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bumblebugwrites · 1 year ago

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chapter 7: sign of the times

Pairing: Victor!Treech x fem!Reader

Summary: A reunion. An explanation. But can you salvage what already seems like a lost cause?

Warnings: Cursing, Suggestive Themes, Alcohol Consumption (Both Characters 21+).

Word Count: 6.7k

Taglist: @nekee-lilac02, @mr-panda357, @yourfavmiki, @blackoutdays13, @dialuvsbangtan, @emgunther, @qirsupply

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You do not speak at first, feet rooted to the ground as you take him in, and really, he is not so odd, but there is something different about him. Something you can’t recall having seen in years. His hair is the same, just as long as the last time you saw him, though perhaps a bit more unkept as a result of the long train ride over. Nothing about him seemed out of place at first glance. Still, you are sure to check again. You always check again with Treech. But it’s not there, the change you are looking for. No. It is in his eyes. Careful. Steady. Unguarded. Pooling with–

“What the fuck are you doing here?” But you shake the thought because this is Treech, and the last time he looked at you like that, he had been sure to let you know it was a lie. He merely balks at your tone, flat and unimpressed, leaving you to huff and roll your eyes before pushing past him to guide Bluebell toward her stall without a second glance.

“You weren’t at the train station this morning.” You nearly freeze at the weight of his words. He had been looking for you, or at least intrigued enough to note your missing presence. But how had he known to find you here? The mayor certainly had no idea as to your whereabouts. Sure, Calpurnia may have made a good guess, but she had long since stopped trying to stick her nose in your business. And more importantly, how had he managed to slip away from the festivities unnoticed? Questions clutter your mind faster than you are able to supply them with makeshift answers. Still, you don’t ask.

“I had work.” And you don’t have to see him to know he is narrowing his eyes just behind you, face probably painted with the same scrutiny he typically reserved for lectures from Hilarius.

“I thought we weren’t supposed to work anymore. Isn’t that the whole point of victory? A quiet life of rest?” You can’t resist huffing out a laugh at the familiar snark that edges its way into his tone, and for a moment, you are both eighteen again, scared shitless and shoulder to shoulder on a train headed for the Capitol. It doesn’t last.

“Well, I don’t see them here putting me under arrest, so if you don’t mind, I think I’ll keep at it.” As you reach Bluebell’s stall, you feel Treech hesitate at the door, and a look over your shoulder confirms he has trained a weary gaze on the horse. You muffle a laugh, and his face hardens into a glare.

“The mayor said you weren’t feeling well.” Ah. So that’s why he is here. To catch you in a lie. You shrug in response and listen to the sound of his nervous shuffling before Treech forces himself to speak once more.

“Crowd was pretty focused on Maple, so I– Well, I snuck off. Thought I’d check in at your house, but you weren’t there. Obviously. Your sister said I might find you here.” You feel your shoulders tense.

“You talked to Fawn?” Your voice is cold and sharp as the words pass your lips, and Treech is quick to raise both hands in defense.

“I’m not here to– I want to talk to you,” he begins, but you can feel yourself already starting to lose patience.

“Why? You haven’t cared about me in years.” He looks hurt when you turn to face him, shoulders sagged and his eyes heavy with apparent exhaustion.

“I–” His eyes flit to the upper corner of the stall. To the camera used by the Peacekeepers on duty to ensure you are on task at all times. “Is there–” And no, Treech isn’t your favorite these days, but you understand immediately, halting yourself in the process of removing Bluebell’s saddle. You are supposed to be back at the bunkhouse for lunch in ten minutes. Lunch, midday meeting, and then the rest of the day off, your boss, a short, stalky man who had grown up with your father, had insisted, not wanting you to get yourself into any more trouble.

“I have to make a call.” You pronounce each word slowly, the implication heavy in your voice, before dropping both hands from Bluebell’s side to make for the phone beside the double doors to enter the barn.

Treech has never seen a horse before. Well, maybe that’s not completely true. He could remember seeing a couple of your sketches from back home and the old photographs from his textbooks in school, but to be face to face with the creature felt completely different. It is large, barely moving aside from the occasional shifting of its legs or a slow blink, though the remainder of the barn is filled with their subtle sounds, huffing and knocking at the ground with their great hooves. He swallows the air in his lungs, pushing it further down and taking a step back so that he comes in contact with the wall. The horse swats at several flies with its tail in a single practiced motion. Treech thinks about stepping out of the stall completely, and it is only as he turns his head to consider an escape route, back still flat against the wood-paneled wall, that he notes that you have returned.

You lean against the doorframe, arms crossed tight across your chest and eyes gently considering his situation. Though, he can sense something else as well, a brewing aura of mischief as you stifle another laugh at his expense.

“It’s not funny. That thing is really big,” he mumbles, and you allow a full-on chuckle to escape. The sound of it fills his chest with warmth.

“It’s a little funny, given that you're about to get on one of these things.” The warmth is gone in an instant.

“What?”

“Only way to get where we’re going. Unless you’d rather spend the rest of your day walking.” Treech swallows hard, face drained of the vast majority of its color. He looks as though he might be sick.

“Don’t worry, you can take Baxter. He only bites a little.”

At nineteen, Baxter is one of the oldest horses in the barn, docile and gentle with age. Still, Treech doesn’t know that, and you make no effort to tell him as you journey out with a tight grip on his lead and your own. The man beside you is stiff as a board, though you’re surprised to see his grip on the bridle has loosened significantly over the last thirty minutes.

There are three blind spots in the entirety of the ranch when it comes to cameras. The first is where most ranchers take their smoke breaks, though it is commonly occupied and never lacking in company. The second is the small stretch of land between the showers and the bunkhouse and the third is at the very periphery of the ranch, where someone a long time ago cut the wires on a camera no one ever bothered to fix. That is where you are headed now, and you feel your shoulders sink in relief as it comes into view just over the next hill. Relief, which you assure yourself, has nothing to do with the tense form beside yours and his comfort whatsoever.

Getting Treech onto the horse had been seemingly more trouble than it was worth as you coaxed him into mounting following several demonstrations, only to be forced to start from ground zero after Baxter chose to adjust his stance as Treech lifted a foot to the stirrup.

“This thing is trying to kill me.”

“I promise you he is not.”

Still, concern over his perceived well-being had long since stopped being a pressing issue for you, though even you can admit seeing Treech in any real danger always sent a sharp twinge through your chest.

Upon arrival, you give the reins a quick tug, signaling it is time to stop before swinging yourself off of Bluebell and tying both leads to a nearby post. Treech is admittedly steadier on the dismount, probably out of sheer desperation to come in contact with the ground once more. However, he stumbles a bit as his feet hit the dirt, and you note the immediate distance he creates between himself and Baxter.

“It’s safe here since you’re so hellbent on talking.” You toss the words over your shoulder, focus locked in on checking Bluebell’s saddle for anything out of the ordinary. Nothing catches your eye, but then, you knew it wouldn’t, using the task at hand as a welcome distraction from the itch of the gaze on the back of your neck.

“I didn’t– I–” Treech’s words seem to trip over themselves on their journey out of his mouth, and you find yourself surprised at the uncharacteristic nervousness in his tone. A glance in the man’s direction reveals his body to be giving the same impression, eyes darting in an awkward dance around each feature on your face, hands clasped tightly together.

“If you have something to say, you might as well just say it. I’m not gonna be all ears for forever–” His eyes are steady now, fixed on you with the only emotion you have known them to hold for what has become the majority of your time together. Frustration. Anger.

“Would you stop that?”

“Stop what? I’m just saying you should probably pick up the pace. I mean, how long do you really think the crowd is gonna go without noticing that the Capitol’s favorite pretty boy is missing in action–” You are agitating him on purpose; there’s no question about it. But what’s the fun in letting him have it easy now? After what he did? After the way he left you feeling all that time ago?

“Stop! Patronizing me! Just let me explain. God, when did you become so mean?” Your body goes rigid, and regret, immediate and palpable, paints itself across his face.

“Mean? You wanna talk to me about mean?”

“No! I– You know I didn’t– Fuck me, I’m messing this all up.” And really, you’re ready to pounce. To take four years of heartache and anguish and make every second of pain his problem. But then it happens, so subtle you almost don’t catch it, at the tail end of his last sentence. A break. A warble. Call it what you want; you can hear the tears, and any snide remarks die on your tongue at the sound.

“Can I start again? Please?” He doesn’t deserve it. Won’t even meet your eye to ask, but something about how he looks, the way he had at eighteen, that first night at the bar, so hopeless and lost, makes you give in.

“Whatever, sure.”

“I– Do you remember that night I came to your room after that first party at the President’s mansion?” His hands on your waist. Your fingers deep in his curls. His lips pressed against yours. Close. So close.

“Yeah.”

“Okay. Do you remember the morning after?” Treech reappearing in your room just as sleep began to slug off, presumably attending to business of some sort. Presumably deciding he didn’t want you anymore.

“Look, if you just came here to relive the glory of telling me–”

“Do you remember that phone call I got?” Phone call? For Treech? In your room? Phone call. It must have been close to seven in the morning. He’d bent down and kissed you goodbye on his way out the door. How could you let that slip?

“Well, it was from Snow.” Your heart just about stops in your chest, mind moving a million miles an hour and though you probably don’t need Treech to explain the rest, he goes on.

“He saw us together. I guess there were cameras in the Victor’s Suite. He called me that morning. In your room. That’s when I should have known something was wrong, but I still managed to get all the way to the end of the hall before having the brain to realize something was up. Anyways, he– He told me I had to end things. Two victors from different Districts? People might get the wrong idea. Said he wouldn’t go after us. That he’d start with our families. With your family. And I knew I couldn’t do that to you.”

“And look, you’ve always been braver than me. I was worried if I just told you, you’d get it in your head that we could fight this. You know? Find some way to defy fate. So I told you I didn’t want you. And I spent these last four years pushing you away, praying it would be enough to keep you safe.” He stops and though he hasn’t even been talking for that long, he looks as though he’s out of breath. You feel lightheaded.

“Wh– Why are you telling me this now?”

“Because about two years into my genius plan I realized that I was probably doing a pretty shitty job of looking out for you if I didn’t even know what was going on with you anymore. You can’t protect someone you don’t know and I made you into a stranger,” he finishes, eyes scanning the grass as though each individual blade were the most interesting thing in the world. That’s probably why he doesn’t see it coming. Your first shove that is. Still, by the second one, he seems almost resigned to the onslaught.

“You. Are. Such. An. Idiot. I can’t believe you. I hate you so much.” But there is no real malice to the words and he catches your fist, tight in his hand as you bring it down to punctuate the end of your final sentence.

“I– uhm–” And he goes to speak, but perhaps realizes just how close the two of you are, faces only inches apart. You breathe him in, the same scent of cedar still populating the space around him. You want to sink down inside it. Want to kiss his face. His lips. Dig your hands into the curls you have not touched in four years. Your mind flashes with memories of that last night. Of the morning after. Of the things he’d said. You pull away.

“Well, don’t expect me to just come crawling back to you. I do have dignity, you know.”

“Right, of course.” Treech brings a hand up to scratch at the back his neck. The same nervous tick from all those years ago.

“But– Maybe we could try being friends again.” And there he is, all open and smiling and bright. And your heart warms at the sight.

“I’d like that. I’d like that a lot.”

Upon your return to the barn, with you having guided both horses back at a far more leisurely pace, you promise to meet again before tonight’s event at City Hall at your house in the Victor’s Village. The trek home isn’t so bad with his company, and you spend the time filling in the gaps four years had left you with before bidding him farwell and parting ways.

You’ve only just finished buttoning your jeans when Lennox appears at the door to your room. Since your move to the Victor’s Village, you often found yourself longing for the closeness you once shared with your siblings. Still, they found ways to get under your skin even in a house as impossibly big as the one the Capitol had so generously gifted you.

Your father's vest still fits like a glove with the alterations your mother had made several years ago, its denim softened by age and still smelling faintly of tobacco, the one habit your father never could quite shake.

With one final glance at the garment and an additional once-over of your outfit, you had turned to face the youngest member of your family, only to discover something missing from his newly pressed dress shirt.

“What the–”

That was fifteen minutes ago, though no amount of time passed seemed to be bringing you any closer to an answer.

“Lennox, I don’t understand. Where did the first three buttons on your shirt go?”

“I dunno.” Still, the boy refuses to meet your gaze, and something about him reeks of a lie. You crouch to deliver your next sentence, forcing him to look you in the eye.

“Well, you better start thinking because it’s not like buttons just get up and walk away.” He squirms beneath the weight of your calculating stare, which holds him unrelentingly, hands coming up to keep the boy in place and negate all chances of escape.

“Urgh, fine. I traded them.” And it’s almost bizarre, but then, this is Lennox, and he is a child. And to children, things like buttons seem so simple and uncomplicated. So unnecessary and silly. You almost want to laugh.

“What do you mean you traded them?”

“I gave them to a boy at school.” You force yourself to hide the smile settling into your lips, dipping your head, and making an exasperated sort of sound.

“No, that’s not– I understand where you traded them; you don’t go anywhere else. What I’m trying to figure out is why. We have everything you could possibly need here.”

“Not honeydrops.” The smile is gone now, banished in a moment. And Lennox knows. At least you’ve told him the way your family must live now, what must remain off limits. But then, it really is nothing more than candy.

“Oh my god. Tell me you did not.”

“I don’t understand why all the other kids get to have it, and I don’t.” And you feel it again, that creeping sensation of guilt that arises every time you must pull something from your siblings’ grasps.

“Because candy is a contraband item, and we are basically living in the Capitol’s spotlight. Lennox, we’ve talked about this.” He frowns, and the action darkens the entirety of his face. His lip jerks out, beginning to shake.

“Please don’t tell Mom.”

“I’m not gonna tell Mom, just–” There is a knock at the front door. You can hear it from upstairs. Fixing the boy before you with a look of warning, you deliver a final address. “It better be gone when I look in your room tonight.”

He is off in an instant, presumably intent on packing every remaining honeydrop into his mouth at once, and you bite back a laugh at the absurdity of it, but it is the kind of laugh that rattles cruel and unforgiving in your chest, bitter in its birth and you force yourself to shake it before making your way downstairs. Fawn beats you to the door.

“What are you wearing?” You open your mouth to scold her for the remark, blatant in its disrespect, but another voice cuts off your own, ringing out through the foyer.

“My dress clothes? Why do we look bad?” Treech. By the time you hit the bottom of the stairs, it is clear what Fawn is grimacing at. The outfit is by no means abysmal, similar to those you’ve seen Treech don while arriving at the Capitol following the Reapings, but it is certainly not appropriate for where you are going. Behind him, Maple stands rather awkwardly, a similar look of worry spreading across her face.

“No. She looks fine. She looks like some Capitol stylist at least had the sense to look at a single picture of District 10 before arrival. You look like you can not wear that to City Hall. You– You– You have to come inside before anyone sees you in this outfit.” At this point, you make your presence known, pulling Fawn from her position blocking the doorway before ushering the pair of victors in with a smile.

“Sorry about her; clearly, we haven’t hosted guests in a while,” you grit out, flashing a glare in Fawn's direction. Maple laughs, covering the sound with a cough.

“Is my outfit actually bad?” Treech fusses at his selection of clothing, pulling uncomfortably at the hem of his jacket.

“Well, no. It’s just not–” You begin, though Fawn does not let you finish.

“Yes.” You are quick to deliver an elbow to her gut, though she only responds with a shove in return and an offer to Maple to join her and your mother in the kitchen.

“Really, don’t worry about it. How about I try to find you something here?” You offer, and Treech shoots you a grateful smile before trailing after his charge.

Upstairs, you take to alternatively rooting around your closet and considering the same three work shirts laid out on your bed, none of them formal enough. You are just about to give up entirely when a knock sounds at your door.

“Fawn said you needed something suitable for City Hall tonight?” Your mother’s head appears, followed by the remainder of her, a single, pressed shirt hooked over her arm and an accompanying vest tucked beneath it. Your father’s clothes.

“Oh, Mom, I couldn’t possibly–” She only shakes her head. Laying the garments out atop your mattress. In a subtle act of care, she fidgets with the cuff of his old shirt’s sleeve.

“Don’t be silly; it’s just for tonight. Besides, all these clothes do is sit and gather dust anyway. He would’ve wanted them to go to good use.” You don’t say anything, only moving forward to pull her into your arms before pressing your words into her shoulder, unsure if she will even be able to catch them.

“I miss him.”

“I do, too.”

She is kind enough to alert Treech to the need for his presence in your room, and with her disappearance comes his arrival, stepping timidly across the threshold as though entering a sacred space.

“It’s not a museum; you’re welcome to move around,” you chuckle, barely looking up from the bed. When you finally do draw your gaze away from what’s been set out for him, you note he is taking in the drawings on your wall, hand outstretched, as though it is itching to trace the lines of each design. You clear your throat.

“Sorry,” he nearly jumps at the sound, though he appears to have been reminded of something, reaching into his coat and dipping a hand into an apparently hidden pocket. “I just remembered I have something for you.”

The wrapping is plain, and you recognize the paper from the butcher’s shop, but each corner is folded carefully by hand with only the subtle imperfections indicating that he has likely completed the project himself. You take a seat on your bed, careful to avoid the clothing spread across your quilt before tearing into it. You blink in surprise at the contents, nearly confused at the book in your hands. It is beautiful, bound in leather, thick and heavy. But it is not until you open it that you process the true weight of the gift, each page just as blank as the last.

“I figured it would be nice not to have to draw on butcher paper anymore.”

“It’s– I– Thank you.” You pull a quick hand across your tear line, eradicating any evidence of a more emotional reaction before swallowing hard and looking away. Friends. You are trying to be friends.

“Uhm, I laid these out for you,” you say, standing to indicate the clothes your mother had brought in. You swallow any stories about your father, unprepared to be quite so vulnerable yet.

“Do I get a hat?” Treech asks, and you let out a laugh, real and warm.

“Do you want a hat?”

“I wanna look like a real cowboy.” Your mind flits back to that first conversation. The smile on his face tells you his does, too.

“You can wear my hat.” And he doesn’t have to know what it means. Still, Fawn sends you a knowing smirk on your way out the door, and even Lennox allows a curious gaze or two to pass over the addition of your accessory to his outfit. Yours. Yours. Yours.

The barn in the back of City Hall is crowded when you arrive, with most being relieved of their work early in favor of seeing the Victory Tour pass through. There are, of course, formalities to begin the affair, the mayor makes a speech, and Calpurnia, although initially shocked by your presence, brings you up on stage with Treech and Maple to make the ‘welcome statement’ you’d been meant to deliver this morning. Still, after all the fuss is over and the lot of you clear the way for the band, the atmosphere seems to settle into excitement typical for nights when the Dance Hall opens up.

You make your best attempt at teaching the two victors from 7 several easy steps, and though Maple seems to catch on with relative ease, it is not long before the shadow of frustration casts itself over Treech’s features, incapable of keeping up. It is only then you offer to take a break, though the opportunity is quickly lost with the appearance of Lennox who is determined to take over your attempts at tutoring your old friend.

“You’re just not explaining it right,” he says gruffly, skirting quickly around your legs to take his place between Treech and Maple.

“Oh? Is that right. Well then they’re all yours,” you relinquish, casting both hands up in surrender before shooting Treech an apologetic glance. His eyes only grow wider with fear upon taking in the speed at which Lennox is talking, the pace of his feet nearly matching that of his mouth. Back at the table you had claimed before, Fawn remains seated, your mother having disappeared to chat with several of the other women from work while your younger sister picks gloomily at the vegetables that some well-meaning friend of the family had heaped onto her plate without asking.

“Aren’t you a bit old to still be playing with your food?” Still, she does little to acknowledge your comment, instead staring past you, and a glance over your shoulder confirms she is looking directly at Treech.

“You still love him, don’t you?” The question nearly has you jumping out of your skin. Still, you elect to avoid any direct sort of answer, because the truth is, you aren’t sure.

“How would you know?”

“I’m your sister. I know you better than I know myself,” Fawn does look at you now, with those big brown eyes, just like your father’s. And you look away. Look at Treech. At the slow, anxious smile he wears trying to follow Lennox’s fast-paced teachings. At Maple two feet behind him attempting to swallow a laugh. You’re not sure you’ve ever seen him so rattled.

“Yeah. I do.” And really you always have, but the moment it passes your lips, there is no taking it back.

“Well, was it worth it?” Fawn presses.

“What?” You ask in return.

“Whatever reason he had for breaking your heart all those years ago?” You think back to this morning. And I spent these last four years pushing you away, praying it would be enough to keep you safe. Keep you safe. Had he? You’re still unsure.

“He seems to think so.”

“And you don’t?” Fawn lifts a single brow in question, always so adept in peeling back the layers you press on to conceal the truth.

“I think he was doing what he thought he had to in order to protect me.”

“And is that a bad thing?” You aren’t sure if you’ve thought about that before, so focused on the anger and frustration at time lost for a plan you cared little to acknowledge as worthwhile that you forgot to consider the weight of his intention.

“No, but he lied to me to do it. Purposefully kept me in the dark about things and pushed me away. How am I supposed to trust someone who does things like that?”

“But he told you the truth eventually, right?” You are almost arguing just to argue. Determined to be right. To be acknowledged as right.

“Well, yes, but–”

“All I’m saying is, I haven’t seen you look after yourself since Dad died. So maybe having someone to take care of you wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.” This time, you are quiet and when Fawn looks to you for some sign that she should continue, you only manage a nod.

“Look, I don’t know what it’s like for you out there, but I know things are a hell of a lot different. And I also know that you’re not very good at playing games–” The hair on your neck prickles with indignation.

“What the fu–”

“Stop. I’m being serious. You’re blunt and emotional and a terrible liar.” You could just about wring her neck.

“Careful, I think you might be about to say something nice about me–” She only presses on, leveling you with a cool and even stare.

“But this guy, he seems like he gets it. Like he knows the right things to say and do. And he looks at you like you hung the moon and the stars. And if he thinks he did what he had to, well then I’d trust his gut before I’d trust yours.” Your mouth opens and closes several times before any singular thought is given the opportunity to fully formulate and you can only gape, because suddenly Fawn seems so old and you’re not quite sure how you managed to miss it. Not quite sure when you looked away and the old Fawn, squealing and pigtailed got up and disappeared.

“Fawn I–” You are interrupted, of course you are interrupted. Still the resentment is incapable of running deep on a night like this, especially when the distraction looming over your shoulder has the prettiest smile you’ve ever seen.

“I was thinking maybe I could steal a dance from you?” Treech extends a hand in your direction and you tilt your head in question before noting the relaxed sway of the dancefloor’s current occupants as a slow tune rings out around you.

“I would–”

“Actually, I get the next dance,” Fawn cuts in, quickly abandoning her now cold leftovers in favor of catching the man by the wrist and tugging him away from you.

“Fawn–” You nearly choke in surprise.

“What? Just because you okayed him doesn’t mean I’m not still gonna grill the fuck out of him.”

It is much later when Treech finds you again, Lennox’s slumped form curled up in your lap, his head resting easy on your shoulder. By now, it has long since been time to go, but Fawn had insisted on putting the poor lumberjack through the wringer of a myriad of line dances, leaving him flushed with embarrassment and itching for an escape.

“Not so fast, pretty boy; I still haven’t gotten that dance you promised me.”

The barn is all but cleared out now with most of the stragglers getting ready to go and even the band starting to pack up, but a single nod from you to the woman with the fiddle has her pulling the instrument from its case once more with a smile and striking up a slow tune. You turn to your mother deep in conversation with an old man you recognize from the ranch and unload your brother into her arms with practiced ease, before lacing your hand with Treech’s and pulling him to the center of the floor.

“Should I waltz, or–” His hand wraps itself around your waist, eyes immediately falling to the ground.

“Relax. It’s just us. You have to stop thinking so hard. Just listen to the music and look at me. Your feet will do the rest of the work I promise you.” He takes a deep breath and you squeeze the hand holding yours, subtly encouraging him to loosen up. Eventually, it works, and the beginnings of a grin crack through the mask of nerves.

“You’re smiling. I thought you hated dancing.”

“It’s easier with you. Everything is easier with you.”

The tune is an old one, soft and sad. You can recall your father humming it to himself after a long day’s work, perhaps that is why you know the song has only just reached its halfway point when your mother calls out, letting you know it’s time to go.

It is later that night when you finish your dance, drunk in your kitchen, two pairs of clumsy feet trampling all over one another. Between the two of you, you manage to down a quarter of your mother’s contraband bottle of whisky before making your best attempts at sketching one another out on the brand new pages of your sketchbook. Treech only manages a crude drawing of your face, echoing the skill level of a child and though your sketch does little justice to the talent you boast sober, you sit, feet draped across his lap and quiet giggles passing your lips, copying down every aspect of his face. Hoping to etch the memory of it into your mind aswell, his curls a messy halo, his cheeks flushed with the liquor’s effects. Beautiful, you think absently.

“What?” Treech’s eyes shoot up to meet yours brow arching in a question, but the lazy smile on his face betrays the fact that he’s heard you, and you fight the urge to shrink away with embarrassment.

“I–”

“I think you’re beautiful too. Always did. That’s why I remembered your hat, you know? From your Games? It was the only time I’ve ever had to stop like that. Like nothing else in the world mattered except looking at you.” The confession slips happy and slurred from his mouth, though he follows it with a quick dip of his head which does little to conceal the blush that has now spread to his ears.

“I called you pretty the first night we met,” you share, hoping to ease his discomfort.

“I know. I heard you that time too.” And that smile has returned, and you’re certain it could provide you with enough warmth to survive every winter for the rest of your life.

“You little shit.” And you laugh, and that kitchen in the Victor’s Village, that has always felt to big, fits just right. For one moment. One blissful moment.

“I’m leaving.” The knock at your bedroom door had come as a bit of a surprise and, you won’t lie, with the added bonus of your hangover a nuisance of sorts. It was early, the hands on your clock indicating the time to be several minutes past 5:00 am, still your best efforts at ignorance did little in the way of driving your unwanted guest away, so you’d risen, groggy and half unsure of your footing only to find Treech, poised to knock again on the other side.

“Well, I hate to break it to you, but this isn’t the train station,” you groan eyes only just beginning to peel open, but upon allowing the light to break through, you note the desperation contorting his features and that alone is enough to pull you from the maw of sleep.

“I can’t say goodbye to you in front of all those people.”

“Why not?” You know why not.

“You know why not.” Still, you’d promised just friends, and not amount of drunk waltzes in your kitchen or late night sketch sessions with his hair brushing your cheek as he propped his chin on your shoulder to watch could change that. You offer stiff handshake, palm extended in search of his.

“Friends?” Treech blinks, slowly. Once. Twice. His hand slides perfectly into your own, fingers wrapping gently around your skin still warm with sleep.

“Friends.” But then a minute passes, and there is his hand, still in yours. And there are all those thoughts you’ve been working so hard to suppress. And he is pulling away, mumbling something about getting going, but your grip just won’t relent, eyes beginning to pool with inexplicable tears before you tug him closer. So fast. Too fast maybe.

You are nose to nose and he blinks steadily in return, though his breath comes out labored and heavy.

“I don’t want–” You look down, your hair invading all pretense of personal space as you lean forward into him, eyes fixed on the floor. His grip on your hand tightens.

“I don’t wanna be your friend.”

“I don’t wanna be your friend either.” And when you lift your head, it is as though he is drinking you in for the very first time, studying a face that has somehow become lost to him, before his hand drops yours and moves to grip at your waist, pulling you close and his eyes drop down to your lips, almost closing entirely. Still, he waits, just as he always has, for you. And when you give in, you do give in, it is bliss, his mouth on yours once more, arms tightening against your form, rendering you inseparable. Nearly inseparable.

“Your breath stinks.” Treech pulls back, a grimace lighting his features and you instantly recoil in embarrassment, hand flying from its place on his neck to cover your mouth. You squirm in his arms, attempting to free yourself from the scrutiny, but he only tightens his hold on you, letting out a low laugh before dipping to trail several kisses down your neck. You elect to bring both hands to your face instead, obscuring your visage entirely.

“Sorry about that, my asshole ex woke me up without warning.” He expels a sharp gust of air against your shoulder, an indicator he finds this situation all too charming before shifting his tone to fake indignance.

“I thought we were friends?”

“Friends don’t usually taste eachothers morning breath, but maybe that’s just my opinion.”

And he mumbles something low and indecipherable into your hair, pressing additional kisses into the mess. Something that sounds like I love you. And in the dull silence of those quiet morning hours, the beat of your heart sounds exactly the same.

Treech has been gone for two weeks when the letter comes. There isn’t even a stamp in the corner. Just an envelope with your name on it and a single piece of paper tucked inside with an address printed in neat lettering across the page. Beneath it, someone has scribbled down a time and date as though that information was some sort of afterthought. Your stomach drops immediately upon opening it, and you are quick to assume the worst. That they saw you with Treech, in your own home. Of course. Snow would have to be some sort of idiot not to have cameras planted in the newly constructed Victor’s Village.

The letter is from the Capitol. That much you can be sure of. The heavy feeling of the cardstock between your fingers is enough to signal the mail has emerged from a place of luxury: the best most people could find in 10 is old butcher paper. Still, perhaps you are wrong. You remember the feeling of Treech’s letter to you from 7, along with a scrawled comment about how being in charge of paper production had its benefits. You remember the sketchbook he’d left you with less than a month ago. Your heart feels lighter, if only for a moment.

But you know Treech’s handwriting like the back of your hand, the boyish charm to his messy lettering and rushed sentences. Besides, everything that came from him smelled of cedar and arrived veiled in a thin layer of sawdust. You liked to imagine sometimes he wrote to you from the same desk where he sat hard at work, carving whistles in the shapes of birds for his little sisters.

No. This letter was different. Drenched in the stink of expensive cologne with ink that appeared dark and smudged in certain places, too wet to be from the cheap pens you know most Districts keep on hand.

Your chest bundles with nerves, remaining tight and suffocating until the very moment of the meeting arrives, the address bringing you to an old ranch most had believed to be unoccupied for some time. You take a steadying breath as you raise your fist to the door but find no time to knock as it swings open, revealing a familiar figure. Hilarius Heavensbee in the flesh.

“Oh good, you’re here. Come in; I have a proposition for you.”

#treech #treech x reader #treech fanfiction #treech thg #treech tbosas #tbosas fanfiction #tbosas x reader #tbosas #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #thg #the hunger games #hunger games #thg series #district 7 #x reader #neabl #no evil angel but love

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bumblebugwrites · 1 year ago

Note

May I please be added to NEABL taglist?(don’t worry you didn’t miss me asking- this is the first time I’ve asked) I’m obsessed with this story you’re such an amazing writer

ahh, of course, pookie, you should be tagged in the next chapter, which is up now!

#neabl #no evil angel but love

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bumblebugwrites · 1 year ago

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chapter 6: bite the hand

Pairing: Victor!Treech x fem!Reader

Summary: Over the next four years, you speak only five times with Treech, each conversation proving more confusing than the last.

Warnings: Cursing, Suggestive Themes, Mention of Injuries, Character Death, Weapons, Violence.

Word Count: 6.6k

Taglist: @nekee-lilac02, @mr-panda357, @yourfavmiki, @blackoutdays13, @dialuvsbangtan, @emgunther

A/N: Well, this is admittedly late, sorry y'all. Also on that note, the update schedule is about to be completely fucked for this fic. As it turns out school is lowkey catching up to me so unfortunately I think I may need to move to posting every two weeks. Either way, I hope you enjoy this chapter, which according to my original outline puts us at about halfway through No Evil Angel But Love!

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“I just think it was a mistake. It should never have happened, and– And it won’t happen again.” And just like that, your heart was shattered, scattered across the floor in a million pieces. Well, maybe not just like that. In fact, for a moment, you’d thought the whole thing was a joke of some sort. But then his eyes had caught yours, cold in a way you’d never seen them before, and you had to stop yourself from staggering back, from hitting the wall, because this Treech, the one standing before you, he looked just like the man who’d put an axe through your heart in a dream you’d tried so hard to forget.

“I don’t understand. Does this have something to do with the fact that you disappeared this morning?” Sure, you had been out of it when he’d left, but it didn’t take long for the panic to set in, waking once more to a cold bed, mind reaching out to a memory formed only an hour ago. A mystery phone call to your room. Treech disappearing out the door.

“No, I– No. Just listen to me. This is it, it’s over.” Not the phone call. Him. He wanted this, and next to that, the phone call felt like something to be forgotten in its entirety. But why?

“You came here last night. You showed up at my hotel room, saying you couldn’t take it anymore, and now, what? You’ve changed your mind?” Anger was quick to follow confusion in those fleeting moments, and as you surged forward, hands tangling desperately in his shirt, you weren’t sure if the intent was to pull him in or push him away.

“You’re just not–” And his hands were on yours, brushing a sweet, delicate pattern across your knuckles, bringing you that soft, quiet feeling he always had. And for a moment, you could feel him leaning in. To hold you? To kiss you? You weren’t sure. “I don’t want you.”

It was like a punch in the gut.

“I was enough last night.” Tears clouded your vision as you held steady willing him to look at you, to pull his gaze from the ground, to wrap his hands around yours once more. They were limp now, hanging uselessly at his sides.

“Maybe you weren’t. Maybe you never were.” You wanted to scream. To cry. To lash out and disappear and explode with the unmistakable rage inside you. You couldn't. You could barely speak.

“Treech, I–”

“We’re done. Don’t talk to me. Don’t touch me. Don’t even look at me.” And with that, he pushed you away, spinning to exit out the door just behind you. Leaving you to crumple to the ground. Alone. Unwanted.

Over the next four years, you had five more conversations with Treech alone, each leaving you more confused than the last.

The first time you spoke was just over two years after he told you that night had been a mistake. That you were a mistake.

It was harder to stay away in the beginning. Hardest at night when you could hear his screams, telltale signs of the nightmares you knew he fell prey to. The nightmares that formed mirror images of your own. Several nights, you found yourself frozen outside his door, compelled for some unearthly reason to stand guard, to make heavy, unyielding eye-contact with the painted number 7 as though waiting long enough might make it open without any necessary action. You knew then what you really wanted. To go inside. To assure him it would be okay. To offer him the same place in your room you always had. But then, he didn’t want that. He’d made that clear enough. And so after minutes, or sometimes hours of waiting, you would escape back to your own room before your presence could be noted. Afraid of the harsh words he might have stored up this time, lashings for your petty emotions.

It was one of those nights, the first time you spoke, although the nightmare was yours, not his. It had left you in a cold sweat as you jerked yourself from the duvet, still sobbing, and you found yourself wondering when the room had become so unbearably large. A glass of water, you’d thought. A coffee, maybe; chances are you’re done with sleep tonight anyway. You’d wondered how Treech was. You always did when your own nightmares exceeded their typical limits, and the thought had infiltrated your mind until the minute you’d pulled the door open, revealing his seated form just outside, back pressed to the wall. Alert. Awake, as though certain his presence alone might ward off any oncoming evil.

He appeared nearly as shocked as you at the reveal, quickly launching himself to his feet and plastering a grimace across his features, darkened by the little light in the hall. And just as you’d opened your mouth to speak, to question his attendance at the foot of your door, he’d bit with words of his own.

“Could you try not to be so loud? Some people here are sleeping.” You did not populate the hall outside his door so much after that. You did not populate his presence at all.

The second time was out of necessity. It was that same year of the 13th Games, and you had found yourself down a tribute, the girl, Rhea, having lost her life in what was beginning to be known as the bloodbath. Skinner was older, the boy. Eighteen and a walking tragedy, so close to escaping. That was the year before they stopped locking you all in the Academy. Before Lux convinced them that sponsor relations could only bear to improve if mentors were allowed the ability to mingle with the people of the Capitol, within reason, of course. Before the Games grew longer, sometimes lasting over a week.

The night was young, but you were on your third cup of coffee, unable to tear your eyes from the screen. From Skinner’s restless movements as he sat back to a tree, with eyes that scanned his surroundings in wide, impatient arcs. He was alone, and no allies meant no sleep, so he clung to the adrenaline still coursing through his veins, begging it to carry him to safety.

On your right, Teff fidgeted with his screen, clearly agitated by an increased sense of anxiety at the prospect of both of his tributes escaping the mess of fighting that began the Games. It was harder that way; you had come to learn. Longer survival meant hope. Hope that will infiltrate your thoughts. Your emotions. Higher risk of attachment. And with two tributes, a higher risk that the death of one would only serve to destroy the other. Or worse, a higher risk that they would be forced to take each other on. You’d seen it happen. In the 12th Games, both remaining tributes came from 2, and while Octavian remained firm and unmoving in his seat, Antonia could barely force herself to watch.

Still, you had liked Skinner, cursed with the gangly limbs of a teenager on the verge of adulthood, with a crooked smile and a biting sense of humor reserved only for Rhea in their short days together, so you pushed on. And if the lingering claws of hope had curled their way around your heart, so be it. Maybe this would be the year you could save one. Maybe this would be the year you saw a kid survive.

To your left, there was Treech. Always Treech, who endlessly invaded your thoughts in those weeks you were forced to travel back to the Capitol. In the years since your first visit, the trips had only increased, with Snow managing to find a reason to gather you all in the ‘Gem of Panem’ at least four times a year. Press, he called it, and Hilarius often assured you that networking of that sort was necessary, but it was hard to believe even from his mouth, and you often felt yourself feeling more inclined to believe Teff’s theories. They just want to remind us who’s in control.

Treech was down a tribute, too; though both had escaped the initial violence, the career pack had managed to track the pair, quickly ending the boy’s life and leaving only his girl to escape. Arbor. It had been some time since you had noted her presence on your screen, but you didn’t dare to even attempt casting a look in Treech’s direction, fearing the rash display of the temper you had come to know as reserved for you and you alone.

And you wouldn’t have had to, really, if it weren’t for what happened next, the crushing of underbrush underfoot, the cacophony of voices infused with a false confidence. Skinner’s head shot up in an instant, fear plain on his features. He stood slowly, pushing himself up from the ground with the bark of the tree cutting into his palm for support. The career pack was coming, and he was as good as dead.

Several low branches stuck out to you, and silently, you begged him to climb in spite of a display earlier that day which assured you he did so with the elegance of a toddler. Still, it was all that was left, and you were clinging to hope. Stupid, useless hope. He turned to size up his route upwards, and the voices grew nearer. It was now or never. The pace was the first problem you noticed as Skinner inched up the tree with the speed of a snail. You realized in passing he’d probably never climbed a tree before. Sure, they weren’t a rarity in 10. There were plenty out on the ranch, and as a child, you often sought solace among their branches when your father had allowed you to tag along with him to work. But for a kid like Skinner, confined to 10’s more industrial parts, spending days cooped up in the slaughterhouse, climbing a tree wasn’t exactly within the realm of knowledge he should possess.

“Fuck. Come on.”

The second thing you noted was the noise. Certainly, there aren’t many silent ways to climb a tree, with the continual brushing of leaves against the fabric of your clothes, but the footfalls were doing little to help in the way of masking his presence, and though he’d made a bit of progress, you almost wished Skinner would stop moving completely.

The third and most glaring problem, however, was that you’d finally managed to find Arbor, crouched and observant several branches above Skinner. No weapon. That was good. What wasn’t good was that it would be well within her rights to give him up. And beneficial, too. You sucked in a large breath.

The pack had reached the foot of the tree, though it didn’t seem to note the two tributes hidden within its branches. Still, they idled for a moment, and your whole body tensed with anticipation. Skinner’s foot slipped. And you knew you shouldn’t, but you shielded your eyes, waiting for the impact, incapable of watching him fall into death’s open hands. It didn’t come. Instead, as you removed several of the fingers obscuring your vision, you found Arbor, hand clinging to the back of his shirt, and her face screwed up into a scowl from the effort of keeping him upright. Skinner’s clumsy hands managed to catch a branch, and he pulled himself up, mouth already opening in a question, but she was faster, pressing a hand to his lips and shaking her head with a vehement look that encouraged only silence.

And so he said nothing, and for a while, that’s how they remained, waiting for the pack to move on, her hand over his mouth, simply taking each other in. It was only once the coast was clear that he dared to speak.

“Why did you save me?”

“Well, I didn’t need you making a bunch of noise and giving me away,” she said, releasing any hold she had on him. For a moment, her face only served to support the harsh words, cold in its regard, but the instant his eyes shifted towards the ground, it softened, revealing the true intention, simple and unbridled care. She reminded you of Treech.

“Are you gonna kill me now?” Skinner sounded almost defeated, and he did not even bother to meet her gaze as he asked. Her expression, safe from his sight, twisted into one of concern before she masked it once more.

“I couldn’t if I wanted to. I don’t have any weapons, and the chances of me strangling you are low at best.”

“I don’t have any weapons either,” Skinner admitted before appearing embarrassed by the confession. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not a threat, so– please don’t try to kill me.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you could kick my ass,” Arbor returned, her tone flat and a small smirk gracing her features. Skinner flushed at the expression before admitting defeat with laughter of his own when she let out a chuckle.

“So where’s your partner?” He asked.

“Dead.” The response was factual, but the traces of pain on her face remained obvious. “Yours?”

“Dead.” It was quiet for a moment, and though neither of them spoke, you noted Arbor eyeing Skinner's rope.

“Maybe we could make a deal?” She asked.

“Like what?” He was slow to respond but less guarded than before.

“Like allies?” And she extended a hand in a truce, only continuing after noting Skinner’s hesitation. “Listen, I don’t know about you, but I’m exhausted, and if I’m gonna sleep in this tree, I’d prefer to do it tied down and with someone to watch my back. We could take shifts. Even if it's just for tonight?”

“Okay.”

It was not then that you spoke with Treech. Nor was it over the following days, watching the pair grow closer. Watching them reach the final five with the boy from 11 and the girls from 1 and 2. No. The days registered simple interactions. Nods indicating bread and water would be sent, and curt conversations regarding strengths and weaknesses. It was only on the sixth night that you shared more than a handful of words; even then, it wasn’t much. And yet, it was more. Heavier than any of the terse exchanges you’d held since you stopped speaking altogether.

Because, on the sixth night, Arbor and Skinner shared a kiss. He had fallen earlier in the day. No simple fall either. His leg would only carry him so far, but Arbor remained loyal, and the two traveled as a unit. Under the moonlight and the cover of darkness, she had stopped them to take a look at the injury, steady hands unraveling the makeshift bandage she had torn from her own shirt. Skinner only cringed in pain, regardless of her soft-spoken attempts to comfort him as she poured water from a nearby stream on the wound.

“It’s no use. I’m dead weight. You should go. Get out of here before I accidentally screw you over.” The defeat was evident in his tone, but so was something else, something more. A need for her to make it out. To survive.

“I’m not going anywhere.” Her jaw was tense as she focused on the work before her, but you sensed it was not out of a need to concentrate.

“Arbor, I’m not gonna let you die for me–” He was exhausted, eyes heavy with sleep and glistening with pain. Sweat collected at his brow, and he raised a lazy hand to wipe it away, but she got there first, swiping her thumb across his forehead before speaking again.

“Well, I’m not gonna let you die, period. So, just drop it.”

“Arbor.” His hand moved to still her own as though begging her to meet his gaze.

“Skinner?” She asked, annoyed by the disruption but looking up nonetheless.

“What happens if it’s just us?” And you could hear a pin drop in the Academy lecture hall; not even Lucky Flickerman bothered to present his input.

“Well, we aren’t– That’s not… I’m gonna get you out of here,” she stated with finality. Beside you, Treech stiffened, the scene beginning to appear all too familiar. Two kids from 7 and 10, with nothing and everything on the line at the same time.

“I wouldn’t let you do that. I wouldn’t be able to let you do that.”

“Why? Why are you being so selfish? Just let me save you–” And she pounded at his chest, but there was no feeling in her attacks. It took Skinner no effort at all to stop her fists, collecting her hands within his own.

“I don’t want to live if it means you have to die. Because I– Well, I know I haven’t known you that long, but I– Well, I–” And suddenly she was kissing him, telling him wordlessly she felt the same. And suddenly, the world was crashing down, fear pooling in your stomach at the consequences you were sure would come, and you couldn’t help it, looking at Treech, who was already looking at you. Your mouth was dry.

“I don’t– I–” Your chest was constricting, and the room felt hot, hotter than ever before, and your mind was spinning at a million miles an hour. You crossed to the entrance in mere moments, not even noting Treech directly behind you until you had shoved your way out, back slamming into the wall just outside as you crumbled to the ground.

“I– I–”

“You’ve got to breathe. You– We have to get back in there. It isn’t something until we make it something.” His tone was cold, but he was crouched before you, and when his hands reached to pull you off the floor, you swore his thumb ran carefully over your arm once. Twice.

“But it is. You know it is. And if those kids die at the Capitol’s hand, I’m gonna spend the rest of my life wondering if it's my fault. If it’s our fault.” And it was true. It may not have been love for him, but for you, the echoes were everywhere. And though you’re sure the Capitol never saw what happened that night, Dr. Gaul knew enough for the connection to be dangerous.

“You don’t know if that’s what they’ll see–”

“Is it what you saw? Because it’s the first thing I thought about. And I know you hate me now, but you can’t be stupid enough to think that Coriolanus Snow could miss it.” His face only grew more tense before it passed to stone once more.

“What other choice do we have?” He was right. Of course, he was right. So you reentered and took your places, fixed yourselves with masks of unbothered poise, and for nothing. They were dead by morning, carcasses wrapped around one another in a pile of bones and flesh once the Gamemakers’s mutts had finished. And as the camera panned away, you swear you felt a lingering gaze on you, but you did not look, only faked a cough as you brushed the tears from your cheeks and fixed your steady gaze ahead.

That was the year Teff’s boy won, Reed, and once more, before you were allowed to return home, you were forced to attend a party at the President’s mansion, this time with the inclusion of a Victor’s dance.

“Teff, come on, I am begging you–” You began, but the older boy was already shaking his head.

“I can’t, alright. Octavian already asked me if I’d dance with Teresa, and I gave my word that I would. He registered us a week ago,” he sighed, and you wanted to scream; how could you have been stupid enough to forget about this?

“What about Reed?” At this point, anyone would do. Anyone who wasn’t Treech.

“He’s not doing the dance; his leg is broken, remember?” And you did; the boy had fallen off the top of the cornucopia while securing his win, landing on top of the girl from 1, whose neck broke on impact.

“Well, do you think Mags will switch with me?” You were grasping at straws, aware the answer would be no the moment the suggestion passed your lips.

“You know the deal, the only reason we are allowed to have partners from other Districts is because–” But you interrupted him, already knowledgable of your oncoming defeat.

“We don’t have any from our own. I know. I just don’t know what I’m gonna do.”

“It’s one dance, it can’t be that bad.” He reassured, but you knew better.

“We haven’t spoken in years.”

“You spoke the other day–” Teff corrected.

“That was different; I was basically having a meltdown.” You recalled that moment in the hall. His thumb on your arm. Part of you was convinced it never happened at all.

“I don’t know what to tell you; take it or leave it; this is your only option.” He shrugged, and the conversation was over; you both knew it, but not before you vocalized your frustration one last time.

“Fuck.”

That is it, the third time you talk to Treech, at the President’s mansion, surrounded by Capitol citizens. Before you take the floor, you recall your last dance in this place with a certain Heavensbee. Your mind drifts to the events of that night. To what happened after you departed. You shake the thoughts away. Now is no time to linger on what used to be.

When it is time to go, Treech appears at your side, extending his arm to lead you onto the floor, and you note that he seems to flinch away from your touch, which barely grazes the crook he creates for you. You are already seething. Was it really so painful for him to even touch you? Were you really that deplorable? It is a simple waltz, one your escorts were able to instruct you on with ease, and though the first few steps are taken in silence, as the music continues, you hear the other victors around you begin to chatter. You and Treech remain quiet, your eyes fixed on the floor below, watching the pattern of your steps. Thinking about anything except his hand on your waist and the other delicately gripping yours.

“You’re not supposed to look at your feet,” he mutters, and that gets your attention enough to force your gaze away from its previous target.

“Excuse me?”

“You aren’t supposed to look at your feet. It makes it easier to screw up the steps.” You don’t answer, only fixing your sightline over his shoulder instead, fully expecting the silence to engulf you once more.

“I hate dancing.” He sighs bitterly, and you almost have to resist a smile because it makes sense that the stoic boy before you would loathe the exercise in trust and coordination, ripe with opportunities for embarrassment. For creating holes in his well-kept facade.

“I don’t.” And you aren’t really sure what prompts you to speak, but maybe it is his clear discomfort with the practice, evident in the way his shoulders bunch awkwardly with each turn and his eyes, in spite of his own advice, continue to flit down towards the floor.

“There’s lots of dancing back in 10. Line dances, mostly from a long time ago. But there’s other stuff, too. Once a month, there's a big dance at City Hall. There’s this big open barn connected to the back, and they decorate it, and everyone goes. My dad taught me how, so it reminds me of him.” You can’t help but smile at the memory of your father, pulling the hat from his head and dropping it onto your own before spinning you around the kitchen in preparation for your very first dance. When the day finally came, you’d already forgotten all the steps, but he didn’t mind setting your feet atop his own, the two sets of boots moving in a stilted pattern around the barn, all shrieking laughter and love.

You feel Treech’s shoulder relax beneath your touch, his gaze now fixed on you and nothing else. The movements become more fluid, and by the end of the dance, it feels like flying. That is until something else seems to catch his attention just outside of your sightline. And suddenly, his grip on your waist tightens, ushering you closer, but his eyes grow cold. For a moment, you could have sworn he was shielding you from something until he wasn’t. Until the music came to an end, and he was pushing away, but not before leaving you with a cutting remark.

“Thanks for the story; I’ll remember that the next time I’m pretending to give a shit about you.” You almost gape at him, unsure how to respond, but as rage, hot and untethered, licks its way up your spine, you give into the cruelest thing you can think to muster.

“I hate you.” And he flinches as though the words hurt him. As though he hadn’t spent every moment of the last three years trying to probe that very reaction from your lips. And you know he must not have meant it. That it is nothing more than the residual regret leaving his body, but a part of you relishes it. Relishes causing him pain after the torture he had put you through.

“Good.”

Victory Tours weren’t uncommon by then, so when it was announced the tribute from 11 and his mentor would be making their way to 10, people were well prepared. Lennox in particular seemed to be veritably jumping with joy, unable to sit still after having received the knowledge that you would be hosting the visitors in your new home in the Victor’s Village. Even Fawn, who at the now ripe age of fourteen was determined to allow nothing to faze her, seemed excited at the prospect of the celebration that typically occurred in tandem with the arrival of a victor.

You on the other hand were simply happy to see Teff, pulling the taller man into a warm hug the moment he set foot off the train. He seemed not to mind, laughing as he pulled you tighter against him and after a long day of festivities including a night of dancing and the best food 10 could offer, you found yourselves sat around your kitchen table, enjoying one another’s company and a couple of drinks.

“Are we gonna talk about what happened at the mansion? That night, at the party? Quite a scene you two caused,” Teff asked, finally digging into what you knew he’d been itching to talk to you about. You allowed your head to slump forward, burying your face within the comfort of your arms with a groan.

“What am I supposed to say? I was being very civil. He’s the one that ruined it.” Teff only nodded in understanding, having come to know the events that made up your rocky relationship with Treech through snippets divulged over the years.

“You know I’m just worried about you is all. Just wish you would fly under the radar like the rest of us–”

“I don’t wanna talk about this anymore. Tell me about you. About home. How’s Harvest?” Teff was quick to relent, never displeased when talking about his favorite subject, his wife of two years.

“She’s good. She’s– Well actually I’ve been meaning to tell you this– She’s pregnant.” And though the news reeks of joy, there is an uneasy smile on his face. Still, you are quick to rid him of it.

“That’s incredible! I’m so happy for you.” And you are, beaming from ear to ear, but a part of you aches, just as you know it does for him, for that unborn child. For the world they will surely face.

The fourth time you spoke, it was your fault. At least, that’s what Treech told himself. It was the year of the 14th Hunger Games, and in preparation, the Capitol was running a television program highlighting each of the Districts. It was for that reason Treech told himself it shouldn’t have come as a surprise when the small screen in the corner of the hotel bar filled with Lamina’s face, especially given that she was his District partner and, as he was the only existing victor from 7, an obvious choice for closer study. Still, it didn’t stop the shock from cutting to his core like a knife.

You had taken the seat beside his, though clearly not intentionally. It was the only place left in the whole bar, and upon your arrival, he had watched you hesitate to even stay, but with the Games set to start in two days, you needed a drink, exhausted by the prospect of another year.

It was as though you could sense his discomfort, gaze clearly flitting in his direction and dragging across his tense form. The television program blared out, filling any gaps in conversation left by the bar’s occupants, and you observed it keenly following Treech’s reaction.

“She seemed kind.” And there you were, attempting to comfort him after all he’d done to push you away.

“She cried a lot.” It is easier than telling the truth. Than admitting he had known Lamina long before the Games. That she was family, a cousin on his mother’s side.

He often saw Lamina in you. In your quiet moments of soft kindness and generosity. Even in moments of fear, watching you steel yourself and move forward in spite of the difficulties. Sometimes, he would imagine a world with no Districts or Games. A world where a gentler version of you who had not been left hardened by survival had met Lamina, and the two of you had become fast friends, spending your days whispering confessions among the branches of the tallest trees or stretched out in a field, you with a pencil and paper and Lamina fashioning a crown of flowers.

“You remind me of her.”

“Because I’m weak?” Your brow furrowed as you gazed down into the drink before you, preparing yourself for the harsh words you had come to expect of Treech.

“Because you’re brave.” He couldn’t help it really, the way it sprang forward from his lips, toppling out before he could fight to keep it in. He suspected somewhere in the wide universe, the spirit of Lamina was laughing at him. That she was somehow responsible for the admission. He hated her for it. Hated himself. Your own face revealed little more than an obvious state of shock, blank blinking eyes staring back at him when he finally summoned the courage to fix your gaze with his own. Your mouth moved, jaw seeming to hinge and unhinge, but nothing came out. Nothing until the soft syllables of his name slipped from your lips in a stilted sort of way, like a sharp breath.

Treech was on his feet before you’d finished, the remainder of his drink easily downed in his haste to depart, but as he turned one last time to eye the television in the corner, he could have sworn your eyes were brimming with tears.

The final time you spoke to Treech, it felt as though he had something more to say. Like the words he wished to express had caught on his tongue like glue, unable to escape. It was the final day of the 14th Games, five years exactly since your own. On days like that, you forced yourself to remember the things that often felt too painful. The names that sunk like stones in your chest, fading each year into more distant memories. Rye, with his eyes like two wide saucers. Orion, who was so close to victory that he had nearly succeeded in having it. Baron, the boy from back home who’d lost his life within minutes, figure slumped and unmoving in the center of the arena for the remainder of the Games. And, of course, there were others. Brandy and Tanner. Bee and Colt. Rhea and Skinner. Kids from home. Kids just like you. Except here you were, not dead, while they lay, presumably rotting in some mass grave deep within the Capitol’s walls. The thought made you sick.

That year, your fourth as a mentor, your tributes hadn’t even managed to outlast the bloodbath. The second Rochelle’s body hit the ground, you knew it was over, but it didn’t keep you from hoping. Hoping against reason, she would find a way to fight it. To get back up. She hadn’t. And that year, as the buzzer rang out and the bile rose in your throat as it always did, you noted that the pain was less. Less intense. Less crippling. And then the disgust was back again, drowning you, with its aim pointed inwards, armed and ready to feast on your heart. How could you be so cruel? How could you allow yourself to become so hardened and unfeeling?

Because it is easier. Because there has to be a better way. Because you will never survive this if you cannot learn to leave some things behind. Still, you’d never left a single thing behind your whole life, clinging to every passing thought, person, or feeling like it might be the last. So when Rochelle was gone, signaling your Games had finished, you pulled the small notebook from the inner pocket of your vest and scribbled her name just below Gavin’s with its own set of notes.

Rochelle. Two sisters, no parents. Lived with her father’s brother and worked nightshifts at the slaughterhouse. 15. Kind. Enjoyed the color green. Was learning to knit with some of the excess wool from her uncle’s work at a nearby farm, sheering the sheep.

Your fingers traced over the list, gently passing each name with the pad of your thumb. So many names. It was easier now to write them down. It was easier now to emote, to feel openly without the watchful eye of the Capitol analyzing your every move just behind Lucky Flickerman. Well, at least without it trained directly on your soul.

A bit further down the bar, Lux sat by herself as well; Beau tucked into the seat beside Trawl, the two having become closer over the years. Maybe even too close, you thought regretfully, mind flitting to a time you had caught the former making a quiet escape from Trawl’s room in the dead of night. Still, you’d bit your tongue, refusing to lecture someone you were aware already knew of the potential consequences. Besides, words often fall on deaf ears when spoken from a position as precarious as yours.

There were three kids left then, each with no alliance in place to keep them safe. A boy from 2, a girl from 5, and Maple, Treech’s girl from 7. She was ruthless, doing little in the way of preserving any image of humanity with her kills, but you understood that there was more than what appeared to pool on the surface. That those who seemed the most heartless were often the most human of all, filled with an unparalleled desperation to return. For a loved one. For themselves, hoping to go back to some semblance of a childhood they would never see again. Your heart swelled for her. For all of them. Still, you’d been doing your best to avoid her mentor since your last encounter. Afraid that he might snap once more, leaving you frustrated and hollow. Or worse, that he might plant some ridiculous seeds of hope as he had with your fourth conversation, calling you brave before disappearing completely. He was infuriating. Aggravating. Annoying, vexing, and completely incensing.

He was also sitting directly across the bar, arm draped over the seat of the woman beside him with the same lazy arrogance you had come to register as a part of his Capitol persona, a smirk painted light and unshakable across his face. It was as though you could not even recognize the man before you. Still, he looked good. That much, you could easily admit, curls on the lengthier side now compared to the more cropped cut you’d last seen him with. You wondered if they still felt the same, if running your hands through them would still have the intoxicating effect it had years ago. You want to punch yourself in the face for the indulgence of a thought like that, forcing your gaze away with the heat that rises to your cheeks, and just in time, it seems, as the screen switches to capture Maple, finishing off the girl from 5. It is over in a second, and all of the sudden, there are only two remaining.

Your heart aches for her, the dead girl from 5, without a mentor or guidance, left in the dark. Still, you cannot stop your gaze from traveling across the bar again to fix on Treech, only to find he is already looking at you. The woman beside him has rid herself of all pretense and is curled into his side, back arched like a cat. And yet, he appears almost regretful, eyes trained on your face with the sort of steely focus that rarely graced his features these days.

Hours later, when Maple does win, pushed over the finish line with the help of several grandiose sponsorships, you can’t say you are all that surprised, no. The real shock comes as you move to exit the bar when a hand catches your forearm within its grasp. You almost ignore it. Almost push to continue on your steady path toward freedom, but it pulls hard, whipping you around, nearly sending you barreling into the chest of your assailant. Treech. And he stands there, blubbering like a fish, features painted with the unsubtle earnesty of a boy. And that alone is enough to stop you in your tracks.

“I– I–”

But not for long. You’d learned your lesson long ago. Wrenching your arm from his grasp, you spin on your heel before he so much as forms a second word, making for the elevator. You would not fall prey to him again. Not now, not ever. In your eyes, Treech was as good as dead.

It was another month before you saw him again, although, on the morning of the Victory Tour’s arrival, you were nowhere to be found within the awaiting procession. Despite the Capitol’s wishes, you’d continued work on the ranch in your free time, and this morning was no exception. Especially considering you’d requested the shift, putting as much distance between yourself and the upcoming ceremonials as possible.

Just last night, you’d sent notice to the mayor that you’d been feeling unwell, vomiting, and the like, pleading to be kept from the tour for the safety of those involved. He’d kindly agreed, considering your consistent attendance in previous years, and so you’d spent the last few hours with Bluebell, who had grown over time into as much your horse as one could be, walking the ranch’s perimeter and assessing the different pastures for any sign of intrusion the previous night. Finding none, you dismounted, ridding the creature of everything but her bridle and allowing her to graze within your sightline as you sat in the grass, pencil at the ready and sketchbook perched easily in your lap.

And so the morning passed in easy silence between the pair of you, only returning to the barn just before lunch due to necessity, though you nearly turned on your tail as the building came into view. The form was clear enough from afar, leaned up against the side of the old building, and at first, you felt your chest fill with anxiety, concerned that perhaps the mayor had caught onto your lie from last night to come get you. But as you drew closer, you noted that familiar head of curls you would recognize anywhere, accompanying the lanky form of a young man. Treech.

#treech #treech fanfiction #treech x reader #treech thg #treech tbosas #tbosas fanfiction #tbosas x reader #tbosas #the hunger games #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #thg #hunger games #thg series #district 7 #x reader #neabl #no evil angel but love

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bumblebugwrites · 1 year ago

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favorite pookie, you are the most eloquent and cohesive writer I have come across. love your writing sm 🧎‍♀️

literally me right now anon, love you so much :)

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bumblebugwrites · 1 year ago

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hiii is it too late to be added to the treech fic tag list??? it's so good and i almost missed an update so now i have 2 chapters to read 😭 (not complaining but yeahhh just asking!!!)

absolutely not! i try to keep an eye out in the comments, but please let me know if i've missed you!!!

#neabl #no evil angel but love

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bumblebugwrites · 1 year ago

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the district 7 brainrot is real, because i have been thinking about the tree-o (get it? the trio from 7? i am just too fucking funny) and the soldier, poet, ruler dynamic between them and i fear i have to speak on it.

i think for me the most obvious one here is lamina as the ruler. now i know that may shock some people, but listen, this is a girl who has the bravery and forethought to put the needs of others before her own, as we see with her exiting what would have been a safe hiding spot in favor of granting marcus the mercy of death and cutting him down so that his body is no longer forced to stand as a symbol of the capitol's cruelty. additionally, we see book!lamina as being willing to compromise and trade, as demonstrated by her brief interaction with reaper ash where he tosses her a piece of his flag for food. i think generally, of the three she demonstrates best the levelheadedness and big heart needed to lead.

i went back and forth on the other two for a while, but i have to say, of the pair, joanna best represents the label of poet. again, i think this decision will surprise people, especially given that words are not something joanna imparts with a good deal of grace or forethought. still, the manner in which joanna weaponizes her anger both in her interview with caesar flickerman as a last restort to keep the capitol from putting them back in the games and in the way she encourages katniss to "make him pay," in reference to snow. there is nothing beautiful about the language joanna chooses to use, no. the strength of her words comes from their ability to incite anger and revolt in others and specifcally and most often, in katniss.

finally, we have treech as the soldier, a character who, in both the book and the movie is very survival minded. i'm certain this decision will make the most sense, given the way he obeys coral's orders without question, but i also see it in his clear strength in combat. in the movie, the few looks we do get at the televisions displaying sponsorships reveals that of the tributes he has received one of the highest number of sponsorships, implying that he demonstrated a substantial amount of skill in his interview.

#treech #treech thg #treech tbosas #lamina #lamina thg #lamina tbosas #joanna mason #joanna thg #thg #the hunger games #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #tbosas #hunger games #district 7

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bumblebugwrites · 1 year ago

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and since i know exactly zero people asked, here's an entire post on how stick season belongs to my district 7 kids and my district 7 kids alone.

starting off strong with joanna mason who frankly could have been noah kahan's sole muse in writing this shit. who will never not be the first person i think of when listenting to "orange juice," if not soley for the lyric "it made you a stranger/ it filled you with anger." the song, to its credit is largely about sobriety, but also so much so about the manner in which a person is changed by the consequences of their own actions, which here is the car crash. still, i can't help but think of the way it mirrors her situation entirely, having contributed to the deaths of anyone she held dear through speaking out and refusing the captiol's wishes. on top of that, we are left with this character who has likely grown to resent the place from which she came for what it has come to represent.

i truly feel that i probably don't even need to connect the dots between joanna and "northern attitude," but for shits and giggles, "if i get too close/ and i'm not how you hoped/ forgive my northern attitude/ oh, i was raised out in the cold." nothing, in my mind, truly captures the division we feel between katniss and joanna in catching fire like these lyrics here. and sure, joanna was never the biggest fan of the other girl, but we do eventually see a friendship of sorts, both clouded and grounded in the two womens' mutual respect for one anothers' detatched aspects, far less warm than say peeta, or finnick.

finally, "the view between villages," which, as one of the only victors we see from 7, is such a gut-wrenching song when thought of with joanna in mind. "a minute from home, but i feel so far from it." this for the woman taken from her family to play in the games, only to return, likely traumatized, with her perspective on her district ultimatley changed and forever altered by the death of cede family at the hands of the capitol. "it's all washin' over me, i'm angry again/ the things that i lost here, the people i knew." again, this sentiment of frustration at returning home and the memories it brings about. and then of course, the obvious allusion made by the literal view between villages, a perfect means of capturing joanna's new life as a victor, pulled between the capitol and her home that no longer feels like it once did.

moving on to treech (or at least the version we see in the movie) who i think is probably best represented by "halloween." i find that i can often etch out meaning in every lyric of this song when it comes to him and specifically his relationship with lamina and the way it seems to haunt him after her death and even before. early in the song we get the lyric "i worry for you, you worry for me," which i feel really digs into their initial and even lingering dynamic: the way treech moves to protect her when shots are fired at the zoo and the obvious attachment she feels for him in return. then we have "the wreckage of you i no longer reside in/ the bridges have long since been burnt." here i have to imagine the wreckage as a sort of symbolic stand in for the state lamina is in throughout the lead up to the games, with the burned bridges obviously being when he turns his back on her. "it's not halloween, but the ghost you dressed up as/ sure knows how to haunt." i have to imagine treech spends the remainder of the games, and his life sort of haunted by what took place the day coral and mizzen killed lamina, we can see it on his face, this sort of all consuming guilt, but then that lyric is followed with "it's an ode to the hole that i/ found myself stuck in/ a song for the grave that i dug," and this is really the nail in the coffin for me, as suddenly this feels like the perfect song to capture the sort of complex grief he may have felt, mourning her loss, regretting the betrayal, and ultimately laying some of the blame on himself.

now this one i feel hinges a bit more on my own personal headcannons, but i see so much of "paul revere" in treech as well. we have this kid here who does his best to sort of distance himself from the one thing tying him to his home, likely for better odds of survival, but it still feels a bit like a betrayal of his district. i think symbolically, the home represented by the song here has to be taken as representing lamina, because i cannot imagine treech would fight so hard to win the games, even leaving his own district partner if it wasn't out of sheer desperation to return. still, a lot of the imagery here certainly conjures the 7 i see when i picture the district, sort of rural and cold, with mentions of the mountains we know 7 would have (being around the washington area). but in this case i'm looking specifically at the lyrics "and when they ask me who i am/ i'll say, "i'm not from around here"," which for me conjures the moment treech abandons lamina during the arena tour and the way it represents a sort of abandonment of his previous identity in favor of survival. there's also "it's typical, i fear/ folks just disappear," which i think can be read both as the way people would likely disappear from 7 over the years due to the games, but also the way that even if they returned, it was changed.

finally, my beautiful girl, lamina, who, more than any other song on the album, captures the essence of "come over". this connection also moves a bit into my own personal headcannons for lamina and specifically her relationship with treech, but even outside of that, the song's very first lyrics resonant so deeply with her situation: "i'm in the business of losing your interest/ and i turn a profit each time that we speak," mirroring the way treech pulls away, leaving her before the games have even begun. also, we have the lyric "so when they mention the sad/ kid in the sad house on balch street/ you won't have to guess who they're speaking about," which for this girl who i think we can assume has always been a sort of gentle force makes so much sense. now we kind of get into opinions of mine, but i've always imagined treech and lamina as maybe childhood friends or cousins, with lamina being a bit better off, and therefore treech spending a good deal of time at her house when they were young (in my mind it also sort of contributes to the way the betrayal went down with lamina, who lead a somewhat easier life growing up having a lower inclination towards survival and treech having a bit of stored up resentment for the conditions he was raised in in contrast with hers). that's why for me the idea of this song is so strongly tied to lamina, beckoning him to come over, to stay the night, to take comfort in the safety of her home (tbh i might write a oneshot about this). also, the lyrics "i know that it ain't much/ i know that it ain't cool/ oh, you don't have to tell/ the other kids at school." i can totally see treech as a kid being a bit embarrased of this companion who can barely stand her own ground and lamina who knows this giving him what she can anyways because that is the kind of person she is.

also, last one i promise, but "you're gonna go far," which for me also conjures pre-games treech and lamina and the way that he likely had this idea that she would make something of her life before everything went to hell. and even outside of that, lamina to me, will always represent the lyric "you're the greatest thing we've lost," with her unabashed kindness and bravery and the way district 7 probably mourned for the quiet girl with the red hair who always had the power to do more.

#treech #treech tbosas #treech thg #lamina #lamina tbosas #lamina thg #joanna mason #joanna thg #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #tbosas #the hunger games #thg #hunger games #district 7

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bumblebugwrites · 1 year ago

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i don't think y'all understand how cowgirl the reader in no evil angel but love is to me. like if i wasn't so invested in the whole thing with treech, i would fully kill him off and just write about her living her farm girl life. catch her making cheese from goat's milk and raising chickens in her spare time.

#neabl #no evil angel but love

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bumblebugwrites · 1 year ago

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For your TreechXReader ongoing fic, first, I LOVE IT, and second, are we supposed to start liking Lux? Cuz I am and I’m not sure if I’m an outlier or just weird

*me when the secret plan i had from the beginning starts falling into place, and you all start falling in love with lux*

listen, all i'm gonna say is lux is and always has been babygirl, and actually, if you don't like her, you have the wrong opinion. also, i'm too much of a girls' girl for the reader to have some sort of weird "one of the boys" mentality so tbh this was always bound to happen.

#neabl #no evil angel but love

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bumblebugwrites · 1 year ago

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you are such a good storyteller omg i love ur writing so much!! all of your work is amazingly written 🫶

stawp anon, you are too sweet! tbh y'all, i've lowkey been losing steam with this one, but i really wanna keep going, and seeing you guys enjoy this story makes that worth it every time :)

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bumblebugwrites · 1 year ago

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I have to say it cause it’s the truth….. you are THE best writer on this site. There I said it have a lovely day 💗

ahh!! anon, can't even express how this made my entire life. wrote 4k words in the fugue state induced by this ask :)

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bumblebugwrites · 1 year ago

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chapter 5: killer

Pairing: Victor!Treech x fem!Reader

Summary: Your very first Hunger Games as a mentor comes to an end, and you are forced to reckon with the aftermath.

Warnings: Cursing, Suggestive Themes, Mention of Injuries, Character Death, Weapons, Violence.

Word Count: 9.3k

Taglist: @nekee-lilac02, @mr-panda357, @yourfavmiki, @blackoutdays13, @dialuvsbangtan

Series Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Bee has disappeared, but the alarm remains silent, and the girl from 2 is still swinging. You force yourself to blink past the tears rapidly welling in your eyes; you will have to save them for later. As of right now, you still have a tribute in the Games. But where is she?

From his place before the camera, Lucky Flickerman cries out in excitement at the feat.

“And Little Bee from 10 pulls off a miraculous disappearing act!” He displays an array of cards, waving them back and forth before making them vanish in one smooth movement, punctuating the end of his sentence. To your left, Treech sinks further into his seat, frustration palpable. You are still standing, heart beating at the erratic pace of a jackrabbit, and time moves unbearably slow as you continue to scan the screen for some sign of life.

And then it comes, and really, you aren’t sure what to say. The boy from 11 appears first, crawling out the shrub’s other side before Bee joins him, her hand tightly clasped in his own. They are careful, making little noise as they emerge, but the quiet does not last. The moment they are on their feet, they are moving with a speed that can not help but be loud, feet pounding against the forest floor. The girl from 2 makes no effort to chase, seemingly accepting the defeat of the moment, and you note, with a sinking feeling in your chest, that Bee turns back, for just a second, to eye Colt’s unmoving form, sprawled across the ground. Still, she does not stop running.

It catches you off guard, the nudge from Teff, but you follow his finger as he indicates the television with Bee’s face spinning in a slow circle. Her sponsorships. They are increasing. You want to scream, to admonish the people of the Capitol for their pity money. She had no worth to them before, and now here was her grief, a commodity to them. You say nothing but give a curt nod in thanks to the District 11 mentor for pointing it out.

When the boy tugging Bee along eventually pulls her to a stop, it is in a clearing already occupied by another: Trawl’s girl, Mags. She spins on her heel, clearly readying a speech of some sort, but stops herself when her eyes settle on Bee.

“What the fuck is this?” Her voice is tense, not like you expected from the girl who put her life on the line to hold her District partner as he lay dying and took in the alliless boy from 11.

“She needed help; I saved her,” he says.

“We don’t need another person. She’s gonna slow us down.” And you know it is not her intent to be cruel, only logical, but her words sting.

“She’s smart. And she’s small; she can hide like me.”

“Jadam– I am barely taking care of us; what made you think I could handle someone else?” Mags’s arms fly out in exasperation.

“I just thought that–”

“No. Okay? I won’t kill her, but she has to go.” The panic in your chest begins to rise. You have to do something, and quickly, too. Your eyes flit to Bee’s mounting donations, beginning to dwindle at the 430 mark before traveling down to your screen and the price of bread. A single loaf would cost you 400. All her sponsorships out the window in a single move. Still, it is a risk you have to take, your chest constricting with the knowledge that if she loses this alliance, she will have no one. You slam down on the button.

On the screen, Jadam turns to Bee, an apologetic look painting his features. Mags only eyes the forest floor behind him, arms crossed and clearly set in her decision. In the distance, there is a noise.

All three heads dart up in seeming unison as a drone comes into view just above the canopy of leaves before beginning to lower itself slowly to the ground. There is a tin attached at the bottom, but the trio of tributes remain frozen with fear. It is Mags who eventually moves, after several moments of silence, to inspect the device. Slowly, she pulls the tin from the drone, before opening the small container. A note tumbles out from inside, and she dips to collect it, but her eyes do not leave the contents of the metal box. She is hungry; this much you know from having watched her closely the past two days. She has yet to eat.

“It’s for you,” she says, her jaw growing tight as her eyes travel up to meet Bee’s gaze. The smaller girl moves forward with caution and, after noting the bread, pulls it from the container and begins to tear it into separate parts, handing one to Mags and tossing a second to Jadam before squaring her shoulders and making towards the large expanse of woods ahead, her section of the loaf clutched tightly in her hand. Come on. Don’t let her leave.

She is almost out of sight when Mags calls out after her.

“Wait.”

Bee whips around, features unreadable as she pauses, allowing Mags to continue. The older girl only sighs, the sound dripping with defeat.

“You can stay.”

The sentiment has barely left her lips when your shoulders sag in relief, and you are off, headed for the doors.

“Bathroom,” you hiss at the Peacekeeper who moves to block your path, and he shifts to let you pass.

It is all you can do to halt the muffled sob that threatens to escape your lips the minute you set foot in the hallway. The heels of your boots make a distinct echoing sound as they come in contact with the cold marble floor, and succession of clicks is so loud you almost miss the second pair of footsteps ringing out behind you.

You whip around, prepared to warn whichever victor has just followed you out to stop tailing you. To plaster a blank look across your features and tell them you are fine. It is not a victor. You recognize Dr. Gaul from the beginning of the Games, clearly on her way in as you make your way out. She has made several appearances over the last two days, though none too prolonged, mostly spent at the back of the large room, whispering to the man with the white hair. To Snow, you correct again subconsciously.

“Ms. L/N,” she says, nodding in acknowledgment. “I saw what happened to that boy of yours. Pity, really.”

“I’m not really sure why you’re concerned. What’s one more kid when you’ve already killed so many?” You grit out, unsure where the courage to do so has emerged from, but holding firm. Refusing to look away.

“Oh, I’m sorry, you must be confused. I was talking about the boy from 7. That’s too bad about his tribute. Although I must admit, it was disappointing to see the other one go. He truly would have made a strong contender. Much better, I’m afraid, than the little girl.” Fear, cold and sharp, travels down your spine at her words, and you fight the urge to flinch away from the woman, instead fumbling to defend yourself.

“Treech is not–” The doors to the lecture hall bang open, and the very man on your lips appears in the doorway.

“Interesting,” she notes with a dangerous grin before turning on her heel to enter the room. Treech eyes you with concern, one brow raised in confusion.

“What was–”

“Fuck off. You have to fuck off,” you cry out, and it almost sounds as though you are pleading with him as you swerve, avoiding his touch and making for the bathroom once more. All you wanted was a minute to cry in peace.

“What the hell? What is your problem?” He demands, anger creeping into his tone, but don’t respond, reaching the bathroom door and giving it a harsh tug. He slams it shut, planting a firm hand over your head.

“You. You are my problem!” You are inches apart, and your chest is heaving. Treech only looks lost, features plainly read for once. His lips are parted, body warm. The smell of cedar invades your personal space once more. You give him a shove, hard and meaningful, before darting inside the bathroom. He follows.

You want to scream in frustration, and the tears you have been fighting begin to wet your cheeks as he turns to lock the door, his eyes doing a quick scan of the walls. No cameras. At least as far as you’re aware.

“What is going on with you?” He hisses, and a wretched sob wracks your body. Treech takes a step forward, and you inch back.

“Don’t act so concerned now. You’re the one who said this had to be nothing,” you spit, knowing it is undeserved, but you are angry, and with rage wrapping its thick hands around your throat, it is difficult to see straight. To see who should truly bear the burden of your wrath.

“You said it first!” Treech looks exasperated at best, but he does not approach again, treating you like a wild animal of some sort as though afraid you might spook and disappear.

“You didn’t answer my letter!” Unfair. You are being unfair. But you will do anything to get him out of here. To make him leave you alone. Because at least alone, you are not a threat to his life.

“Don’t do that. Don’t put this on me.” He shakes his head, frustration lighting his features once more.

“So it’s my fault?” And by your third attempt to corral him out the door, you can feel your resolve weakening. Can see it in the mirror too.

“No! So it’s no one’s fault! You think I don’t– Every day I spend with you, I think about this. Us. And every day, I have to remind myself that it would get us both killed. But fuck, I–” His words feel heavy where they should fill you with excitement. With joy. And suddenly, awareness of your situation burdens you again. And he looks so earnest, the words tumbling from his lips in a regrettable stream. So vulnerable.

“Gaul knows.”

“Knows what?” He is taken aback, and you know it is not the response he wanted.

“She was calling you my boy from 7. She knows about whatever this is.” And once you have begun the words come pouring out in quick succession.

“She knows, and Teff and Trawl know. And at this point, I’d be surprised if Lucky fucking Flickerman hasn’t been made aware. And I am exhausted. And scared. And Colt is–” But you don’t finish, as all the emotions from earlier make their way back in, and the weight is unbearable, forcing you to your knees. Treech rushes forward, and this time, you do not stop him as he catches you halfway to the ground, pulling you close as he had two nights ago. And really, today’s frustration all comes back to that. Colt is dead, and no amount of screaming and crying will make it not so. Maybe that’s why you let it happen. Allow Treech to gently rock you on that bathroom floor and whisper soft words in your ear. Maybe that is why you turn to curl into his chest. To pretend, in spite of the lurking anxiety just beneath your skin, that this is alright. That there will be no consequences. No one to answer to. Just for a moment.

Treech reenters first, and by the time you step through the archaic double doors, it has been thirty minutes, and the girl from 6 is dead. You make for the back table, eyes fixed straight ahead, and pour yourself another coffee. Eight kids left. Something has to happen, and soon.

The walk back to your chair feels eternal, and you slump in your seat upon arrival, fixing the screen with your gaze. The sun has set, and Bee sits crosslegged beside Mags, who watches over the sleeping form of Jadam, his head in her lap.

“There’s no food out here. No water except for that fucking hellscape of a river. We can hide all we want, but we’re never gonna survive if we keep going down this route,” Mags sighs, her shoulders slumping.

“At this rate, we’ll all just starve to death,” she laments, eyes softening on their path over Jadam’s features.

“They can send us bread from the outside. Like today–” Bee supplies, a hint of desperation creeping into her tone. Your own gaze flits down to her sponsorships, measly and non-existent after your splurge on her peace offering.

“They need money for sponsorships. Money that no one is gonna send if we’re just sitting around doing nothing,” Mags reasons, and a sick feeling in your stomach tells you she is right.

“There’s food in the cornucopia,” Jadam mumbles, and you realize with a start he was only feigning sleep.

“What?” Bee asks, head turning to consider him and his words more carefully.

“There’s a whole box of it in there. I saw it on the first day, during the countdown. There’s apples, bread probably–” Mags cuts him off.

“Yeah, there’s also the boy from 1. The girl from 2. Or are you forgetting that?”

“I’m just saying–” Jadam tries once more, but the older girl will not let him finish.

“Well, don’t. It’s not safe. We’d be walking into an ambush. Completely weaponless. It’s not happening.”

Bee stands from her place beside the pair, brushing the dirt from her clothes before turning to make her way out into the woods.

“Where are you going?” And it is more of a demand than a true question, sharp and cold though tinged with worry as Mags asks it.

“Bathroom,” Bee explains easily, though her eyes do not meet the older girl’s before she spins on her heel and disappears. Your shoulders tense, gaze fixed on her departing form. Jadam rolls onto his back, eyes trained upwards on the twisted expression of concern on Mags’s face.

“She’ll be alright,” Jadam whispers, and Mags almost appears to flinch at the words of comfort.

“We’ll have to split from her soon,” she states, clearing her throat, and your own heart sinks deeper into your chest. It is true. They cannot stay together forever without eventually needing to kill one another. Still, Jadam asks the question you have already found the answer to.

“Why?”

“There can’t be many of us left, and I don’t want to have to kill her when it comes down to it.”

“What about me?” His words echo out across the room, quiet now from the lack of academy students, and you feel your gaze being tugged toward Teff, his brow creased into an unreadable emotion as he watches the screen.

“What about you?”

“Won’t you have to kill me? If we stay together?” There is a look that passes over Mags’s face, one you recognize from Colt. From the way he looked at Bee. From the way you look at Fawn. She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t need to. The truth hangs in the air with a heavy silence, broken only when Bee reappears. She thrusts something onto the ground. An object, heavy in weight. A trident. Not just any trident, the one that killed Colt.

“Where did you get that?” Mags demands, shock evident in her voice.

“Found it.” You know she is lying. And you thank God they have no fire lit because you are sure her face would appear blotchy and swollen.

“What–” Mags begins.

“You said we were weaponless. Now we aren’t.” And a wave of pride passes through your system, at little underestimated Bee and her bravery. It is quickly smothered, though, by disgust with yourself, thick and rampant at the realization that she should not have to make this stand in the first place.

“Bee–”

“Look, there’s two of them and three of us, and now we can fight. We need food. So let’s go get food.”

Something big is coming; you can feel it in the way your hands shake, gripping the fine china of your mug. Only it feels sinister, and with each second that creeps by it settles into certainty. The 11th Games is coming to an end. All there is to do is sit and wait.

The girl from 3 dies in the night, along with the boy from 6, which brings the number of remaining tributes to six. Neither gone of natural causes though, you note, with a worrisome lurch of your stomach. The fierce duo from 1 and 2 is on the hunt, and they show no signs of stopping.

You feel uneasy as you fix the screen with a watchful eye, camera trained on three small backs, lying in wait. It is Bee who speaks first, turning to Mags with a hushed whisper.

“I’m telling you, they’re not there. They must be out looking for other tributes. This is our chance.” Mags appears hesitant but eventually gives a nod, and the three creep out from their place in the tree line.

They make the jump across the river separately, and though Jadam nearly slips, both girls lunge forward, pulling him to safety. A soft yelp passes his lips, but Mags is quick to shush him, jutting her head in the direction of the cornucopia. Her implication is clear: they could still be inside.

As they get closer, the three take care to press themselves against the wall, with the District 4 girl in the lead, taking a shaky breath before readjusting her grip on the trident in her possession and peeking her head around the corner. Her shoulders drop in relief, and she delivers a curt nod in the direction of the others. They are safe to move forward.

The trio creeps inside, splitting up to peel the lids off of several boxes and fish around their contents. There are several long beats of shuffling and silence before Jadam clears his throat, lifting his head with a sly grin on his face and producing from the confines of the plastic container, a bag of apples.

And you can’t help it, really, your own slow smile at the small victory, especially as glee and relief plaster themselves across Bee and Mags’s faces. Finally. A win.

And then there is screaming. Distant at first, but quickly approaching. And the camera view changes and the girl from 7, Treech’s girl. Hazel is making a mad dash from the woods towards the center of the arena, the pair from 1 and 2 hot on her tail.

“Fuck.”

The trio has barely made it to the mouth of the cornucopia when she makes it over the river, hurtling herself with a violent force, the remains of the pack just behind her.

“We’ve gotta go,” Mags begins to rush, ushering the pair of younger tributes ahead of her and making toward the bank. It’s then the ground seems to begin shaking, all six remaining tributes hitting the ground, and suddenly, the center of the arena begins to shrink, pieces breaking off into the river as the water continues to engulf the chunks of land indiscriminatley.

The girl from 2 is up again, a twisted growl darkening her features as she lunges Hazel, still splayed out from the fall. It is quick and merciful, the sword passing through her chest, and before you can truly process it, she has gone limp, and the buzzer signals her death. Beside you, Treech flinches.

On the screen, Mags’s head whips around in several wild motions, trying to calculate an escape route. The trio edges closer to the river, and the pair from 1 and 2 notes their presence for the first time, the girl turning her mean scowl on Bee, the mark of Colt’s attack stretched across her face in a jagged scar. She starts to run, and the ground begins to shake once more.

A piece breaks off, this time not unpopulated. Jadam hits the water with a splash. Mags lets out a cry of concern, lunging forward to pull him from the river. Her free hand connects with his, but there is a clear tug at his figure, and he screams in pain, accidentally pulling her in with him. The girl from 2 is nearly on Bee when both of them disappear beneath the surface.

One half of the pack takes Bee to the ground, and you resist the urge to reach for her. Beneath the water, there is movement. Both heads resurface, but Jadam’s lulls awkwardly to the side, and his eyes are unblinking. You feel like throwing up as the buzzer sounds again.

Mags seems to notice as well, her eyes welling up and a strangled sob escaping her lips. And then she is lifting the trident, stabbing down and something seems to give as she moves through the water towards the shore, gripping at the dirt and pulling herself up. Her eyes are cold, and she barely seems to notice as she turns, as though on instinct and impales the oncoming boy from 1 with her weapon before discarding him into the river.

The girl is next and, from behind, poses less of a threat. Beneath her, Bee has stopped struggling so much. Something is wrong. The trident pierces the girl from 2’s throat, and with several wretched choking sounds, she falls to the side, revealing Bee, drained of color beneath her. She is still breathing, though barely, her chest rising and falling in uneven breaths and a large gash painting her stomach. She looks up at Mags with eyes filled with tears, and you wonder if the older girl will deliver the final blow just to get it over with. She seems to consider it for a moment, and Bee’s eyes squeeze shut, awaiting the impact.

The trident hits the ground, cast aside in one harsh movement, and Mags sinks slowly to her knees, pulling the younger girl into her lap. Her features grow tired, though admittedly warmer, and she begins to stroke Bee’s hair. You choke back a sob.

The careful braid you had pleated into her chestnut locks is almost completely undone, and Mags runs her fingers through the strands, undoing your work and then beginning to work at the knots that had formed in the Games. There is no need for the braid anymore. There will be no more fighting, no more days spent working in the slaughterhouse. Instead, her hair falls loose around her shoulders in the way a little girl’s hair should, wild and free. Uncontained.

“I’m so sorry,” Mags whispers, the words croaked and wet.

“Don’t be. I was never gonna win.” The response comes, weak and small.

“Could you do me a favor?” Mags only manages a nod, and Bee flashes her with a half-smile.

“If you ever make it over to 10, tell my mom not to worry about me. And that I love her.”

“I will. Of course, I will,” Mags promises, tears falling atop Bee’s fragile form. She is quiet for a time before speaking again, moving her hand to lay over Mags’s.

“Do you think there’s another world where we could have been friends?” The older girl’s lip shakes as she takes a minute before responding.

“I’d like to think we don’t need another world. That I can tell people we were friends in this one.” Bee smiles, real and bright, though fading by the second.

“That’s nice. Friends. I’m sorry it wasn’t for longer. I think I really would’ve liked getting to know you.” When she finally stills, Mags lets out a final shuddering sob before loosing a scream, angry like no other you’ve heard before. She does not hear as they announce her the victor, barely seeming to notice the Peacekeepers entering the arena through some passage in the cornucopia. Instead, she leans forward to press a kiss to Bee’s head and clings, shuddering to her form until they pry her from it, pulling her towards the exit.

The first thing you do upon arrival at the victor’s suite is take a shower. It has been days, and you scrub at your skin with a ferocity previously unknown to you, but the ghost of the Games does not wash away.

Trawl has been called elsewhere, likely to meet with Mags, but the rest of you have been told you will remain in the hotel until called upon for further ceremonies, and so you do. Wait, that is, as the hours tick by in a vile silence. Several of the other victors depart towards their rooms to rest or perhaps escape the group and the constant reminder they provide of the events that have just occurred. And really, you should sleep. In the last five days, you’ve probably only managed to crash for a grand total of two hours, and even that time had been dispersed in fifteen-minute chunks. But closing your eyes means seeing them. Colt sprawled out, his eyes still open and the ghost of a smile on his face in spite of his leaking chest, and Bee, whispering her final words to the girl from 4, her hair a messy halo in the grass. You wonder what will become of what is left of them.

It is a thought that has plagued you since your own Games, what the Capitol does with the remains of the District children. The first few years, they had shipped them home in boxes, though little had been done in the way of embalming, and often, the children arrived in a condition so bad that parents were denied the privilege of even seeing them. One year, the Capitol sent patches torn from the clothing of the deceased as a means of commemoration. But eventually, they ceased pretending to care about the families of fallen tributes, and in the last few years, when your child died, you were left with nothing but the memory of them and an empty grave.

Your hands shake as you enter the kitchen, barely noting the other mentors in the room. You haven’t eaten much in the last few days; the Games made you feel sick, and keeping anything down felt difficult. Still, the lack of care seems to be catching up with your body, so you force down some toast from the plater on the counter as well as a piece of bacon before turning to observe the suite.

You note Treech’s absence almost immediately, and though a good part of you longs for his presence, you know that after the events of yesterday, you should keep your distance. Teff is seated alone at the dining room table, hunched over and scribbling something. Probably a letter you note. Probably to Jadam’s parents or Olive’s. You shake the thought as it brings in a torrent of others. Should you be writing letters? What do you even say to the mothers of two children who will never see their homes again? Nothing. At least nothing they haven’t heard before, and certainly nothing that makes the absence feel any less cruel.

On the couch, Octavian sits, stiff as a board, his eyes glued straight ahead. The television plays something you don’t recognize and, therefore, must not be the news, but it doesn’t seem to matter to him. He stares blankly past the screen, gaze fixed on something you’re certain isn’t there.

Beside him, Antonia has begun to nod off, though she jerks awake every few seconds, eyes doing a desperate search of the room before landing on Octavian and, noting that he is safe, closing once more. Further down, several feet away from the pair, Lux sits, feet tucked primly beneath her and a magazine in her hands. You note that the pages turn too quickly for her to possibly be reading the text, but the movement seems to calm her, apart from the occasional fidget. You make your way over, taking the seat beside hers.

“What are you doing?” She asks without so much as looking up from the task before her.

“Sitting down?” You snark in return, sinking further into your seat.

“You can’t sit somewhere else? Further away?” She turns to face you now, nose crinkling in mock disgust, but you ignore the twisting of her features, hoping mostly for a moment of normalcy.

“Lux–”

“We aren’t friends,” she says plainly. And bickering with Lux feels normal, but her statement still strikes at an odd place between your ribs.

“Jesus, I know–” You begin once more.

“I’m not gonna sit here and play patty-cake and braid your hair.” This has you rolling your eyes, a soft snort escaping you.

“Would you calm down? I’m sitting next to you, not asking you to marry me.”

“Well, I would hope not; I’ve seen the wedding customs you have in 10; frankly, they’re a bit barbaric,” she taunts, flipping a long strand of hair over her shoulder and just barely missing your face. Still, there is something about the conversation that feels better than sitting catatonic like Octavian and staring at the wall.

“I’m sorry we can’t afford to be quite as gaudy with our ceremonies as–”

“Gaudy? We are very tasteful– I suppose you’d just have us walking down the aisle in work boots?” She sputters at the notion, and you know you are under her skin. Still, you do not stop, pushing forward with the jest.

“You know honey, maybe it would be better if we just eloped. I never really got the whole fuss around weddings anyways.” And suddenly, Lux breaks off in a laugh, though her brow remains raised in surprise as though she hadn’t been expecting to enjoy your company.

“I wanted a big wedding,” she admits after a long beat, turning to face you as though telling some sort of secret.

“When I was a girl, I would dream about falling in love and getting married. Perfect dress. Perfect venue. But nobody wants to lie in bed next to a killer. At least not back home. Not now. And by the time this Capitol plan kicks in and changes their minds, I won’t be me anymore, and that little girl will be long gone.” Her face has gone sour by the end of her confession, and you feel your own heart sinking in your chest at the turn in conversation. You want to say sorry. To reach out and comfort her. But she is Lux, and to do so would only encourage scorn, so you nod, trading a secret of your own.

“I always thought I would never marry. I wanted to work on the ranch like my dad; I thought that was what freedom looked like. And then it turned out all the ranchers ever really talk about is home. Their wives and husbands and how much they missed them. And I realized freedom doesn’t have to mean being alone. We don’t wear boots to our weddings. At least, not all of us do. It’s a ranching tradition. The whole bunkhouse saves up for a pair, and then the night before the wedding, you gift them to the person marrying into the ranch life. Like the things that are important to you become more important because they’re sharing them with you. And even though I didn’t believe in weddings or marriage, I started dreaming up those boots, what they would look like, and who would be wearing them. And then it didn’t seem so bad, falling in love.” Lux snorts at the notion, but when she dips her head to take in her magazine once more, there is a soft smile spread across her lips.

“You’re not so bad,” you say, quiet so only she can hear.

“I guess I’ve had worse company,” she replies, and you feel a piece of the weight chip away, just for a second.

For two days, the Capitol seems to forget entirely that you exist. Mags makes several television appearances accompanied by Trawl, but neither so much as enters the hotel. As for the rest of you, the space feels suffocating. At night, you escape to the lobby, seeking a change of environment and anything strong enough to drown out the Games that haunt you from every screen in the Capitol. The day proves to be more difficult, and you pass the hours making strained conversation with the other victors.

Several times, you consider writing Bee and Colt’s families, but the thought continues to bring bile to your throat, and you decide you will visit with them instead upon your return.

On the third day, there is a knock at the door. Several people enter all at once, including a pair of Peacekeepers led by a man you’ve never seen before. He has a sharp nose and eyes that remain guarded, almost appearing glassed over as he speaks. In addition, they bring Trawl and Mags, the former drawing you into an embrace upon arrival.

His companion shows signs of obvious discomfort, keeping close to her mentor as he makes his way to the couch. The man takes his place before the television, and you note he is likely here to pass on information regarding the next steps in this process, though you feel surprise creep into your system, wondering what has happened to Coriolanus Snow. Probably basking in the glory of his successful undertaking. It is a sour thought, but you have no doubt it is mostly true.

“Hello there, we haven’t met before. My name is Hilarius Heavensbee, and going forward, I’ll be working with Coriolanus Snow to oversee the mentorship program.” He is met with silence, but you all file in, aware there is likely a speech in store. He squares his shoulders before continuing.

“I’m here to let you know we’ll be keeping you here a little longer, mostly to get you prepped on what the first-ever Victory Tour will look like. Additionally, as part of our campaign to endear you to the public, each of you must pick a talent to cultivate and integrate into your personality.”

“Talent?” Antonia asks, a sneer decorating her features.

“Some sort of interesting skill. Drawing, poetry, dance, frankly, I don’t really care what you pick, as long as it’s something,” he says dismissively, though his posture conveys that there is a layer of deception to the aloof nature he presents.

“I’m good at chopping down trees. Can that be my talent?” Treech speaks up from beside you. Lux snorts, and he shoots her a glare.

“No. No, your talent needs to be something that distinguishes you from your district. Remember, on your new victor’s earnings, you will no longer be a part of the working class. This should be something you do for fun. A hobby,” Heavensbee prompts.

There is a wave of muttering that passes through the room, and you hear as several times the words fun and hobby are tossed around in a tone that indicates little more than confusion.

“Right, well, you’ll have until the end of the day to decide on something. And try not to pick the same talents; we don’t need nine victors who can knit,” he says, clapping his hands together before moving to depart and leaving the suite buzzing with confusion.

“What are you doing for this stupid talent thing?” Treech does not knock before entering your room; only thrusts himself down across the end of your bed and waits expectantly for your answer after closing the door behind him.

“Well, I already know how to draw, so probably just sketching,” you shrug, though it isn’t really a question; you’ve already decided.

“Urgh, this is so dumb,” he groans, burying his face in the duvet.

“C’mon, there has to be something you’re good at besides using an axe,” you tease, your lips twisting into a smile when he lifts his head to send you an indignant expression before the emotion on his face melts into something more contemplative.

“Sometimes I make little… things out of wood. For my sisters,” he says, slow as though weighing the option.

“There you go,” you encourage, pleased to have solved the predicament so quickly.

“No.” He shakes his head, setting it back down with another sigh.

“What do you mean, no? It’s right there. And you already know how to do it.”

“I don’t want them to have that. It’s– I want that to be for me.” And you cannot blame him for that, though the thought had not occurred to you before, and you think of your own talent. Of how the sole surviving symbol of your teenage dreams to become a veterinarian was the skill you would now hand on a silver platter to the Capitol.

“Okay,” you nod, thinking for a moment before speaking again. “Do you know how to play any instruments?”

“Do I look like I know how to play any instruments?” He quips, voice muffled by the bed.

“Maybe you could try the guitar,” you say, and it is mostly a joke.

“As if. Do you know how ridiculous I would look trying to play the guitar?” You resist a laugh at the thought.

“Please, the women of the Capitol are already practically falling at your feet; just imagine if you could serenade them.”

“Shut up,” he says, looking up at you with a pout plastered across his face. Still, you don’t stop.

“Play me your guitar, oh Capitol loverboy. Is it true? Are you really a tortured dark soul, like they say?”

“Shut up,” Treech exclaims, louder this time, and as the words leave his mouth, he lunges forward to muffle your remarks with his hand. You struggle to break free, laughter slipping from your lips as he pulls you closer in his attempts to silence you, but it is of little use as you continue to pester him with your remarks until you gain enough traction to whip around and face him.

You are inches apart when your eyes meet his, and the words seem to die on your tongue as you note the distance, or lack thereof, between you. And for a moment, the world seems to stop. And his lips are so close, his eyes so soft. You recall the feeling of his curls between your fingers. You think you will never forget that feeling. His nose brushes yours, and your eyes flutter closed, cheek leaning into the open palm inches from your face. But you cannot. You know you cannot. So you pull away.

“Treech–”

“I know,” he cuts you off, allowing his hand to remain outstretched for a moment before dropping it to his side. His eyes linger though, tracing each crevice of your face with a look you cannot quite dissect.

“I should–”

“I’ll go,” he interrupts you once more and stands to depart. And your heart feels as though it is heavy enough to crash through all your vital organs, sinking into the bottom of your stomach. “I think maybe it’s better if I stop staying in your room.” He doesn’t turn around, his words projecting out towards the door, and you feel the biting sting of tears forming in your eyes. You want to speak, but you’re afraid your voice will break and betray you. He is gone before you can even manage a shaky breath.

You do not speak with Treech the next day, silence providing a strain between you, though you spare him a glance upon Hilarius’s return when he announces he will, in fact, be learning to play the guitar.

Before his departure, the new hire announces that you are all set to return tomorrow, but not prior to engaging in one final festivity, a celebration set to be held at the President’s mansion. Lux nearly squeals with excitement, though the decision seems to breed more questions than answers among others. “They won’t even let you come in here without a security detail, and now we’re invited to a ball?” Teff demands, brow furrowed in concern. “It just doesn’t make sense.”

“This is all part of the larger plan in reconstructing your image as victors. We want the people of the Capitol to regard you as favorites. That starts with getting you in the same rooms with them.”

“This is gonna be fucking miserable,” mutters Treech, and you cannot help but agree. You can hardly imagine a world where, upon being faced with you, the Capitol citizens can manage anything other than sheer horror. Still, if some party is all that’s standing between you and returning home, you’ll find a way to get through it, even if you have to grit your teeth and bite your tongue until it bleeds.

Your stylists arrive hot on the tail of Hilarius’s departure, and by 9:00 pm, you are all ready to depart. You find yourself standing by Mags in the center of the suite’s common space as you wait for the cars meant to transport the lot of you to arrive, and upon noting a fallen eyelash on her cheek, you reach out on instinct before stopping yourself and clearing your throat.

“Sorry, it’s just you have an eyelash,” you start, indicating its location with an outstretched finger. Her eyebrows lift and she quickly moves to dust off her cheek, but to no avail.

“Here, let me.” You reach out once more, this time making contact with her skin and brushing it from her face.

“It’s good luck, you know. They say you’re supposed to put it on your knuckle and then blow it off and make a wish,” you smile, offering it back.

“Thanks, but I don’t think any of my wishes have a chance of coming true.” You nod, quiet understanding passing over your face before moving the piece of her to your own knuckle.

“Well then, I’ll wish for both of us that tonight goes decently well.” You shut your eyes tight and huff the eyelash out into the room.

“You’re not supposed to say it out loud.” And there is the ghost of a smile on her face at your mistake.

“What are the chances it comes true anyway?”

That was two hours ago, and as it turns out, the answer is zero to none. In fact, so far, the night had proved to be a disaster. No self-respecting Capitol citizen wanted to be seen talking to someone from the Districts, and so, as expected, no one spoke with you at all. Picking at the abundance of food lining the tables that fill the garden had only earned you several hard stares, and there came a point where even talking to Teff felt frustrating under the weight of so many watchful eyes, and so, about thirty minutes ago, you had pressed yourself into a corner, brimming with the hope that you might get lucky and simply disappear.

At present, your gaze is fixed on Treech, locked in conversation with a woman you recognize as his mentor from the 10th Hunger Games. She is a pretty girl; hair twisted back and away from her face and a visage like a cherub’s. Not that you really take notice. Not that you’re jealous or anything.

“May I have this dance?” Your thoughts are interrupted by the sudden presence at your side, and with a jolt, you turn to meet Hilarius Heavensbee, looking slightly more preened than he had several hours ago in your hotel room. You cast another glance in Treech’s direction, though it reveals nothing new. He is still wrapt in his conversation with Vispania and you are still standing in the corner, only not quite so alone.

“Shouldn’t you be sneering at me with disgust from thirty feet away?” And really, he’s done nothing to deserve it, but you are not exactly in the mood to be extending courtesies, and his offer seems to you more like an attempt to get under your skin than anything else.

“Well, I would, but then you’d be stuck standing in this corner, and I cannot think of a worse way to waste a perfectly beautiful dress.” You only snort in response, but the words seem genuine enough, and he extends you a careful hand, which, after several moments of consideration, you take. He leads you with ease, you note, as you settle into the pattern of his practiced steps, and you begin to relax in spite of your newfound position thrusting you into the limelight. Your eyes flit back to Treech, who, having noted your presence on the dance floor, appears distracted from his conversation with his former mentor, expression unreadable.

“How’s your night been so far?” Hilarius asks low and quiet in your ear. This conversation is just for you, meaning your biting tone from before feels at liberty to return.

“Is that a joke?” You scoff, meeting his gaze with a single eyebrow arched in question.

“They’re warming up to you,” he reassures, gathering the implication of your words, and you mull over his comment.

“Yeah, to Lux and Beau. And Octavian, I guess.” This much is true. The three had been the most successful in engaging with the other partygoers, with Lux in particular managing to charm a group of Capitol citizens who have yet to depart from her side. Hilarius only sighs before seeming to make a quick shift in conversation.

“Do you know the real reason I’m dancing with you?”

“Well, given that I saw the ring on your finger the minute you walked up, I’m assuming it's not an attempt to get in my pants,” you chuckle, eyes traveling to the golden band on his left hand. He grants you a smile, though his head shakes in tandem with the action.

“Look around. Look at the way they’re looking at you.” And you do. And he’s right, you note, not even having heard his reason, because the people of the Capitol have stopped glaring, fixing you instead with looks of curiosity and interest. It’s working.

As the music comes to a stop, he steps back, taking your hand in his and pressing a soft kiss to the skin. You nearly jerk back in surprise.

“Was that really necessary?”

“No. But you should see the look on your face.” You roll your eyes, casting your head around to gauge the reaction of your audience. The place beside Vispania is empty, and all that’s left of Treech is a retreating form headed for the house.

“I have to go, sorry,” you whisper, barely looking back as you set off after him.

It is not for lack of trying that you come up empty in your search for Treech, doing the rounds of both the gardens and the house for the remainder of the party to no avail. By the time you return to the hotel, it is nearly 3:00 am, and Treech is nowhere to be found. You crash into the soft padding of your duvet, not even bothering to wipe the makeup from your face, and the hem of your dress spills over the side of the bed, brushing against your ankles.

You think of Hilarius, of the dance you’d shared and the seeming sympathy he had lent you in his attempt to garner you even a modicum of support and respect. Your brain picks at his possible motivations: advancement within Snow’s ranks, better support for their sadistic project, a false sense of trust instilled in you as a mentor. Genuine kindness. You keep coming back to that answer, but it feels ignorant to let yourself believe, so you move on to other musings. To Treech.

It is incredible, you think, the amount of time he spends occupying your thoughts. You run your hands down your face, resisting the urge to curl in on yourself as you picture once more his retreating form. Was it something Vispania said? Or maybe, just maybe, was it you? Your dance with Hilarius? The thought feels indulgent, and your mind travels to earlier today. To your almost kiss. To the awkward battle, the two of you seem locked in, both wanting to give in but refusing for the other. Your mind begins to drift over the what-ifs.

There is a knock at the door. You are on your feet in an instant, though upon reaching it, your hand hovers over the handle. What if it’s not Treech? Or worse, what if it is? What do you even say? That this is doomed. That the two of you are doomed. You twist it open, and he doesn’t even look up as the light of your room floods the hallway, soft curls hanging down in his face and his frame draped against the entrance.

“I–” You begin.

“I can’t do this anymore.” He does not look up as he speaks, and his voice is strained as it travels in your direction.

“What?”

“When I’m with you, I can’t have you. When I’m ignoring you, you’re all I can think about. This is driving me insane. I feel like I’m insane and like no matter what I do, I’m losing. And I can’t just push it down anymore– Trust me, I tried. And I just knew I had to tell you. Well, technically, I’ve already told you, but this is the last time I’ll say it and–” And he is looking at you now, eyes wild.

“Treech–”

“When I saw you with him tonight, it felt like I was– Like I couldn’t– I’m not good at–” His struggle is palpable, but even as you move to interrupt him, you sense he has more to say.

“Treech,” you begin again.

“Like I was drowning.”

“Treech.” And this time, he doesn’t interrupt you as you move forward, placing a hand on his chest to still his breathing, which has become a bit erratic. He freezes, and for once, every emotion on his face is clear. Fear. Frustration. Adoration. It pools at the corners of his eyes as he looks at you. You are inches apart. Your mind flits to several days ago in the bathroom. To yesterday in your room. To all the nights you’d shared your bed. To that very first trip out to the Capitol, his pinky twisting around yours moments before you stepped out on stage. You take a shaky breath, and he leans in closer. Your noses are brushing. Now is the time to pull back. You can stop this here. But you can’t, not really. You don’t think an oncoming train could pull you away. Your lips brush over his, and his eyes begin to flutter closed before opening once more, fixing you with a questioning regard.

You only need to nod once, and it is as though time, which had stopped, has started again. And the kiss, which is soft at first, becomes frenzied, his hands pulling desperately at your waist, your own traveling up into his hair. And you pull each other closer, impossibly closer, appearing for a moment to devour one another. Completely undivided. Completely unaware.

It is early the next morning when the call comes; it sets the phone beside your bed ringing, and in your haze, you reach towards the sound only to discover Treech, who is closer, has released his hold on you to answer it. His voice is heavy with sleep, and you decide later that it was sleep that rendered you too dumb to perceive the danger of allowing him to pick up the phone. The phone in your room. Your room in which he was not meant to reside. But he continues speaking, in short, snippy phrases, before hanging up and turning to press a chaste kiss against your cheek.

“I’ll be right back.” And again, it should have scared you, his getting up so suddenly to depart, but all you can manage is a nod before you curl back into the warmth of the bed, unplagued by concern.

Snow’s office is much smaller than Treech expected, though that does not prevent the cold from seeping in. He had been quick to dress himself after receiving the call to your room, a mistake he had only recognized after speaking. Not that it would have saved him the grief. It was him Snow was asking for, not you. That thought alone is enough to send a shiver down his spine. How had Snow known to reach him there? He pushes the thought away, toying with his hands nervously while the other man finishes shuffling through a stack of papers before turning to him with a nonchalance that should have almost lowered his guard. It does not. Treech only clenches his hands into two tight fists while waiting for the man in the pressed suit to begin.

“No need to look so nervous. As long as this conversation goes well, you have nothing to worry about.” Snow smiles, face contorting into the expression as though unsure how to proceed.

“Now, I’m sure you’re wondering why I’ve called you here, though at this point, given your numerous indiscretions, I feel it should be a bit obvious.” Treech does not share the expressed sentiment and sets about wracking his brain for anything he might have done.

“Oh, come on, don’t look so confused. Your relationship? With the girl from 10? You didn’t seriously think I was that stupid, did you? And I mean, it was fine, all those sad puppy dog looks and missed glances, but then you had to go and do something about it, didn’t you?” Anything he might have done that didn’t involve you, his single gross oversight. And suddenly, it all falls into place. The call placed to your room, the teasing glint in Snow’s eye.

“How–” He begins.

“You’re in the Capitol, Mr. Elmore, my domain. There isn’t a single place in this city I don’t have eyes on.” And he’s not sure Snow even has to say it. But he does. And the words sink like a stone within his gut.

“Anyways, you’re in luck. It’s a simple fix, really. You cut ties with the girl, and I overlook this mistake.” Cut ties? He has only just gotten you within his grasp, and now he is supposed to, what? Throw you away?

“I can’t–”

“Oh, you can. And you will. I understand you have a family, several sisters? A mother? Not to worry, though. I wouldn’t start with them. You see, Miss. L/N happens to have a family as well. One that is very dear to her, as I’m sure you know. And wouldn’t it be a shame if that little sister of hers was reaped for next year's Games? A tragedy, I assure you, though it would make good press.” There it is. A threat strong enough to stop him in his tracks. A promise that his actions would result before all else in consequences for you and you alone.

“So what? I just stop talking to her? What if she won’t leave me alone?” It occurs to him that try as he might, it isn’t exactly in your nature to just let things go.

“Well, then you make her. Frankly, that’s not my concern. Just make it happen.” And just like that, you are gone. No longer within reach. No longer within reason.

“You can go now.” And Treech is nearly at the door before he speaks again.

“But Mr. Elmore? We’ll be in contact. See, there are a few other things I’d like to run by you at some point, and now that we’ve gotten to know one another on this personal level, I feel I can trust you to make the right decisions.” Treech’s gut twists at the dismissal, but he says nothing, thinking only of you. Of what he is going to say. Do. How he is going to push you away with all his unspoken confessions pressing at the backs of his teeth. He makes it to the end of the hall before throwing up.

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