Chapter Text
The weather was particularly grey the day you first see Katniss Everdeen, maybe in premonition of the upcoming event. District 12 is the last of all districts to hold the reaping ceremony, thus you are already aware that your district will be represented by Cato and Clove: young fledglings, yet more career in spirit than any other tribute from District 2 you have ever seen. Perhaps even more than their counterparts from District 1; Glimmer and Marvel (though you will probably never be able to shake how some of Glimmer’s features remind you of Lenore.)
Truth be told, it was by mere chance that you sat yourself down to watch it at all. Now that the games are over—truly over, this time around—it’s your intent to interact with it as little as you possibly could.
Then, there’s a turn of events. Katniss volunteers to take her sister’s place, and as you watch it all happen a weight shifts in your abdomen and grounds itself in the pit of your stomach. Perhaps it’s jealousy, because she did the very thing that you so desperately wanted to—but couldn’t—do for either Jimin or Jungkook. Perhaps it’s admiration, in face of the bravery that her actions so very clearly implicate. Or perhaps it’s just pity.
However, while she does become the star of the show, you never actually get a good look at her until she takes her place on the stage in front of the crowd. She’s slim (as one could expect), but still surprisingly well-nourished considering the poor status of her district. Her brown hair is meticulously pinned up against the back of her head, and from her shoulders hangs a dress that isn’t remarkable in any way except for its soft baby blue color.
Alone on the stage, surrounded by peace-keepers in white, pale-faced Katniss Everdeen doesn’t look very special at all.
* * *
Seokjin sighs, carding through the huge stacks of papers pertaining information about every single tribute for the year. No matter how many words, sentences and paragraphs he reads, there seems to be no end to the nauseating piles. Each year he finds himself befuddled at the fact that there is so much to say about a single person.
Cato and Clove in particular has his mind spinning. Not only can they be likened to beasts with fangs, he will have to take care of them. Correction; he along with Taehyung, Namjoon and Jimin are supposed to look after them. Only for three days, yes, but time seems to stretch on infinitely every time he thinks about it. He supposes he shouldn’t complain though, compared to Jimin the amount of interaction demanded from him pales significantly.
Aforementioned victor is seated opposite him, hand carding through his hair over and over again in what appears to be an effort to calm his nerves. Scratch that, Seokjin knows Jimin well enough to know his assumption to be a fact.
At least their two tributes aren’t seated with them. Cato and Clove has since long retreated back into their rooms after dinner. If one could call that dead-silent, awkward and completely joke-less meal dinner anyway. He thinks he will never understand how a person can spend their entire life being completely serious all the time.
Ugh, screw this.
Seokjin pushes the pile of papers aside—they were an incredibly boring read anyway—and lets his gaze wander.
“You good?” he asks, and Jimin looks up from the spot on table he had been staring at.
“I would answer that question, but I think you and I define ‘good’ differently.”
“Really? And here I thought you and I were the same person”, Seokjin jokes, but makes a mental note of the dark shade under the victor’s eyes.
Ever since Jimin became the new mentor, the job has taken quite the toll on him. The capitol has taken quite the special interest in him, not only because that’s mostly what they do with every victor of the Hunger Games, but also because of his relation to you and Jungkook. They only “had” you for roughly a year and a half, which to them is a relatively short period—thus they’re holding Jimin responsible to fill in for the lost time.
Jimin snorts. “Ha ha ha. If there’s one thing that’s for certain, it’s that we’re not the same.”
“Thank goodness for that, right? If I had to share my handsomeness with you then I would be, God forbid, an average person.”
“I hate you.”
“No you don’t.”
A moment of silence passes, but it’s not uncomfortable. It never is among friends. Eventually Jimin sighs, clasping his fingers over the back of his neck and tilts his head back and forth. “God, I already want to go home.”
The escort raises an eyebrow, amused. “Homesick so soon?”
“Are we surprised? Those two are so damn stiff the mood couldn’t possibly get any worse. Even Yoongi is more fun than that.”
“Ouch”, Seokjin winces. “Don’t let him hear you say that.”
“I think I would, since that would mean he’d be here too.”
“And you said the mood couldn’t possibly get any worse. Liar.”
* * *
Hoseok glances at the TV placed in his living room. Exactly 28 hours and 47 minutes has passed since it was on, broadcasting the reaping ceremony held only 2,6 kilometers away from his house. Counting the minutes and hours following a broadcast has since long become a habit to him, although it’s one he wishes he didn’t have. It reminds him far too much of his days as a victor, the excruciating years until the next victor from District 2 was crowned.
Pushing away the memory, he thoughtfully smooths out a wrinkle on his forehead and guesses that Jimin and Seokjin must have arrived at the capitol by now. It also probably wouldn’t be far-fetched to assume that the tributes are meeting with Taehyung and Namjoon right about now. Which, in turn, would mean that the opening ceremony will start very soon. In an hour and 11 minutes, to be exact.
Recalling his impression of the two tributes (whose names he never bothered to remember) from when he saw them during the reaping ceremony, Hoseok sighs. They will not be so easily dealt with by anyone—perhaps even themselves.
He pities them, foolish as they were to volunteer the way they did. He pities his friends, who will ultimately be responsible for them in the coming future. He pities the other tributes who will fall at their rough, calloused hands. He pities those who will have to watch them do it.
He pities all of them.
* * *
Namjoon adjusts the straps in Cato’s costume, ignoring the way the tribute seems to be staring a hole through the head of the girl from District 12. He’d be the first to admit that Twelve’s new stylist, Cinna, is a fashion designer genius (as proven by the two brilliant costumes he created for the opening ceremony) but now he can only pity the tributes wearing them. Despite not having known him for less than 4 hours, Namjoon has already painted a rich, full picture of what Cato is capable of—and it is far from good.
Said tribute just keeps staring—unflinching even—as Namjoon manages to pull a little too hard on the straps around his waist, and he has to suppress the shiver going up his spine. The calculative part of his brain finds it rather fascinating that he’s intimidated by Cato even though his full attention is directed elsewhere, but he does not dwell on the thought for long. Cato is quite the enigma, but Namjoon is smart enough to realize that it’s a mystery best left unsolved. It’s quite ironic that a person dwelled in so much darkness is currently clad in gold; the one colour that is said to sparkle the brightest.
In the end it’s Seokjin (bless him) who breaks up the noticeable tension amongst the group, pulling not only Cato’s but also Clove’s attention straight to him. Jimin hovers behind him, arms crossed over his chest in an attempt to express authority. In true Seokjin fashion, the escort huddles the two tributes together and promptly begins guiding them towards the elevators. Surprisingly enough, both of them follow—though Namjoon notices the way Cato’s eyes once more fleet back to the girl from Twelve until she’s out of sight.
Had the circumstances been different, one might think that Cato developed a crush—but unfortunately whatever’s going on is far from that.
Taehyung takes the shift in the atmosphere as his chance to saddle up next to Namjoon, bumping their shoulders together. “One down, one to go!”
Namjoon hums. “Why do I get the feeling that by saying that, there’s going to be a third time?”
“And there you go again, killing the mood.”
“Sorry, I didn’t know there was a mood to kill.”
Taehyung shoves his shoulder lightly and Namjoon can’t help but throw him a smile. Maybe it’s because he still retains some of that childhood naivety—or maybe it’s because he just knows him that well—but Taehyung never fails to improve his mood.
The party reaches the elevator and Namjoon throws a glance towards Seokjin, catching the subtle way he brushes a hand against Jimin’s back. As cruel as the thought may be, a part of him wishes that one of the two tributes before him wins the game this year. Of course, either of them is going to be an absolute nightmare to deal with as a mentor, but a glance at the dark circles underneath Jimin’s eyes makes the sacrifice all the more worth it. He’s much too well aware that the stunt the capitol pulled by picking Jimin as a tribute was a punishment meant for you and Jungkook, but at this point enough has to be enough, right?
Jimin catches his eye and raises a brow, hand wandering to press the button to their floor. Namjoon waves him off with an encouraging quirk of his mouth and steps to the side, allowing Taehyung to slip past and nestle himself between Jimin and Clove.
Yes, he thinks, a cruel thought indeed.
* * *
You nestle into Jungkook’s side, your socked feet secure under his arm and your hand curved around his hip bone. Mere minutes ago, the TV was busy broadcasting the tribute interviews from start to finish and for some reason you can’t quite explain you saw all of it. You like to think it’s your way of expressing your guilt; guilt for being unable to do anything to help Jimin while he’s in the capitol. He’s physically safe, yes, but who knows what it’s doing to him mentally? You comfort yourself in knowing that with Seokjin, Namjoon and Taehyung with him, he’s not completely alone.
As for the tributes, you’re surprised to say that you felt nothing when looking at them. All but one will die, so what’s the point in thinking anything of them at all? You learned that lesson the hard way.
Jungkook curls an arm around your shoulders and you hum, shifting just enough to press your nose against the side of his throat. His fingers drum against your bare skin, a ghost of his breath against your ear as he plants a small kiss to your hair, and in response you tighten your arm around him, hand moving from his hip up to the inward slope of his waist.
“Things will be okay this time around, right?” The question meets his skin before you have the chance to think twice about it.
He reads the unspoken question in between—as he has done so many times before. “Yes.”
You lean back from him, just enough to meet the brown swirl of his eyes. “How can you be so sure?”
“Because”, he places his palm under the pits of your knees and gently pulls you into his lap, “we’ve pulled through so many times before. We can do it again.”
A familiar sting pricks your eyes and you rub it away with the back of your hand, following the lead of his fingers as he guides you flush against his chest. Perhaps he’s right; maybe this time will be the last. At this point, all of you have given enough, haven’t you?
Encapsuled in Jungkook’s warmth, you allow yourself to hope.
* * *
Yoongi’s timing is impeccable.
He’s perfectly aware of this, of course. His timing was impeccable when he showed up at your house on the first day of the victory tour, when he interrupted your conversation with Hoseok that one time after dinner, when he went to speak with you just before you got to meet Jungkook for the first time after your games and it was truly one of a kind that time when he grabbed the discarded knife with bloodied, broken fingers, plunging it deep into—
He shakes his head, chasing away the uncomfortable memory.
Yoongi’s timing is indeed impeccable, so it comes to no surprise to him that the TV is on when he saunters into the living room, the blaring numbers displayed on the screen counting down to the official beginning of the 74th Hunger Games.
Only 23 seconds left.
The victor spots the two fledgling tributes from Two rather easily, but he doesn’t recall any of their names (though it’s not like he bothered trying to learn in the first place.) The faces of the other tributes, albeit unfamiliar to him, express a mix of excitement, fear and determination; all expressions he has seen too many times before. Expressions that, regardless of its bearer, ultimately means nothing. He has stared into those faces on uncountable occasions, and each time he never saw those faces again. Blinking once, twice, Yoongi takes a step closer to the TV.
Though he would never admit it to a single soul, something cathartic settles into his chest the moment the starting signal rings out in the otherwise silent house. As if engrained in every cell in his body, his muscles tense and a flash of a different cornucopia—his cornucopia— flashes through his mind, and the sound of ragged breaths fills his ears. If he concentrates hard enough, he could probably feel the wind hitting his face and the rapid beat of his heart slowly working its way up his throat and out his mouth.
Just then, something brushes against his leg and Yoongi jumps, muscles stilling underneath the taut expanse of skin.
Looking down, he’s met with his dog Holly’s brown eyes staring curiously back up at him. Releasing a breath he didn’t know he was holding, Yoongi slowly relaxes and lets the corners of his lips lift up in silent reassurance. Crouching down to press his palm flat against the top of Holly’s head, he strokes back the unruly fur.
“Time for a midday snack, or what do you say?” he asks and Holly responds with an excited wag of his tail.
Yoongi rises to his feet and Holly promptly skitters out of the room, presumably towards the kitchen in eager anticipation for his snack. However, he can’t help but turn his gaze back towards the TV, just in time to see one of the careers emerge from the cornucopia, a large knife in his hands. Then there’s another tribute, unknowing of the approaching danger up until the very moment the career plunges the knife straight into their back with a sickening sound of tendons snapping and muscle tissue breaking, and then once more into the side of their throat.
Blood splatters everywhere and as the first cannon fires, he tries to ignore the way his hands start to shake.
* * *
Jimin never did figure out how you managed to mentor him during his game. You’ve spoken to him about it on occasion, but he’s known you long enough to pick up whenever you leave things unsaid or sugarcoat your words. In the beginning, he considered asking Jungkook about it all, but ultimately decided not to since it would be unfair to you.
But he wants to understand. By the gods, he would give anything to understand.
This is not his first time mentoring, and yet he finds himself questioning everything he’s doing. Even now, as he watches Clove straddle the girl from Twelve—Katniss Everdeen—after having thrown a knife that barely missed her face. Clove pins her to the ground, fishing out another knife from one of her many hiding places and strokes the blade along Katniss’ face. She says something—and based on Katniss’ reaction it must be provocative—but they’re too far away from the nearest recording device for the audio to be properly picked up.
Watching the scene unfold, he finds himself yet again at a crossroads.
Does he want to quit mentoring? Of course he does. But wishing for other people to die solely for his own benefit would make him no better than the capitol citizens who are placing bets on tributes for sport. It would make him no better than the game-makers who design the games each year. And it certainly wouldn’t make him better than the government officials who started the entire thing in order to attain their version of “peace.”
In the black and white arena decisions were easy to make—easy to justify too—because who wouldn’t do anything to live? Sophia’s face (the girl from District 4) appears in front eyes, in the exact moment when he had plunged his knife into her throat. He blinks, pushing the memory away, but he can’t escape the feeling of warm, red blood splattering onto his face. (He never told you this, but a few drops even ended up in his tear ducts so when he cried the night after, he cried blood.)
What would you do? Jimin wishes you would tell him—but you’re not his mentor anymore. And he sure as hell does not wish to drag you back to the hell you had managed to escape from.
Lost in his stupor, he fails to notice the addition of a third tribute—what was his name again? Thresh?—and before he can blink the newcomer has gripped Clove by the shoulders, ripping her away from Katniss like she weighed nothing. On instinct his heart picks up the pace, thrumming wildly in his ears, and even though the volume of the voices has grown loud enough for the audio to be picked up he still doesn’t hear what they’re saying, much too frozen still by the sound of Clove’s body being shoved against the side of the cornucopia.
Even now, when Thresh slams Clove against the metal structure once more—this time head-first—breaking her neck with a nauseating crunch, Jimin doesn’t know what to do.
* * *
Something knots itself in your stomach when you watch the romance of District 12:s star-crossed lovers unfold on the screen. There’s something so awfully familiar with the way they hold each other, the way they look at each other, those gestures that speak more than a million words. Is it dread? Knowing that this story, purity amongst death, will never have a happy ending.
You’re fully aware that the biggest reason why Jungkook was spared was not because the capitol gained some ridiculous sense of mercy (or, god forbid, compassion) but because District 2 is a—if not the—capitol favorite. District 12 does not have that kind of privilege, not to mention the capitol would never pull the same stunt again if they can help it. And yet, the false hope brought by the announcement of two winners being possible as long as they’re from the same district stirs the jealousy brooding in your chest. In the end, it most likely changes nothing, but the difference in treatment bothers you still. Why, you’re not sure—you couldn’t care less what the capitol thinks.
Is it jealousy then? Maybe there’s a small part of you who believes in the announcement. This is, after all, the last Hunger Games before the next quarter quell. And a love story makes for very good publicity; you should know that better than anyone.
“Is that jealousy I see?” Yoongi drawls out from where he’s sprawled out on the couch. “Dearest, whatever for?”
Looking away from the TV (if you could shoot lasers from your eyes from staring too long, there would be two puncture holes going through Peeta’s face) you give your former mentor an aggravated look. “I assure you, it’s not jealousy.”
He raises an amused brow in response. What a prick.
“It’s probably pity or something”, you try to explain yourself, wringing your hands together in your lap. “I mean, there’s no way both of them are walking out of that arena alive.”
“Walking?” Yoongi snorts. “Why walk when the capitol has hovercrafts? That’s just stupid.”
“You know what I mean, smartass.”
He sends you a pointed look. “And you know what I mean.”
You let out an exasperated sigh. Of course you do. Out of every single person you have ever met, you don’t think anyone is as good at reading you like Yoongi (Jungkook is a close second though.) No matter how hard you try, you can’t hide anything from him.
“Alright, yes, fine, I’m a little bit jealous”, you admit. In the corner of your eye, you see him open his mouth to retort and you cut him off, “And before you ask, no, I don’t know why.”
“I already asked why though”, he mutters silently, but his moody façade is betrayed by the amusement underlaying his tone.
“Do you ever get tired of this?” you ask, waving a hand towards the screen just as Peeta opens an arm for Katniss to nestle into his side. The sight forces you to look away immediately.
“Oh trust me, I got tired of that a long time ago”, Yoongi huffs. “Now, stop trying to change the subject and let me address the elephant in the room.”
You roll your eyes dramatically but nevertheless bite down on your tongue to keep silent. Your former mentor takes this as his sign to continue.
“Don’t compare yourself to what you see on that screen. It’s a waste of your time.”
His words are met with a humorless laugh. “Easier said than done.”
“I’m being serious.” He casts a glance towards the still image of Katniss. “You’re not that woman, and she sure as hell isn’t you. There’s no need for you to start obsessing over some stranger’s baggage when we both know you have enough to carry already.”
“Oh no, carrying other people’s baggage is a self-proclaimed characteristic of mine”, you say, but the irony of it all goes right past him (as it mostly does, unfortunately) and you mutter out a half-hearted apology at the unimpressed look on his face.
* * *
Jimin wakes with a jolt, arms flailing around him as his body rushes him to sit up. The sheets, sweaty and sticky, attempt to stop him as they plaster to every inch of skin available, and Jimin has to fight down the panic surging up through his throat. Ripping the covers from his shoulders, they bunch around his waist as he draws a shuddered breath. Sweat pools at the hairline by his temples and trickle down all the way to his chin, pausing for a moment before dripping down on his hands.
By now, the dream is nothing more than an echo, and yet it remains more vivid than anything else he can imagine. There was red, so much red—lifeless faces tattooed with unanswered questions drilling holes into him. Worst of all, the cause of it all was clutched tightly in his hand, skin ripped apart from where it was so deeply wrenched against the coarse handle. Blood, so much blood—his, theirs, yours—everywhere all at once.
Jimin shakes his head, pressing shaking fingers to pinch at the line of his nose. He attempts to get his breathing under control, but the aggravated furrow of his brow is so sharp it feels like its peeling the skin off his face.
The sight of his bedroom does little to put him at ease. Everywhere he looks, all he can see is the capitol. This is unsurprising though, as he’s still in the capitol. Seeing anything else would be an self-told lie, and Jimin knows that he of all people should know that the best.
He doesn’t know how, but in some way he manages to get out of the bed, despite having the sheets knotted around his feet, and all but stumbles over to the phone by the dresser.
It’s late; anyone in their right mind would be sleeping at this point. There’s only one person Jimin can call now.
The dial tone shrills uncomfortably in his ear, but he ignores it and tries his very best to level his breathing. Another drop of sweat trickles down his face, past his throat and down his chest, and his free hand clutches at the edge of the dresser so hard his knuckles whiten.
The dial tone stops. Silence follows. One beat. Two beats. Three-
“Why the fuck are you calling me in the middle of the night?”
Yoongi is far from amused. For a moment Jimin wonders if he had accidentally woken him, but while he’s most definitely annoyed, the hoarse trace of sleep is missing from his voice. To this, the wild beating of his heart seems to slow down a little.
“Hi”, he says meekly, as it is the only thing he can manage.
“Hello to you too”, Yoongi grumbles. Pauses. “You still haven’t answered my question.”
“I, uh …” Suddenly Jimin’s tongue feels heavy, unresponsive, like a piece of lead was shoved into his mouth.
“Was it the dream again?” The victor’s voice takes on an impossibly soft quality, and while Jimin can’t see him, he swears he knows his eyes soften too.
“Yeah”, he agrees. Had to squeeze it out, more like; that piece of lead is not moving a single inch.
Yoongi sighs, a soft little outtake of breath, but it is not condescending in any way. (Anyone not familiar with him would find it so, but Jimin knows better than that.)
“How are you holding up?”
Jimin chuckles humorlessly, easing his iron grip on the dresser in favor of sinking down on the floor, phone still pressed to his ear. “As good as one can expect, I suppose.”
He frowns. “Though, by the capitol’s standard I suppose I’m doing terrible.”
Yoongi’s silent, but the silence itself reveals all of the unspoken words (if said, consequences would probably rain down on all of them, which is the last thing they need.) Instead, he settles for “Just focus on you. That’s all that matters now.”
“Yeah, I know.” Something grows in the pit of his stomach. “Did, uh …” his voice wavers around your name, “did she have to deal with this too?”
A snort echoes in his ear. “Don’t we all?”
A smile—a small, pretty thing—graces Jimin’s features. “I suppose we do.”
For a moment or two, comfortable silence passes between the two. Jimin listens—one ear on his own slowing heartbeat, the other on the lulling sound of Yoongi’s breathing on the other end.
“Does it ever get better?”
Yoongi hums, but there’s something sad about the way it sounds. “Maybe a little”, he admits. “But it never fully goes away.”
Jimin swallows, a bit painful with the piece of lead still wedged inside just beneath his uvula. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to … to do any of this.”
“None of us do. It doesn’t matter how long you do it or how much you learn, we will never fully know what to do. That’s why we’re human.”
“But you always seem to know exactly what to do.”
“I don’t.” There’s something so raw in his voice, and Jimin wonders if Yoongi has ever admitted anything of this sort to anyone. “I only pretend like I do. Jimin, you and I are more alike than you think; we all are.”
For the first time in several minutes, Jimin breathes. The knot in his stomach loosens; the lead seems to slowly melt. (He doesn’t remember when his breathing finally evened out.)
Yoongi is still there on the other end. Softspoken, but oh so right.
“If there is one thing I know”, he says, “it’s precisely that.”