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You're twenty years old.
It's odd how quickly time flies by like this. It's been eight whole fucking years. Eight years.
And you're still standing here, as tall as you were then. You're still standing here, one hand in Phil's, one in Wilbur's, pushing down the ever lingering feeling of warmth in your chest.
(It's all a bit. It's all a bit. It's all a bit.)
(Everything is so fake, so very fake, and after eight years, you've grown tired of this bit. Your fans sure as hell haven't, for some inane reason, so you've grown to treat it like Wilbur does; you mock it, you fuel the flames thinking they will also grow tired of it, but they don't, they don't, and you are left more burned out than before. You blame the warmth on that, on the stress, but it’s too good of a feeling to fool yourself.)
You're twenty years old. You're watching your mentee, who is so much younger than you yet just as tall, accept his victory at his Victor’s Welcome. Traves. The 66th Victor of the Annual Hunger Games. What a kid.
(It's weird saying that, when you know deep down you're supposed to act- to be- younger than him, and really, some part of you is trying to Pavlov your way into convincing you it is so.)
What a kid. You think it again, because you can't let yourself do this, not again. You did this with Charlie, who was seventeen when you were nineteen, who somehow managed to turn into another of your accidental older brothers after only a single stream interaction while you were in chat. Fancams sprouted up everywhere, and soon the fans were even fooling you into thinking of him as older, because he certainly looked it. Every time you see him now, which isn’t often, considering you two aren’t on the same floor, your brain falters and your stomach fills with the same old sense of intimidation that you felt when you’d meet an authority figure. Charlie’s your friend, but you hate it so much. So very much.
So you tell chat you’re a big man, and they laugh, and they tease, and they assign you other Victors as older brothers, and they chastise you for being such a baby. But you’re not a baby anymore. You haven’t been since your Games.
You suppose Tubbo has it worse. He’s turning twenty one in just over a month, and still he is being babied, fawned over- his cheeks pinched, his dimpled smile sickly sweet. You can’t imagine it, being thought of as cute, or endearing, because you’ve been working so hard not to be “innocent”, to be a mischievous little asshole instead, a little brother caricature.
(Thank God you’re not the one getting “Tubbo in a box!” fanart four years after the fact.)
Still, you suppose Tubbo’s better at adapting to it all, considering Capitol is in his blood. He’s better at dealing with the consequences that come with being a child for the rest of your life.
(He’s certainly the best at being a best friend, at comforting you over your situation that only he will ever really understand.)
The rhythmic beating of Traves’ celebratory drums pound to the beating of your heart, deep in your chest and rushing through your body, your blood. You can feel it in the soles of your feet, climbing deep inside of your head, your throat. You shut your eyes tight and try to block it out, but it only makes it worse. Phil, standing at your right, squeezes your hand once, and your eyes burst open.
They’re going to call you up to the stage soon. The cameras are all on you, and you’re to go up on stage, congratulate Traves, be the little kid, the upbeat middle schooler, the bored teenager that you are but you don’t want to be. You’re twenty years old, but in all their eyes, you’re twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen. You stopped aging four years ago. You never became an adult, and all for them . Everything you’ve done for eight years has been for them- for the chat, for the fans, for the fucking Capitol.
You don’t want to do it anymore. But you don’t have much of a choice.
So you look into the camera and send them your cocky, metal-lined grin.
(You stopped needing braces years ago. Sometimes you wonder if still having them makes your teeth worse.)
So you look into the camera and you summon up a sparkle of mischief, weave it into your sky-blue eyes.
(Your eyes didn’t used to be as blue as they are now. But the fans had been adamant on raising the saturation in every stupid fucking fancam to make you look “better”. You suppose the Capitol just wanted to make their lives easier.)
So you look into the camera before glancing at Wilbur and Phil in two quick movements, and letting go of their hands as you move forward.
(You pray that the warm feeling in your gut freezes up, because you can’t afford to submit to the Capitol, to give in to the bit. You can’t afford to let them take this part of you, but is it really stealing the rest of you away when the friendship you have with your floormates has always caused this? Is it really stealing you away when those feelings are genuine?)
So you look away from the camera and you rush forward to shake Traves’ hand. You send him your trademark grin, and he hands you back a shaky smile as he adjusts the flower crown perched on his head. You can’t help but notice the dog ears poking out of his curly brown hair flattening against his head. You lean in and whisper in his ear, and for once you let your voice drop to its normal octave, not the fake teenager screech you’ve grown so used to. “Good job.” As you pull away, the pain lingers in both of your pairs of eyes. There is nothing good about winning the Games. You both know that.
Traves will learn that too. And soon, just like you, he will drink from his own personal fountain of youth, from the terrible fame that comes with the Capitol, and soon he will be stuck. Soon he will be stuck as a boy, never a man, never a man.
You’re twenty years old.
(But you are forever a child.)