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Sometimes Carson wonders if the others see it too. He’ll sit in bed at night, not wanting to sleep, and question if the others on the floor have also caught onto how tightly wound their devotion is to each other as if it's set in stone.
There’s something like desperation wound between them in their pseudo-family. A desperate grasp to hold onto each other, to never let go.
Carson knows he sees it in the small actions of the others, maybe even in the small actions of his own. He, more than anyone else, knows how hard it is to carry this burden alone, how much easier it becomes when you let those you love help you lift it.
He has so much gratitude for the other Victors of floor 6, his friends, his family. He remembers the first year, all 365 days he spent here without anyone at all, and how much happier he is here now with all of them by his side. He’ll never be able to express his thanks to them for the way they all saved him, even if they don’t even know it. How does one even do that anyway? Thank you for being here, for giving me a reason for being okay, for filling these walls with laughter. He thinks perhaps it’s only Noah who sees it; after all, he was the one who found Carson after that year spent alone, the one who showed Carson what it was like to lean upon another.
And so because of that, because of the way they help him carry his burden, he’ll forever be indebted to them.
But as he has suffered from his own solitude and feelings post-Games, he sees the others go through it too in their own different ways. He sees them scared, he sees them lock themselves away, inwardly curl up and block off everyone else in the beginning. But he also sees them begin to lean on each other with time, begin to open up, to share more of themselves. Not just the parts of them they share to their Twitch viewers, the Capitol watchers, but their real selves, the parts that aren't so pretty and polished.
There are times when Carson is really down, his mind wrapping itself in circles, pulling itself down to oblivion. It’s always in moments like these that Noah appears, silently, wordlessly, always there to lend out a steady hand to grasp onto and someone to talk with. He’s like Carson’s protector, his guardian. He was the first person Carson ever learned to lean upon.
And so Carson does all he can to return the favor. He never hesitates to shout out and raid Noah’s stream, knowing he isn’t as popular as Carson is and he doesn’t want his friend to slip out of the limelight so easily.
All that he might owe them is carved in ivory. It cannot be erased, cannot be smudged or ruined, all of his obligations and promises are permanent, chiseled in white. They may be silent, they may be unspoken, but they are unbreaking. He owes them everything.
That's why he’ll always stand up for Cooper, defend him no matter how many times he lashes out, how many times he breaks character and slips up with something a bit too rebellious for the Capitol’s taste. He'll always fight back for the other boy, stand his ground despite being the darling of the new decade.
He co-streamed every day with Travis through the younger boy’s first month of streaming. Carson can see how nervous he is, how hesitant he is to do this. He’s shier, quieter than the rest of them, and so Carson stays there with him like training wheels until Travis can fully grasp the ropes and pull himself up. He isn't going to let Travis go into this full throttle until he's ready.
He sees it between the others too though, the same unspoken promises made. Promises to never leave each other, never to abandon the only family they have left when they were so mercifully ripped from their family’s from before.
Carson sees those promises in Ted’s cooking, the way he serves the food he makes. He’s always dishing out seconds to the others before they can even finish their first plates. He only eats when he sees the rest of them are done.
It’s so clearly a promise that they’ll never have to be hungry, never again, not like they once were. Of course it's impossible to starve here with the endless supplies of food from the Capitol, but it’s only in Ted’s nature to carry out and oversee that promise himself.
Perhaps it can best be viewed in the concerned look Cooper gives Travis when the younger boy goes too quiet, the one that says Cooper wouldn’t hesitate to tear this world to pieces if anyone were to hurt him. He would go to the grave defending Travis if he has too.
Maybe a little bit of that same promise can be heard in Charlie’s jokes, the ones he makes when the laughter in the room dies, when the space gets clogged and the air too heavy. A joke to lift their spirits and a vow that they will never have to go back to the way it was before, the way of being scared and hurt, of being fearful. He will always be there to provide laughter.
And Carson knows, even though they haven’t won their Games yet, haven’t even been reaped, that he will have these same obligations to the future Victors that join him on floor 6, who join in their family.
He owes far too much to these people to give up on them, without them he would be nothing. Carson doesn’t want to think of the way things were before, of the person he was before they arrived. He pushes away the thoughts of how he moved down these halls, like a ghost, never really living in this space, only residing in it. It is them who make this place feel something like home.
So for each one of them, he would give the world. He would give the stars and the moon and the galaxies if he has to just to keep them happy, to keep them safe.
It’s a debt he can spend his whole life working toward repaying, but one he’ll never pay off because he owes everything to these people, the ones he loves. They saved him in a time when no one else could, and for that, he owes them it all.