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There’s a saying in the 6th district- if you don’t ride the wave, you’re going to crash and burn.
Flayon pastes on a gentle leer on his face as he listens for the names, cheating out while standing on stage for the sake of the cameras. Sinister enough to show that he’s unaffected by all the tragedy like a perfect Capitol pet. Soft enough to show that his heart still bleeds for his fellow citizens. First there’s the girl, 17, though he’s not sure if being older is a blessing or a curse. You understand so much more about what it means to live and to die. He was too young to know when he made it through. Though he is not an escort, the Capitol likes to parade him around as District 6's most recent Victor as if to tell the children they should all work very hard to return triumphantly just like him.
What a joke.
No matter if you survive, you can never live once you’ve been through the games.
The Capitol keeps an ever-tightening short leash on them, not quite as punishing as they may be towards District 3 but equally reluctant to give them any real power in case they get any nasty, rebellious ideas. They need to keep them grounded lest they get too many dangerous ideas about freedom and power and ride one of their hand-crafted hovercrafts across the border.
They keep Flayon on a gilded leash too, preening as he creates quaint little paintings for them. They would have assigned him something more profitable like jewellery making, perhaps, if they weren’t so scared to trust a 6 with a soldering iron and a set of tools. No, he just needed to look pretty and paint on the same brittle smile as he prepares the burial shrouds for each year’s fallen tributes.
As the boy’s name is called, there’s a loud bellow from the stands as someone volunteers. His voice rings throughout the crowd and his frosty gaze blazes towards them as if he dares them to take him away. He has a nice face too, still so innocent. It’s a bit of a shame. A few people beside him cover their ears. The group around him, however, hide their surprise poorly, throwing sympathetic looks towards the children tugging at his sleeves as he brushed off their hands. They must be his siblings, probably, or something similar.
When you're so young, your pain is so easily strewn on your face.
That’s one reason why they started encouraging volunteers like him behind the scenes, likely rewarded with more than just a few helpings of tesserae for his family. It’s just not fun to watch the same scrappy, interchangeable, malnourished tributes fall victim to the Careers every year. After the recent whispers of some kids who tried to sneak into the train out of 6, he’s not surprised that they fixed a volunteer to pipe up this year to remind them of their place.
His mother weeps a little as the boy walks up to the podium, his jaw clenched so tight to avoid letting any weakness escape. His fingers shake a little in his balled up hands.
It’s one thing to watch someone die because they have to and another to watch them choose it.
The thing is, the Capitol is happy to pay a little extra as long as it makes a good story. They need to show everyone that it is the right thing to do, that someone will still gladly choose to die, that there is no escape. Even the most innocent can become killers. That is what the games are designed to show the world.
The Volunteer from 6, they’ll call him this year, swooning over the tragedy of it all. And Flayon can work with that. He’ll have to, after all, no matter how much he loathes mentoring. He cannot falter now.
It’s hard to stare at these kids, some barely younger than himself, and tell them that everything will be okay when they both know that it isn’t.
The volunteer boy has finally made it up to the podium, and he makes a point of shaking both of their hands as the ceremony is concluding. He stares right into the camera as he does it too, armed with one of his megawatt grins. The Capitol will like that. Confidence is a hell of a drug.
The boy flinches a little as their hands meet, but he covers it with another smile. His hands are a little rough, but his voice is honey-smooth and carries well across the stage. He wears his facade quite well.
“Banzoin Hakka,” he says with an stilted smile.
Though the crowd cannot tell, back facing the audience, Flayon can see the way his pallor grows worse the longer they stand there. He’s a good kid, albeit a brave, stupid, doomed one. He's smart enough to keep up with the facade. It's better than nothing.
“Machina X Flayon,” he greets back. “I’ll be your mentor for the games.”
The games, the Reapening, the cries, it’s all one big show and they all have their roles to play.
Hakka recovers quickly, sending a wink towards the crowd before taking a deep bow. His sorrowful gaze eagerly drinks up the attention, the last sight of home, before the peacekeepers usher them into the train to the Capitol. He is so bright beneath the weeping lights.
A singer, probably. He has enough presence for it. That’s what they’d push him into being, if he somehow makes it out there and wins. A mouthpiece singing beautiful lullabies manufactured by the Capitol.
-
Hakka has cried so much on the journey once they escaped from the crowds, but Flayon finds his eyes welling up again regardless as they pass through the mountains. Somehow, no matter how drained he is, there is still more water that rises. His heart is an infinite wellspring.
Poor soul. Even if he wasn’t doomed from the start, he’s too soft to survive the Capitol unscathed. It is almost not worth trying with him, but Flayon knows that he's the one who will be punished for his inability to get through to him.
The girl took it in stride a bit better, busying herself with a square of patchwork embroidery and a penknife.
All Hakka’s managed to do was stare through the window, toss around in fitful sleep, and return his inkwell eyes to the retreating forms of trees.
They sit in silence for a few minutes before Flayon fiddles with the radio, turning it on to muddy up their words a little. It adds the veneer of privacy, as if such a thing could ever be afforded to them.
The girl looks up for a moment from her bunk, momentarily curious before turning back to her nightly routine. It's equally likely that she's learning how to eavesdrop, but Flayon doesn't really care either way.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he finally asks, offering an apple from the day’s lunch. Flayon’s gentle and coaxing, holding the question so softly in his mouth lest it shatter.
Hakka chews at a snail's pace. His nails pierce the skin and the juice drips down his fingers agonisingly slowly.
“I had to,” Hakka begins, pacing his words around strategic bites. He keeps his face covered by his hands and his voice is quieter when it returns. “One of my brothers needed medicine and they said they would take care of whatever the volunteer needed.”
Flayon files away that information for later. A sob story. He could use that. It is always easier to win people's sympathy.
“I understand,” he replies, because he does, because the Capitol would easily trade some measly medicine for the chance to crush any thoughts that 6’ers aren't a part of the system.
Hakka is even prettier under the moonlight, softer and silvery. Innocent. Maybe if the sponsors see that, then they'll try to buy him a little advantage so they can keep looking at his delicate face a little longer.
“Do you want to win?”
It would be better if he doesn't. He cannot teach anyone how to win, no matter how much he may know about the games and the Capitol. There is no such thing as victory.
“I want to survive,” Hakka answers, throat thick with tears.
He speaks at length in looping patterns about how it would be cruel to force his family to watch him die once they finally get the support they need. He is, all in all, much too soft.
It's the longest conversation they've ever had.
“I’m going to do everything I can to help you,” Flayon says softly, placing his hand beside Hakka’s trembling fingers. He stills as Hakka's thumb brushes against his, pulled away from his face. “You’re going to be fine.”
The last part is a lie, but Hakka smiles widely for the first time that night. He smiles, vibrant and alive.
It’s a roaring success.
The Capitol would hate to watch their carefully curated Volunteer buckle before the games even start, after all.
The Capitol would hate to watch pretty, porcelain Flayon toss another boy so heartlessly aside when he won because of his compassion, when he’s known as the red-hearted angel, when they are so similar.
It’s all for the show. That’s what he reminds himself, turning his eyes towards the camera mounted in the vase by the entrance. This is enough to win them both some consideration.
It’s one thing to be a Volunteer, and another to be the one that everyone roots for.
This is the only way he can possibly help him.
-
“There was snow in my arena,” he explains one night, warning Hakka of the potential deceptions to look out for. “Toxic. Don’t get any ideas of catching anything on your silly little tongue.”
Hakka’s still bad at fighting despite all the tips and training, limbs turned to jelly after trading blows in the arena. He’s probably only good enough to eke out a score of 6 at best, Flayon reckons, though maybe that would add more to the story. The 6 from 6. It's memorable.
Flayon squats and as Hakka clambers onto his back, he brings both hands under his thighs to hold him safely in place. He flinches a little as the weight settles, but Hakka doesn’t notice, slumped forwards and completely exhausted.
"I would accept just making it to the second day at this rate."
Hakka rests his arms against his head, fingers tracing sunbeams down his neck. His hands are always so warm.
Perhaps this is what happiness would look like, but Flayon is a Victor, but Flayon and Hakka are both District and they have never been able to choose what form happiness takes.
A shot of bitterness crawls down his throat in tandem with his tender touch.
They must simply accept what’s given to them.
So that’s what he does, for a moment, accept the sound of Hakka’s soft murmurs and imagine that somehow he can save him, only slightly frightened at how little his own show of competence matters at the point.
-
Hakka is so bright on the interview stage, midnight blue and constellation-prone under the studio lights. Flayon counts the seconds as they emerge together, hand in hand. They're slightly late, turning up when their names are called for the second time.
It's 10 until someone in the second row notices. 30 until the interviewer pans his eyes down towards them.
This is the moment that everything has been leading up to.
Flayon kisses him hard, once, for the audience to see. Twice. The second time he brought his face in, hand knit tightly in the soft strands of Hakka’s loose purple hair, and pressed his mouth just beneath his lips. It's a stage kiss. It carries more weight than a real one would.
This whole game is all one big show, isn’t it?
Flayon’s finally using the show for their own advantage.
He will hate himself for this, starting with the way his eyes flicker to glance at the rapt audience before pulling Hakka up towards him once more, gently kissing his mouth to keep him quiet. It looks more frantic than it is, Flayon's arms hiding his face from the crowd.
Hakka's hair is too soft beneath his fingers, too filled with dreams that cannot belong to people like him- people who have gone through the games and had the misfortune of surviving. He doesn’t even deserve to touch it, an extension of the Capitol and its power and its infectious grime.
Hakka pulls away once he finally removes his hand, confused yet not entirely unhappy, but Flayon’s eyes remain glued on the crowd and cameras behind him as they finally separate. These are the kinds of calculations you need to make as a Victor. You see, the Capitol forces its Victors to dance under these invisible spotlights as if to remind them that they will always be District no matter how much they’re paraded around as if they deserve more.
The crowd erupts in cheers behind them, caught up in the narrative of love in unlikely places. They have only ever cared about the spectacle of it all.
Hakka’s eyes search his own, yet find nothing in their wake.
There are nothing but minefields stretched between them.
Maybe, if he understood what it means to win, to play the games and trade one barren cell for another, then he would understand why it has to be this way.
They do not love each other, but it makes for a nice story, and a nice story will earn him some time.
That’s what he tells himself as he forces himself to pull away.
They could love each other, perhaps, if they weren’t born into a world like this. Maybe they do.
Flayon whispers a rushed apology into his ear under the guise of plucking a stray thread off his costume. It’s a premature gift from a sponsor, a claim for his body if he makes it out. He didn't warn him about the kiss beforehand because his innocence, that sweet little gasp of surprise and sudden shriek, is exactly what the audience wants to see. They want to watch that innocence blossom so they know exactly how far he'll fall. Hakka’s too green, too soft, too petal pink and pretty to wear the right shade of cunning for this.
He can’t act to save his life.
The lavender shirt pressed beneath his fingers is from the same wealthy socialite that bought his first time during his own Victory Tour. Flayon’s sure that they’ll get requests to be seen together if he somehow makes it out from this showing tonight.
Flayon has always been a good actor, so when the interviewer gestures for them to tell the world about their brilliant love story, he easily obliges. Flayon knows how to fake it well. He even throws in a hint of morality as if to show the irrationality of it all against a backdrop of passion, as if to show the world that he may be a mentor and it's not right because of the power difference, because of the knowledge that neither of them are free to choose, but that it's the kind of forbidden love between two crazy kids (kids. they are both just kids. god, he is still only a child even though he’s been through enough that his soul has aged thousands of years in the span of a couple. they never got to be anything more than kids before they were sentenced to death.) who realise that tonight might be their only night to be together.
There are only a couple truths he dares to leave in there.
The Capitol eats it up with glee. It’s a brilliant story, the Volunteer from 6 and his mentor, the love that they chose against all odds. The camera flashes are blinding, but he ignores it all to keep a lovelorn gaze stubbornly fixed at Hakka’s flustered face. His eyes burn at the effort of staying open so long.
They’ll probably ask him to speak at his funeral.
They’ll probably beat him for breaking the rules.
He’s supposed to stay ethereal and eternally available to sell the illusion that any of his lovers can own him for as long as they like.
He’s not supposed to look at Hakka's fading reflection through train windows and cup his face in his hands and hold his neck in his fingers and imagine the taste of blood blooming in his sinful mouth as he squeezes and squeezes.
They would execute him for it then and there, perhaps, if it didn’t make for such a good story. No, they’ll have to save his death for a better time. They can't let him die just because he wants to. There’s a reason why they saved him the first time, after all. He cannot even choose when to die. He’s too valuable of a chess piece to simply throw away because of some petty rebellion like this.
Hakka would understand if he made it out, he believes, but for his sake, he hopes he dies in there. Hopes he drowns and never resurfaces. Because Flayon is a bit sentimental, the dream takes on a softer form. It would be better if he dies from something more peaceful, something like a quick bout of poison, so his family is spared the pain of watching it in drawn out gasps.
This whole crowd will mourn him and so will he, shrouded in the deep ultramarine of grief.
There’s no reason why they both need to live in a tragedy after all.
It would be better that way, better if he died, but Flayon will make sure the audience loves him enough to buy him a chance to make it a little less painful. It's the only thing he can possibly do for him now.
When he dies, he will make sure to craft him the most beautiful shroud.