaming down above their heads dims slowly and the rest of the party fully fades away into an inky darkness. Xander watches as Avriel begins to catch on to what's happening. "Don't," he says sharply, tone bright, fear dividing that usual deadpan and forcing life into his voice.

"It's okay," Xander says, "I'm here with you." He leans forwards slightly as the light dims to the point of nearly going out. The room is in total darkness except for the small circle they exist in.

The victor isn't looking at him anymore, twisting on his knees, eyes searching for a way out or a beacon in the darkness perhaps.

"Not this time," Xander says, voice near a whisper.

Avriel's back is to him now and he uses the opportunity to slip backwards into the dark, in arms reach still but he might as well be a hundred miles away in this fabricated night.

Laughter begins, a few chuckles here and there as the victor's careful movements slowly become more and more frantic. "Xander?" he asks when he turns to find his host gone. "Merde," he whispers when he finds himself alone again.

They all watch him, silent now with bated breaths as he kneels in the circle of light, completely alone. They watch as he clenches his hands into fists in front of him, shaking because he's holding them so tight, only to release them and repeat the movement again. The victor stares out into the darkness, his breaths shallow, they all know this version of him well.

They saw it on him before he found Areto in the dark, that near animalistic fear.

"Just admit it," Xander says suddenly.

The victor turns to the left, searching for him in the dark, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"In the arena, you made a choice. You wanted to live, correct?" He circles the victor slowly in the darkness, eyes never straying from the scene in front of him.

That calm strength they admired, they'd all seen him fall apart in the arena and since then, it was all Xander could think of, fay after fay.

"But love," he muses softly, "Love is wretched- you say that you loved her, that she loved you?"

"Stop."

"We're the only ones that see what you truly are, Victor Baptiste, what you're capable of," Xander continues, "We just want you to see it too, we want you to be free!"

He falls to his knees then, back into the dim spotlight, directly in front of the victor. There's a knife in his hand now, and he pushes the handle into Avriel's chest, heart beating out of his throat as he seats himself in the victor's lap. A vastness shifts behind the victor's eyes, a weariness older than he is spilling down his cheek as he begins to finally understand what is happening.

"No," his voice breaks as the word falls weakly from his mouth in horror and Xander near falls in love with him again in that moment. Then he reaches down gently and places Avriel's hand over his. The hand is heavy and warm on top of his, the pads of his fingers and his palms rough with calluses.

Another tear falls down Avriel's cheek. Xander reaches out tenderly to wipe it away with his thumb.

"If you want to leave here," he whispers, "You're going to have to ki-."

"Why?" Avriel asks him, "Why should I have to?"

Energy runs back into the Victor's voice, new strength borrowed from the anger that underlies his tone now, "Are you fucking kidding me? The masks weren't enough, now you want to play a game of chicken with a victor? What the fuck is wrong with you?" He pushes at Xander then with his free hand, but there's no weight to it. There's a weakness to the victor that Xander knew to expect.

The forum had analysed his every move since the arena. They knew his tendency to fall apart each year, they knew that he'd be weak tonight.

"You misunderstand," Xander says carefully, "We're here to help you, to release you from your burden." He tightens his grip on the knife then and the victor's hand and tugs sharply. The point of the knife pushes through his shirt, then into his skin, sending red blooming vibrant into the silk fibre. He gasps at the sharpness but only smiles.

"You didn't love her," he whispers gently then, as if he's just caught Avriel out in a lie but has already forgiven him, "You wanted her to die, she had to so you could go home and you knew that. You knew telling her about your sister and brother would help."

"Shut up," Avriel says, pulling back with all his strength, but the drug they spiked him with was designed to make him weaker and the setting was created to fill him with futility.

They work in tandem.

"Billie, in Six now, going to medical school," he continues and Avriel stops struggling, "And Duke, at boarding school in your own district because he couldn't stand looking at you. You're telling me she willingly gave her life for that?"

They stare at each other over the knife and Xander watches as Avriel's gaze turns from anger to hatred.

"Oh yes, I know all about that. I also know why they left you."

Avriel shakes his head then, fingers tightening around the handle, no longer pulling away. Xander leans in closer, the blade digs into his skin once again and spills his blood out onto Avriel's shirt but there's something else driving him now, euphoria perhaps, for the end. Relief, there again beneath his own skin, running through him, quelling the sharp pain of the knife and holding Avriel hostage.

The room is silent except for them, as if the world is holding its breath. There are no shadows here, no light for them to be made in but for the one above their heads, illuminating the moment for their audience, proof, finally of the Victor's true nature. A truth he can't run from this time, forced upon him by the fans who have dedicated their lives to the legacy of his win.

"Why everyone is always going to leave you," Xander hisses.

"Not everyone," Avriel says stubbornly.

And it's sweet, and so expected of him to fight until the very end that Xander just smiles at his innocence.

"That wanted runaway career from One you mean?" he asks brightly, improvising slightly, saying anything to get the Victor to do what he wants, "He won't get a choice, if it's not done within the next ten minutes like I paid for, the Peacekeepers will be alerted an-"

The knife drives into his chest and Xander gasps, eyes widening in surprise as pain lances through him. It's too soon, baiting Avriel isn't supposed to work, even in anger he was gentle.

But the blade is real and it's cold and so strange. He didn't know that he'd be able to feel its wrongness, he didn't know he'd be able to pinpoint the agony of it in his flesh.

It burns him, he sucks in a breath, trying to speak but it's suddenly impossible to bridge a clear thought from his brain to his mouth.

"Missed," Avriel mutters.

With effort, Xander's gaze lifts to look at the Victor's. There's pain in every piece of him, fear now too. He didn't think it was going to hurt like this, he was expecting a moment like Areto's, a blade in and out and then being held.

Intimate, and gentle and kind.

But Avriel's eyes are fathomless.

The knife slides out and then in again.

"Oh?," he gasps, and this is what he wanted, he's won, Avriel is a killer. He tips forward, hands reaching for the victor. 

Hands catch him, then push him backwards.

And then there's nothing more.

[✌ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ]

A V

He kneels there for too long, fingers, sore?

Cramped from holding too tightly.

He looks down at his hand, there is a knife there and the blade is slick with blood. Which is on his sleeve, soaking through his pants onto his thigh, arching across his shirt, following the weave of the fabric and permeating out to dye it an oxidised red, he's been here before.

He's been here too many times.

The darkness stays, Avriel looks at the body crumpled backwards in front of him, a pool of blood forming steadily around it. It belongs to a Capitolite. He looks down at his hand again, at the knife he still hasn't let go of. The steady tang of iron fills the air and Avriel turns his head away from the memory that forms with the smell. Scuffed wooden floors, a height chart on the wall outside the kitchen- he's always tallest. A cherry pie burning in the oven and the steady creak of the stairs beneath his feet. Pushing the door open to his parent's bedroom.

Areto, Blade and Ariel motionless in his arms.

The knife falls out of his hand with a clatter and it's like a spell has been lifted. The lights go up to reveal the ballroom again and all these people that couldn't keep their hands off of him before now stay back, cautious, like you would with a dog suddenly gone feral.

Avriel looks up at them, gaze empty.

Xander's body lays motionless between them all.

Then someone claps their hands, once. Just once, but it's enough.

The room erupts in applause, as if he's just put on a private show just for them, a special one night showing off the games. Someone whistles and Avriel smiles then, incredulous as the blood of his supposed biggest fan soaks through his socks. The grin is too wide, too feral to be welcome and the applause peters out quickly in response. They all know that look, they saw it on him once or twice in the arena.

The sea of people parts in front of him, a clear path to the door he came in from now open. Xander's guests press themselves backwards into each other and Avriel just stares at them all.

He can't decide which one of them he hates more.

"Excuse me, sir," a voice rises from the group, "You train leaves in an hour."

He thinks about that for a moment.

Looks down at the knife, then at a pig mask on the floor beside him and thinks about the suffocating fear of the rubber on his skin, the sweat and the smell of it. Then the pain in his ankle that comes every time he remembers that fight and the anger in Reece's voice.

And the rage he feels now.

His fingers slip into his pocket and find the rough torn edge of the train ticket. He shuts his eyes and thinks of home and the way Nine smells at the end of summer. He thinks of hands he doesn't hate when they touch him and a crooked little smile, gentle and kind and his.

"You're lucky," he whispers after a moment. Avriel opens his eyes, "I don't want to miss my train."

He stands slowly and it's only then that he realises he isn't shaking.

Avriel raises his hands in front of his face and stares at the way they've gone completely still. And if he listens, maybe his heart isn't even beating. Each breath is calmer, steadier than the last.

He doesn't look back once as he leaves the ballroom. He only stops long enough to grab his jacket and then is pushing out the front door and striding across a carefully manicured lawn, gaze straight ahead.

The world is dead at this time of night on a Tuesday, the streets are empty but they still smell like vomit and other bodily fluids. He moves through them purposefully, he already knows the way to the train from the party, he spent two hours staring at the route on his phone, memorising it, trying to figure the quickest way back to Nine.

It was only this afternoon but it feels like a lifetime ago.

He looks down at his hands again as he walks. The tips of his fingers are pink with cold even in the warmth of late summer. His head is empty, doesn't know how to understand that even. It feels like everything he doesn't need to keep himself moving towards home has been pushed out of his mind. Nothing even matters anymore.

"We want you to be free!"

He does feel free. A smile spreads itself across his face again and he laughs abruptly. It comes out like a strange bark, threatens to turn into a sob, he gives up on that for now.

But he's free, they're right.

"I killed her," he tests. This time it isn't said out of guilt, this time it's just honesty. "I killed her," he repeats to the empty street, "I killed her, I killed her."

Av catches sight of himself in the blurry reflection of a shop window. Blood is painted down his cheek, over his throat, hooking below the collar of his shirt. "I killed her," he crows.

Then, "Him."

No.

"Them," he corrects himself.

But then the face in his reflection crumples and Avriel almost falls to his knees. He catches his hands on his thighs and steadies himself, gasping for air, he can't miss this train.

He can lose it once he gets on board, but he can't miss this train.

He straightens again, this strange giddiness overtaking him, like his body isn't his anymore. Maybe it's not, he's been used so many times this week. He's out of body but that makes it easier to just keep walking. By the time he finds style street, he knows the rest of the way well enough to shut down completely.

He sees the train at the station from the top of the street. The doors, wide open, revealing the well lit compartment within. His suitcase sits just inside, as if they're waiting to see if he's going to even make it or not before it's time to go. He starts walking faster, then he's running, jacket flapping in the wind behind him as his legs beg to give out from under him but he doesn't stop until he's leaping through the double doors and standing on the carpeted floor of the train car.

Gloria flips her magazine down, sees all the blood and raises a single brow, "Made it messy, did you?" she asks him.

[✌ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ]

A V

He doesn't sit down until the train starts moving, even then it doesn't feel quite real yet.

It's that same feeling that he always gets leaving the capitol, there's always been the fear that it's a trick, that they'll never take him home again.

He was right this time, for a brief time, he was right.

Avriel looks down at his hands, at the dried blood on the back of them, dried already in the grooves of his fingers, cracking across his nail bed. Gloria hadn't seemed surprised to see the blood, she must have known what his last obligation would entail. Maybe they all knew, everyone but him.

Silly of him though, to believe that they'd just let him go home after a party or two.

He's only ever been a hammer

And it's like there's nothing in him anymore now. Even as the sun starts to rise and endless fields of nothing begin to turn into District One. Home grows closer and he just grows colder. He sits there staring wordlessly out at the city scapes and the flashes of people along the fence line. Blue dresses, red hair, a black dog on a leash, all passing him by in an instant.

All these lives, they don't even know that all they're training for is the opportunity to be the next to be exploited.

Something occurs to him, Avriel presses his thumb into his thigh, absentminded, digits finding the knot on his skin from where Areto had to stab him to trigger his reflexes so that he'd kill her.

That guy, Xander, he hadn't had to do that.

Avriel had been ready for him to shut up since the moment he walked into the party to see all of those people wearing replicas of the mask that they put him in on day six. He didn't want to kill him though, not for that. Even with everything that he said, Avriel knew he was just trying to bait him.

But then he'd threatened Eden and all he could think about was watching the sword go through Eden's chest at that tournament.

His hand curls up into a fist against his thigh, so tightly that his nails dig into his palm, leaving little pink half-moons behind in his skin when his hand unfurls again.

Why can't people just leave them alone?

One turns Two, then Two turns into forest and Avriel stares out at the trees for awhile, the blood on his skin getting flakey as the sun shines in through the window. He scratches at it, absent-minded.

It feels like his heart is muffled. It's yelling something but he can't hear it clearly.

He shuts his eyes and leans back, letting the warmth of the sun lull him into a light doze. The motion of the train is too much to let him fully sleep and he falls into that half-state that always feels like it goes on forever. Purgatory is a train car.

The cellphone in his pocket buzzes suddenly and he opens his eyes blearily, looking outside first to try and get his bearings. They're passing through district five now. Patchy sunlight falls on a glimmering lake, the dam rising up out of the trees on the other end. He gazes at the district and remembers Patricia again.

And how she's dead.

The phone buzzes again, Avriel pulls it out of his pocket then stares at the notification on the top of his screen.

'1 new voice message, sent August 23rd, 91st from Victor Patricia Valfierno, received 2 minutes ago.'

He reads it again, hand steady as it holds the phone in front of him.

He knows that she's gone. He tried calling her enough times, right up until her number was discontinued and he got the 'number not in service' message a few times. They did a ceremony and everything on TV. Put a flag of Panem on her casket, Avriel'd thrown a shoe at the screen.

He knew she would have hated that.

He opens the call app on his phone. He's good with technology, good with anything that automates, but Avriel's never been a fan of his phone. Tone is hard over text, Pat knew that he didn't like it so most of the time she'd call.

And it was always nice to hear her voice again.

There's a little red dot on his message centre button to notify him that he's got something new.

But he doesn't know if Pat would even like the person he is now. Or maybe he'd just just become another thing she could relate to. He knows he's not the only Victor who's been made into a Capitol puppet.

Five disappears from sight and quickly starts turning into Six. He thinks about Flynn and that diner he loves. Things had felt so much easier back then, when he was seventeen just sitting in some diner on a stool beside the other victor, eating one of those burgers he couldn't shut up about.

He'd been right, it was probably the best burger Av had ever had.

He takes a deep breath then steels himself and raises the phone to his ear.

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please leave a message after the-

You have one (1) unread message. New message:



Hey Avriel,

I've been thinning out the congested areas of my cauliflower crop all morning. Can you believe this? I used to be feared by people in the Capitol - now the scariest thing about me is the lack of color coordination between my dungarees and my shirt.

Then it started raining out of nowhere, real hard, and it reminded me of when you first came to Five on your Victory Tour. Do you remember? It absolutely pissed it down during our walk to the lake. You didn't mind though. Couple of raindrops was nothing to you after the month you'd had.

I liked that about you.

Anyway, I realised I haven't checked up on you in a while or seen you in the Capitol over the last year or two - I guess we've just had our wires crossed and missed one another. Shame, but that's the way it goes. I'll be sure to try and find you during the next games!

How's things? Still depressed about 23 people being dead on your behalf? Yeah, like I told you before, that ain't going away. You might be at that stage where you totally think it's gone away and you're laughing, but trust me buddy, you'll blink one day and it's right back there.

Not even joking, I was walking past the lake the other day and had a full blown panic attack about when I drowned Crusader. It's so dumb - it's been 23 years and I still sleep with the light on. I can't even hold a knife to slice vegetables sometimes.

But hey, I'm still here. I'm still going. And yeah sometimes it isn't all gardening and sunshine, sometimes it's crying in a bathroom because you couldn't save your best friend - and it hurts, but you know what? It's kind of a good hurt. It's a reminder of what they did to you. Like a tattoo. They've inked you with their blood.

Wear it. It's yours.

It always will be.

Hope that freakish little ghoul that follows you is doing okay. A pet is a big responsibility. Don't hurt yourself. Get some sunshine. Don't expect anyone else to support you. Eat your vegetables.

Call me.

In a bit,
Trish.




Press 1 to save this message. Press 2 to delete this message. Press 3 to replay this message.

He does nothing for awhile but press the number 3 over and over again.

Avriel just sits there with the phone to his ear and watches the world roll by. The train takes him further and further away from the Capitol and closer to home with every minute that passes.

Eventually he hits 1 and lets his phone fall onto the empty seat beside him. His eyes are raw, the blood on his cheek streaked with tears but there's a numbness to all of that, he can't acknowledge it.

"Everyone is always going to leave you."

He picks the phone up and dials Patricia's number. It rings and rings for a long time and then the line goes dead, it always does these days.

It's getting pretty unbearable, all of this loss. Every time he thinks he's done mourning a person, the pain finds a way to become fresh again. Maybe that's what she meant though, maybe instead of letting it crush him, he's got to learn to live with it.

Become something different.

Something stronger.

Av's hand curls slightly in his lap, as if it's still wrapped around the grip of a knife. The knowledge of what he's done sits half outside him, just a fact that he'll have to deal with at some point but doesn't know how to reckon with now.

"I just wish you were here," he says after awhile.

Then he tips his head back against the seat and watches as the sun sets through the miles of trees that stand between Seven and Eight.

He's almost home.

Just a few more hours and he's home.

[✌ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ]

end.

thank-you to rook for pat's last voicemail