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If only it'd been someone else, Jean could've taken them down. He could've taken anyone down with the right amount of fear and adrenaline running through him, the hot sensation giving him the strength he'd need to claim victory. But, as he stared into the eyes of his last competitor, his last victim, there was no heat of battle coursing through him. There was only stone cold dread, because it was Marco Bodt staring at him with his innocent doe-brown eyes and his freckles and everything that Jean had grown to absolutely cherish. And he was supposed to destroy it.
"I know I hadn't seen your face in the sky..." Jean muttered, mostly to himself, "but to see you here..."
The other male only sighed. "I knew it was coming from the moment we met," he explained, raising his hands, "and I've been scared but... I'm ready,"
Jean thought that Marco was going to hit him, and his right hand instinctively fingered the knife in his pocket. He knew Marco's strength; he'd marvelled at the freckled wonder all through training. He knew Marco was capable of killing him with those hands alone, the very same hands that had held him the night before the games began, the hands that ran circles over his back and rested on his face as his lips... Jean shook his head to clear his thoughts.
"I don't want to hurt you," Jean stated simply, taking a step back and brandishing his knife for Marco to see, "I really don't, Marco,"
To his wonder, Marco smiled. Even after the horror of The Games, his smile hadn't changed; soft and warm, with a hint of sorrow. "Thank you Jean," he replied, and despite Jean's warning, took a step towards him, "but I'm afraid you have to,"
No. No I can't harm you. I can't win The Games; I can't go home without you Marco. I can't be the cause of your demise...
"I need you to kill me Jean," instead of fighting, Marco placed his hands behind his head in a show of submission and fell to his knees before the man. After a moment of silence, Marco was compelled to repeat himself. "I need you to ki-"
"I got it the first time!" Jean snapped, growling down at the other teen, who visibly tensed. Jean turned away slightly in what felt like embarrassment; now was not the time for snapping rashly. He had to think things through, come up with a logical solution... But that wasn't his strong suit. That was Marco's… Marco who knew so much and was so wise and so kind, who'd already made the choice for Jean before he even knew the question.
Jean could almost visualise the entire world's eyes on them at this moment. The camera's wouldn't be anywhere else in the arena, all the drama was right here. The citizens of Sina, in their disgustingly colourful frocks and gowns, would feign empathy for the two, but in all reality they'd be lucidly caught up in the drama and their own sick bets. He could just imagine his mother sitting with the rest of the residents of District Trost, weeping hopelessly into her handkerchief but unable to tear her eyes away from the screen, her friends and family all comforting her.
However, he couldn't see them. He couldn't hear them, and they weren't there. The only things here we Marco, himself, and the knife he wielded against his... His...
Was it wrong to say that they were star-crossed lovers?
It was as if life had played a cruel game of chess, and they were the kings. All the other pieces had been knocked from the board so that only they would be the one to fell the other. Only one king would stand in the end, because that's how a game works, isn't it? Whether it was chess, or this god-fucking-damned Hunger Games, there would only be one victor.
The question on Jean's, and the rest of the worlds, lips was who?
"Jean..." Marco said his name almost pleadingly. Jean froze in his thoughts and redirected his attention to where Marco was kneeling on the floor, looking helpless and defeated and skinnier than before the games, but it was still Marco and there was no way Jean could kill him.
"I can't do it," he said, dropping his knife to his side. As it clunked against the grassed floor, Jean dropped to his knees and claimed Marco's face in his hands, "I can't kill you Marco. I owe you too much,"
Jean was trying so hard to not cry. His face was scrunched up, his eyes becoming thin lines, and he was biting his bottom lip. A few choked sobs leaked out, however, and eventually he burst. Jean Kirschtein wept in front of millions, allowing his arms to wrap around Marco and his face to bury in the crook of Marco's neck as the taller boy ran soothing circles on his back. He was being reassured once again...
Jean was at a loss. For words, for plans, it didn't matter. He was simply lost in the despair he felt. What was he to do in this situation? He couldn't kill Marco; the boy he'd met because of The Games, the boy torn away from him from The Games, the boy he'd fallen for so desperately and stupidly and he knew that he simply couldn't live without him, so what was the point of living at all? All he could do was offer the victory to Marco, a final gift for the boy he couldn't give enough to. That was all he could do... "I can't, I can't live without you Marco," he wailed, hopelessly clinging to him while they were both still breathing.
"I'd rather die than go home without you," Marco's voice responded in a trembling whisper.
That struck Jean hard. Marco thought his life would be over without him... But that was a lie. Somewhere, Marco knew it was a lie too-at least, Jean thought he did. Marco had a huge family to go home to, and winning would do great things for District Jinae, which was dirt poor compared to District Trost. As much as he loathed admitting it, his mother wasn't that significant. Feeding starving children-keeping Marco alive and sending him home-was probably the best choice. Probably.
Jean wasn't ready to die. At fifteen years old, he still had a life ahead of him, until the day he'd been drawn from the hundreds of thousands of tiny scraps of paper floating about in a glass ball. Of all the names, it had to be his. He had to be the boy to walk to the podium, to be sacrificed for the benefit of Sina's resident's entertainment. He had to leave his single mother, weeping and grasping for him desperately as the Peacekeepers tore her away. He had to go to Sina and meet the other trainees, all dead set against killing him except for the one with the stupid smile and the innocent eyes. He had to be the one left to face Marco Bodt.
He had to be ready to die.
"Marco, Marco listen," he said, prying the other boy from him with shaking hands, "you have to win. Your family and your district need you more than mine do,"
"But Jean-!" Marco's right hand immediately fell to the ground, scrounging hung around for Jean’s knife before he could find it. Luckily, he found it without attracting notice from the other male. He couldn’t allow Jean to find it and do something foolish.
"No, you know it's true," Jean affectionately traced Marco's face, covering all of the freckles he'd counted in the early training days to calm himself. There was no way he could remove Marco Bodt from this world.
There was no way Marco could remove Jean Kirschtein from this world either. Marco took a deep breath, repeating his earlier question. "I need you to kill me, Jean,"
"I can't, Marco, I can't do it!" Jean was shaking violently, tears beginning to well up and leak from his eyes again. No matter how much he tried to stay calm and collected, he just kept breaking down again. He was weak, he was useless… He couldn’t kill Marco, not now, not ever. He can’t sacrifice the ones he loves. That was his true weakness; his love for this boy.
Marco was crying too, silent tears that dribbled down his cheeks and collected at his chin. Revealing his knife, he gave Jean a small and sorrowful smile. "I know you can't," he said. Taking another deep breath in an attempt to calm his shaking hands, he brought the knife to his chest. Do it, Marco. For Jean. "That's why I'll do it for you,"
Just like that, time seemed to slow. Jean saw a glint, and heard Marco’s voice, and suddenly the knife was heading towards Marco’s chest. "No Marco wai-!" Jean went to snatch the knife away, but it was too late. With a blood-curdling yell, Marco had embedded the knife deep into his chest, and time returned to normal.
"Marco..." Jean breathed, staring at his knife with wide eyes. Marco had... He'd stabbed himself...
Marco was already beginning to feel faint, especially after seeing the blood that was beginning to spill from his chest... His blood. So, this was dying. It was painful, excruciatingly so, but knowing that it wouldn't be long until all the pain melted away helped numb it a little. He fell sideways into the grassy floor, hands falling loosely from the knife. Beyond the pain, he faintly heard someone calling his name, and felt someone pull him close...
"Marco... Marco can you hear me?" It was Jean, screaming out the other boys name through the tears, "Marco?"
“We have purposes… Jean,” Marco said, ignoring the boy’s question. He could identify Jean, feel his arms around him, and even hear his heartbeat. Or maybe, it was Marco’s own heartbeat, slowing down as the blood drained from the knife-wound. It didn’t matter; Jean would live. “I’m not a piece… in their game. I died my own way, for you…” Marco tried to breathe, but it only brought him more pain. "It hurts Jean," he said simply, smiling up at the other boy's face. Jean was cradling him, desperately trying to apply pressure to the wound, or whatever you do in this kind of situation.
"You can't die Marco!" Jean sobbed, "I was going to die for you! You have so much to live for and so much to-"
"Sing me a lullaby Jean," Marco rasped out, a desperate last request. The one time that Jean had been the one who had to reassure Marco, he’d sung him a lullaby so he could sleep. It helped him then... It would help him now.
Despite how desperately he wanted it to be a lie, Jean knew it was hopeless. The blood that oozed from Marco was already covering his entire torso, the ground, and was painted onto Jean too. All he could do now was grant this request. "S-Sure buddy," he said, sniffling up the snot and wiping away the tears. Taking a deep breath beforehand to prepare himself, Jean began to sing...
"Edelweiss, edelweiss, every morning you greet me..."
Marco was smiling softly as Jean sung, his face being stroked softly by the shorter male as he continued.
"Small and white, clean and bright, you look happy to see me."
Marco could tell; the faintness and the inability to see indicated that he was going out. He would've closed his eyes, but he didn't want to take away his last view of Jean Kirschtein, the boy he lo... He loved...
"Blossom of snow may you bloom and grow, bloom and grow forever..."
Jean could register the faint sound of a cannon booming in the distance. Choking back his sobs, Jean finished the song.
"Edelweiss, edelweiss, bless my..." Homeland. The next word was homeland, yet Jean couldn't sing the words. Curse his homeland, Marco was... He was dead... "Bless my... Marco forever..."
Laying him down on the ground, Jean stared at Marco's corpse, eyes open and dull, his hands laying awkwardly on the ground beside him, and Jean realised he had to do something. He wiped away the blood on Marco's face and closed his eyes, almost like he was simply sleeping... But then there was all the blood on-and around-him. Jean stood up and unzipped his jacket, laying it over Marco like a blanket. That was when he saw the knife. It was a knife from Sina; the elegant design on the handle made it obvious. Now it was stained by Marco's crimson blood...
"You did this!" He yelled out to the countless cameras around him. A white hot rage filled him; the citizens of Sina were sitting in their homes, laughing, mocking his pain as they sat with their loved ones and watched as Jean Kirschtein's best friend bled out in his arms. Eyeing a nearby tree, he sighted an odd-shaped hole. Perfect place for a camera to be hiding. Pointing the blade of his knife to the tree, he brought it close to his eye and took aim at the hole before extending his arm to throw. The sound of shattering glass told him he got a bullseye; right in the lens.
He may have destroyed one camera, but there'll be hundreds more-all floating around in the trees, in the air, on the ground-all pointed on him and Marco.
"Oh Marco... They did this to you..." He promptly fell to his knees beside his companion and cried. The whole world watched on as Jean wept, screaming out Marco's name distraughtly and cursing Sina for his loss. He was clinging to Marco's lifeless body, tears streaming down his face to mingle with the crimson blood on Marco, when he heard the helicopter.
It was over. Jean was the winner of the 104th Annual Hunger Games. In reality, however, Jean was the biggest loser of them all. He couldn't just go home, he couldn't just go reap the rewards of victory; the point was lost, along with the light in Marco's eyes. It was the end of The Hunger Games for this year, but it was the beginning of a whole new grief for the boy whose victory was attained by the sacrifice of the boy he loved.