Chapter Text
“Look on the bright side.” Yoongi sounded more bored than optimistic. “You didn’t die.”
Jimin scowled.
“Do you want a drink?”
“Wouldn’t that be a bad look?” Jimin wouldn’t mind a bad look, but other people might mind for him.
“I’m not offering you that much. Alcohol’s expensive, you know.” Despite the horror to come, Yoongi somehow found it in him to smirk slightly, an expression which had quickly become something of an anchor to Jimin. “Just a little to help your nerves.”
Jimin considered it, but guessed it was probably best to keep a clear mind for what he had to face. “I think if I lower my inhibitions at all, I’ll just start running as fast as I can.”
“Fair.” Yoongi poured some for himself and sat down. “You’ll do fine.”
Jimin highly doubted that, pacing back and forth as he fiddled with the too-starched collar of his shirt.
“Stop that,” said Yoongi. “You’re still District Eleven’s Swan. Be elegant, or whatever the stylists say. Maybe flap a little, too.”
Jimin tried not to gag at his Capitol-given nickname. “Doesn’t it go away once the new Games start?”
“Depends on how popular any of this year’s kids get.”
“I’d rather be a raccoon and run around biting people instead.”
“I’ll throw you in a nice trash bin at the nearest opportunity, then.”
Jimin snickered.
“Personally, I’d like to be a rock,” said Yoongi.
“That sounds nice.” Jimin abandoned his shirt collar and fiddled with his sleeve instead, hoping his worsening stomachache might go away if he just pretended it wasn’t there. “Just sleep all day?”
“Precisely.” Yoongi slouched in his chair, looking every bit as relaxed as Jimin wasn’t. Maybe he should have accepted that drink after all.
“So are we mentoring… together, or do I take one and you take the other?”
“I don’t know.” Yoongi sounded entirely too disinterested in the subject for what it was. “I’ve never had someone to share it before.”
“Let’s do together. I don’t think I’ll be good at it.”
“Of course you won’t be good at it- you’re a traumatized kid.” Yoongi took a swig of his drink and didn’t look like it tasted very good. “I’ll show you how, don’t worry.” His voice took on a softer tone, not very different from his usual low rasp, but Jimin caught it nevertheless.
“Thanks.” He felt pleasantly small and looked-after when Yoongi spoke like this. “Are you still my mentor, too?”
“If you want.”
“I want.”
The door opened, and a member of the Capitol escort crew stuck his head in. “You’re on in two minutes.”
Jimin swore he felt his heart falter, and his stomachache was definitely gotten even worse now.
“Excellent.” Yoongi drained his glass and stood up. “You know what to do?”
Jimin tried for a smile that definitely turned out as just a grimace, but he knew, unlike the rest of Panem, Yoongi wouldn’t hold that against him. “Back straight, long neck, come out when they call me, smile for the cameras,” he recited.
“Won’t Minji be proud.” Yoongi patted him on the back. “Don’t try to smile. Hunger Games, it’s serious business, you can get away with it.”
That was the best news Jimin had heard since… well, since this morning, actually, when he’d woken up screaming from visions of rockslides and blood and Taehyung had assured him it was only a dream. The quiet guilt in his eyes had been significantly less welcome, but it was certainly better than the probable alternative.
“Jimin-ah?”
He shook himself habitually. “I’m fine.”
“Just don’t pass out.”
How Yoongi managed to survive all this year after year was beyond him. “Will you be okay?”
“I’m used to it.”
They walked together to stand near the large double doors of the Justice Building. The mayor was finishing his pre-written speech, the same one from every year, which every citizen of District Eleven could probably recite from memory by now. Just like every year since he was twelve years old, Jimin felt his chest tightening up with each word. Yoongi’s hand closed momentarily around his wrist.
“Welcome, welcome, to the Sixty-Seventh annual Hunger Games!” came Kim Minji’s too-bright voice from outside.
“Actually, Yoongi-hyung?” Jimin rasped.
Yoongi raised an eyebrow at him.
“I think I’m going to be sick.”
“Please don’t.”
“No, I really-“
“Your name isn’t in the bowl.” Yoongi’s voice was quiet, but it held such an air of authority that Jimin listened. His large hand practically swallowed Jimin’s own small one as he spoke. “It’s never going to be in the bowl again.”
Jimin pulled in a ragged gasp of air. That wasn’t all he had to worry about, not by a long shot, but Yoongi’s words were enough to cut the level of panic before it reached a point of no return, at least for the moment.
“You’re safe.”
He wasn’t truly safe- no one from Dictrict Eleven ever was- but as the Games went, he was as close to safe as he could get.
“And now a warm welcome for the Victor of the 63rd Hunger Games, Dictrict Eleven’s own Min Yoongi!”
The doors swung open, and Yoongi let go of Jimin to walk out onto the stage amidst polite clapping. As much as they despised the Games, as District Eleven’s first Victor in over thirty years as well as a decent person as far as anyone knew, Yoongi was generally well-liked by the citizens. Jimin stood just out of sight and tried to stop his hands from shaking.
Minji, her hair dyed a brilliant fuchsia this year, finished her strange dainty clapping and took the microphone again.
“And today, something I’m sure we all never thought we’d see so soon, please welcome the Victor of the 66th Hunger Games, Park Jimin!”
Just as he had entirely too many times before at this point, Jimin walked onto the stage as people who had no other choice that didn’t involve government scrutiny clapped for him. The crowd of teenagers in the middle of the square barely uttered a sound; he’d usually been too frozen with dread to clap much for Yoongi, too.
As the timid applause quickly died away, Jimin took his place on the oposite side of the stage from Yoongi, near the bowl with the girls’ names. He didn’t look at it, didn’t look at the sea of scared faces in front of him either, and stared at Minji’s bright hair instead and wondered how long it had taken her to dye it.
“I have been an escort for this District for the past eight years, and I must say, I am so proud.” It was moments like this, when Minji lost her odd Capitol tone and seemed to speak genuinely, however misguided it was, that made Jimin somehow strangely fond of her. “No one would have expected two Victors so close together, but here we are, and all of Panem is again looking to District Eleven with pride.”
Jimin dared to look up, out into the nervous crowd of people all his age and younger, and felt no pride.
“And now, it’s time to choose one brave young man and woman for the honor of fighting to carry on this historic period in the life of District Eleven.”
The square went silent, and all Jimin’s warm feelings toward Minji evaporated.
“As always, ladies first.”
Jimin had to fight not to back away as she pranced to the bowl of girls’ names near him and made a great show of reaching her hand inside and digging it around.
Every slip of paper she touched held a name, was a person out there in that square, standing with heart pounding and stomach twisting, praying to slip through her perfectly manicured fingers. One girl’s prayers were about to go unanswered, and then it would be up to Jimin to offer empty words of comfort and meaningless advice before sending her off to her death in a week’s time.
Minji’s hand, nails painted to match her hair, grasped a victim. She walked back to the microphone and smoothed the paper open, saw the name of the poor soul whose fate was now sealed, and called out in a clear voice, “Ogura Yuuna.”
Jimin let out a small, selfish breath of relief. At least he didn’t know her. When he inevitably failed as a mentor and watched her be brutally murdered or die of starvation or thirst or who knew what else, at least it wouldn’t be-
Yuuna crept out from the fourteen-year-olds’ section, and all the air was sucked out of Jimin’s lungs.
She was small, shorter than many of the girls her age, narrow in build, and just plain skinny as well. Too skinny, as the majority of District Eleven’s children were. Taking tiny, hesitant steps and trembling lightly as she made her way forward, she looked like even the slightest breeze could knock her over. The pink bow on her head drooped slightly as she looked around as if for help, but no one in the crowd would meet her eyes.
“Come on up here,” said Minji sweetly, or as sweetly as she could, considering the circumstances. Jimin was glad he hadn’t accepted a drink from Yoongi, or he might have pushed her off the stage.
The Peacekeepers reached Yuuna and escorted her more quickly to the stage and up the steps. Yoongi shook her hand, and Jimin forced himself to do the same. Despite the warm day, her shaking fingers felt icy. He let go quickly and returned to his place without looking her in the eye.
“But the fun isn’t over yet!” Minji beamed out at the square like there wasn’t a terrified little girl standing right next to her. “It’s time to choose our boy tribute.”
Out of pure habit, Jimin’s heartbeat kicked into overdrive, and his hands began to shake. Minji reached into the bowl, and his name wasn’t in there, he was safe, he’d be fine, he just had to see what other poor child would be put under his inadequate guidance and pray it wasn’t anyone he knew. Or anyone Yuuna knew- that would just be unfortunate.
“The male tribute from District Eleven is…” Minji paused for the drama of it all, and the square held its breath.
“Kim Taehyung.”
…
No .
The crowd murmured in surprise and some confusion, and Jimin couldn’t breathe. This had to be a dream. It was just another horrible nightmare, and soon he would wake up. Taehyung might be there again, and he would look as guilty as always when he was the one trying to keep Jimin together, but he would be safe .
He was supposed to be safe .
“Now haven’t we met before?” Minji quipped as Taehyung emerged from the crowd, his face blank with shock and fear.
He was supposed to be safe. Jimin had done the only thing possible to ensure it, he’d even managed to keep himself alive on top of that, and it hadn’t been enough. He didn’t think about what he did next.
“I volunteer!”
Another murmur rippled through the crowd, and Minji actually jumped when Jimin started toward her.
“I volunteer as tribute.”
That was as far as his moment of blind courage got him. Jimin’s knees threatened to give out under the weight of what he’d just done, but he’d do this for Taehyung, he’d do it a thousand times. He’d said so himself in his interview before the Games, when he was sure he was going to die.
“Jimin no!” Taehyung started to run toward the stage, but two Peacekeepers caught him and held him in place at the base of the steps.
Jimin found he couldn’t look at him, so he turned to Minji instead, who was still clutching the microphone and looking at him like a deer in headlights. “I can do that, can’t I? I’m eighteen, I’m still eligible.”
“I…” Minji looked around for help that wasn’t there, but after another moment, she forced a brilliant smile to the cameras and the crowd and smoothed her perfectly ironed dress. “Well, this is exciting! As I’m sure you’re all aware, an event like this has never occurred in the history of the Games. Of course we must consult the rule book regarding the procedure should a previous Victor wish to re-enter the Games; ladies and gentlemen, please be patient until this decision is announced.”
Somewhere, someone was probably already on the phone with the Gamemakers, discussing which of their deaths would make for better tv, and the verdict would be calmly relayed to Minji’s earpiece. Jimin was popular in the Capitol, which, on the one hand, meant they liked him and probably didn’t want him to die, but on the other hand, they only liked him because they had enjoyed watching him fight for his life, and might be eager to watch him do so again. Besides, his more fervent supporters would likely be confident in his ability to win a second time (personally, he still couldn’t believe he’d made it the one time) and the prospect of a double Victor was certainly a glamorous one. Surely they’d send him back in, and any tribute in their right mind would target him first, and that would be it.
Nothing to it. He’d prepared himself to die before, and he could do it again.
“Ah, that was prompt!” said Minji, startling him out of his thoughts. “Our Gamemakers are already hard at work before the Games even begin.”
She paused and cleared her throat, and Jimin thought his heart might explode if it beat any faster.
“Although the volunteer is of eligible age, Park Jimin himself is not eligible for the Games, as his name was not present in the bowl at the time of the Reaping.”
Everything around Jimin ground to a halt. It felt like he’d been dropped into freezing water without warning, and now he was too cold to move.
“Furthermore, the Gamemakers wisely believe that a former Victor may hold a significant advantage over the other tributes, which could affect the outcome of this year’s Games. Besides,” Minji laughed, “we can’t have Jimin taking all the glory, can we?”
Jimin’s head felt fuzzy.
“It’s finally your chance now!” said Minji to Taehyung. “Come along up here now, dear.”
The Peacekeepers released him, and he looked quickly up at Jimin before seeming to gather himself and climbing the dreaded steps to the stage.
Jimin started forward again, with no clear idea what he meant to do this time, but he couldn’t allow this happen. “Minji-noona-“
“I’m sorry, Jimin-ah,” she said directly to him, away from the microphone. “It isn’t my decision.”
She turned back to the crowd, smiling, and patted Taehyung on the back. “What an exciting day! The male tribute from District Eleven everyone, Kim Taehyung!”
Some scattered clapping echoed around the square, but it stayed mostly quiet, the crowd seeming a bit baffled by what they’d just seen. Yoongi shook Taehyung’s hand, and then Jimin found himself face to face with his best friend in front of the whole of Panem, with no idea what to do. Taehyung stuck out his hand, and Jimin grasped it tightly, finally forcing himself to meet his eyes again. He looked just as desperate as Jimin felt.
This was all wrong, this was Taehyung ; Jimin should be hugging him and comforting him as a real friend would, not shaking his hand like they had just agreed to a business deal.
Before he could do anything else, Taehyung freed his hand to shake hands with little Yuuna, whom Jimin had already completely forgotten about in the chaos. Some mentor he was.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the tributes of District Eleven, Ogura Yuuna and Kim Taehyung!” Minji announced to the square and the cameras.
No one clapped this time. Peacekeepers quickly came to escort Taehyung and Yuuna into the Justice Building, and Minji hurried to take Jimin by the arm and usher him off the stage. He climbed gracelessly into the waiting car at her urging and made his way into a seat on shaking limbs. He couldn’t force his eyes to stop staring or his chest to stop aching, even when Yoongi fastened his seatbelt for him as the car started to move.
“Hyung.”
“I know.”
“ Hyung .” Jimin found himself pawing at Yoongi’s arm like a child trying to beg a parent to fix something unfixable.
“We’ll talk on the train.”
“There’s no way they picked him again.” Jimin felt like crying, or screaming, or maybe just falling into a million pieces right there, but he choked the feeling down because once he started, he wouldn’t be able to stop. “Yoongi-hyung, there’s no way.”
“I know. Come here.”
Yoongi didn’t do hugs, not usually, but this time he didn’t even wait for Jimin to respond before scooting closer and wrapping him in his arms.
“Don’t say that again.” He leaned close enough to breathe the words directly into Jimin’s ear. “Maybe they think it’s dramatic, maybe they’re mad the ‘lesser’ Districts have won so many times and are taking it out on you- doesn’t matter. If you want him to have any chance at all, you’ll make them believe that you believe it’s only bad luck.”
Having his suspicions so abruptly confirmed- or at least strongly seconded- seemed to knock the breath right out of Jimin. He grabbed blindly at Yoongi’s arm in the seatbelt-encumbered embrace, just to hold on to something.
“We’ll help him, that’s our job,” said Yoongi, now a low murmur rather than the desperate quiet of a moment before. “Right now, we’re going to breathe.”
He didn’t say any more then, and they sat together in silence and breathed. Rather, Yoongi breathed, and Jimin wondered if he really had been holding his own breath the entire time, because it certainly felt that way. He used Yoongi’s breathing as a guide for his own, and then Yoongi sat with him in the parked car long after they’d reached the train station while he curled up and cried.