passing the crown ♔ 93rd (a/t)

[marcellus rhodes 11b arc]

People like to come and go a lot for being in a damn hospital. 

It's been three or four hours that I've spent hunched over the bathroom connected to my room. At this point, it's just dry heaving because I don't know what I could have left in my stomach. My body rejects the fluids that they offer- for some reason, it's all too much for it to allow.

Maybe my body is stuck trying to regurgitate whatever the fuck just happened to me. The last thing I remember seeing is Niko reach for a bag, and colors, and then a cannon.

And now I'm here, bent over marble bathroom tiles.

Whenever someone comes by, they must check in at the front desk. I'm some high-security case now as the newest Victor. They don't want anyone swooping in to kill or kidnap me, which is a very high showing of what batshit crazy people live in the Capitol. I already knew they were crazy. But damn, some of you motherfuckers gotta get a life outside of these Games. If someone checks in that's "approved" to come by and see me, a nurse will come in and pop their head. Within the past three hours of me being stuck in the bathroom, four people have come by. All four of them were some higher-class interviewers within the Capitol. They wanted to get my raw emotions fresh from the Games. As if that was any charming for them to hear, right? So, anyway, the nurse peers her head into the room after she knocks. She hardly gives more than two seconds between the knock and opening the door, which is stupid if she's knocking to offer privacy. After opening the door, she'd state who it was. So far, it was just weird names from whatever magazine. The names don't mean shit. I want to get cleared and going - get home to Woods.

Anyway, I'm still bent over this toilet, right? Here comes a fifth knock at the door, and I'm like come on, lady, because she has to know the answer will be no. What's going to change that?

The pause between the knock and her opening the door was longer. Maybe this person will matter. My heart skips a beat because maybe they thought if Woods was here, I'd open up some to the interviewers. "Mr. Horner," the colorful nurse would start, "there's someone here to see you." Well, no shit. You guys aren't making much of an effort to speak to me yourselves. I stop my wrenching to call out to her, my throat hoarse from the strain on it.

"I've already told you, lady! I'm not-" I cough, wiping my lips. "I'm not gonna fuckin' interview anyone. Just send them back down." Another loud yack comes from my body. What the hell were they putting in my body to make me react this badly? I expect to hear the door swing shut, clicking so I know I'm free to turn my body back to the toilet. But no, it still peers open, the LEDs from the hallway streaming in to create a painful glare.

"Sir, Mr. Searley is at the door." The lady responds, and a taller silhouette is behind her. Right. Searley. He won last year. He must be glad that I'm here to take the fucking weight off of his shoulders. What poor timing, though. What could he need from me?

"Alright, gah-" I force myself to stand up, moving to the sink to splash my face of any remaining gunk and wipe my hands off. "Um, you can send him in, I guess." I move out of the bathroom to the room they've cleared. I don't feel that terrible, except for my foot which still hurts to land on. But you can't make your joints feel better without usin' 'em. Otherwise, your body sits there and looks sad. Andal walks in, and finding the words for anything is weird. He's probably the first Victor to come by my door. "Hey, man." I reach out, offering formalities because I sure as hell don't want a hug from the guy. I gotta respect him for coming on up, though. This may have been the same room as his last year. Never really cared enough to ask. "Theo. You, uh," I shuffle awkwardly, not used to talking to anyone outside the nurse and a bunch of dead people. "You should know that, though."

[gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.]

The swarm of people in front of Theo’s room, all standing in a neat file, reminds him of a funeral procession.

Back home, funerals are the farthest from neat. They are messy and loud, a patchwork sort of disorganized chaos, and they are largely feared by those who live close to another family. If your neighbor has a death in their family, you lose sleep from the ceremony for days, weeks even if the other family is broken up by the news. He absently wonders how long his family would have mourned him. Worst that could happen, Rowan adopts his eighth pup and names him Andal Senior.

He flexes his gloved fingers. This is not a funeral. Theo Horner is not dead. And one honors the living, especially their kind, with a proper meal and ceremony, not a nest of vultures.

Andal nods at Sandow, who claps his hands sharply twice to demand everyone’s focus. “Step aside, ladies and gentlemen,” clipped words drawl out with the innate authority he has come to see Sandow wield effortlessly. “We are on a government-sanctioned visit.”

“What—“

“—And if you don’t believe it, proper permits can be shown.”

“Oh,” one of the reporters spots him. Recognition flashes in too sharp pupils. “Andal Searley. Mr. Searley, what are your thoughts on—“ and hence, the barrage of words and questions as Sandow herds him and his small team along, entering the hospital chambers and closing the door behind to seal it all off.

The quiet after is blissful, but shatters quickly. A hack sounds from the bathroom.

Andal puts on a mask of … decorum? Welcome? He does not know. All of this feels brand new because it is. He scratches an itch under his jaw, looks at Sandow for moral support, but the man offers nothing but a nod. He knows what it means. Holding onto his good posture and polished smile, he strides forth past a wall of curtains, sweeping them away to search for Theo behind it.

The nurse exits the bathroom first. She perks up as she sees him. “Mr. Theo is ready,” she says, gesturing behind her as, for the first time, he sees Theo Horner in the flesh.

He looks fine for a victor. Some wetness glistens around his lips from whatever had taken place in the bathroom, sure, but Andal could not spot any visible wounds or grievous scars upon Theo’s body. In comparable to the dreadful tale of how they picked him up from his crumbling arena, torn and mutated, Theo’s victory has all the makings of a fairytale ending.

But then, there are the empty eyes that hide an aftershock.

“Hey, man,” Theo says.

He squares his shoulders. “Mr. Horner.”

A pause, a half smile. “Congratulations.”

Andal’s smile picks up at the next comment. He nods. “Yes, we all know who you are. But I suppose there are about twenty reporters waiting in front of this room to know more.”

Walking over the room to a chair, Andal sidles up behind it and places his gloved hands on the backrest instead of taking a seat. He looks at Theo again from across the room.

“I brought a small team with me. Have you eaten? They prepared a few District Eight delicacies for you.” The day after he came to, his stomach was an endless pit, howling a need to be fed infinitely. He wants Theo to feel none of that. In fact, he wants the other to be cared for, tended to, welcomed and celebrated, but the distance between them is uncharted. A lump forms in his throat, his hands clutch the backrest tighter. He should have brought Flynn or Saffron, anyone who has learnt the secrets ways of passing the torch on. But you never master the trade from words alone.

“How, uh,” he sputters. Pauses. Clearing his throat, he attempts again, “how are you? Truthfully, Theo, how are you faring?”