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The Capitol has a songbird.

A shining star, who shed the grime and dust of the districts to reveal his true, dazzling light. From the very moment he stepped onto the reaping stage, he drew attention with his dashing features. His skin glowed, his eyes sparkled, and during the chariot ride it was clear to all that he knew how to appeal to fans, blowing kisses and beaming a smile that outshone even the most eye-catching outfits of the other tributes. 

But what truly sealed the deal, and captured the hearts of everyone in the Capitol for the first time, was his interview.

“Actually,” the District 8 male tribute had said shyly, before the host could even ask the first question, “for my time, I was hoping to sing a song. Is that alright?”

“A song?” Even the seasoned host, Cha Woongki, looked startled, but quickly accepted it with a smile. Perhaps he was anticipating the ratings it would draw. “We’d love to hear a song! Is there anyone you’d like to dedicate it to?”

“To someone at home,” he answered. The crowd fell to a hush at the solemnity in his voice, the sincerity in his eyes that gazed directly into the camera. “This is everything I never got to say to you.”

He strummed his guitar, opened his mouth, and the whole world listened to his song. An otherworldly beautiful voice, harrowing in its honesty, crooning lyrics of longing. Of love. Of desperation. 

Wait for me, he pleaded through the song, eyes glistening with unshed tears. Let me come home to you.

It only took two minutes for the entirety of Panem to remember his name.

JL.

The viewers were in awe of him. The Capitol was enamored by him. The tributes feared him, because they all knew there would be no competing with the sheer amount of sponsors he would get. The Careers allied with him immediately, hoping to benefit from the gifts he’d receive, and it was only after the third night, when JL slit each and every one of their throats as they slept, that everyone learned their songbird had talons of his own.

I’m sorry, he’d whisper, remorseful with every death, wracked with guilt and tears. I’m so sorry. But I promised him I’d come home.

Upon his victorious return, he was offered the dream of a lifetime. Stay here, they begged. Stay, and sing for us. What’s so good about the districts? You’ll be much happier in the Capitol. You can even bring the boy you sang of, if you’d like. As long as you sing for us.

And yet, curiously, when he moved to the Capitol, he came alone.

Rumors began, spurred by the songs of grief and heartbreak performed at every concert, every stage. Rumors of a breakup. Of a love unrequited. Of a fight, caused by jealousy, or disgust over bloodstained hands, or perhaps even infidelity? Everyone was more than eager to display his pain as brightly as the advertisements for his concerts. What wonderful entertainment their songbird provides! What a phenomenal story! Aren’t a songbird’s tears as beautiful as his voice? 

When asked, he never gave an answer. I still love him, was all he would ever say, with a helpless little smile. How could I ever stop?

For two years, the Capitol got to revel in its songbird without restraint. The convenience of a music box, and the heart of a human. He performed to their hearts’ content, his songs on every radio, his stages sought out by even the President. Their favorite star. Their favorite toy. 

Until one fateful day.

“This is dangerous,” Woongki said to him the night before in the privacy of his room. The two had become fast friends, as two of the most famous celebrities in Panem, and everyone adored their wildly fun dynamic together. But here, Woongki’s signature smile was nowhere to be seen, his demeanor oddly urgent. “You’re going to upset a lot of people.”

“I can’t stay here,” JL whispered. Without any glamorous venue lighting or vibrant makeup, his pain and exhaustion were all too clear. “Every day just kills me a little more. I can’t.”

“You don’t understand,” Woongki insisted. “If they don’t want you to leave, you don’t leave. Can’t you see? You keep turning down my idea because you don’t want to endanger him, but can’t you see how this will just — ”

“Woongki-hyung.”

And Woongki faltered, because how could he not, at the sheer anguish in his dear friend’s voice? 

“I can’t,” JL repeated. “I’m sorry. I’ll still come back when they need me to, of course, but…this life just can’t be my priority anymore. Without him…what am I, without him? What would I even do?”

Woongki’s heart panged, an old scar from a break that would never heal. I hope you never have to find out, he thought, already dreading what was to come.

The next day, a new rumor began.

JL was planning to return home for good.

There’s no way, they whispered, some sad, some disbelieving, some furious. There’s no way he would leave! 

What reason could he possibly have?

Surely it’s not still about that boy? 

He can’t leave! He can’t! 

The Capitol adored their songbird, as they adored all their toys. Losing one? Well, of course that wasn’t an option. If one of their toys was about to slip…

…they would simply have to tighten their grip. 

When Park Han’s name is called at that year’s reaping, everyone learns their songbird, too, breaks just like any other toy.

Up on the rooftop of the Training Center, Park Han watches the Capitol lights twinkle below him, and wonders how it would feel to die.

He had been so close to escaping the Games. As an eighteen-year-old, this was meant to be his last reaping, and he hadn’t needed to sign up for tesserae for two years due to…anonymous donations…and he was foolish enough to be looking forward to life after the reaping. But now that he’s in the reaping, he’s not going to be delusional about his chances. 

As high as the roof is, he knows better than to try to jump. The forcefield would just bounce him back. No, he’s a tribute now, and the Capitol wants to see their tributes’ deaths, blood and gore and all. He knows he doesn’t want a slow death. He hasn’t trained for this, he’s no Career, and all his hours at the textile factory didn’t exactly prime him to be an athlete. If he already knows he’ll lose, why bother waiting for a tribute to kill him? He could always just let the mines take him during the opening countdown. 

A coward’s way out, some would say. Maybe he is a coward. But he’s not scared. 

What point is there in living, when his life lost all its meaning two years ago?

The wind is strong up here. It blows his hair into his eyes, and he has to tuck his bangs behind his ear with care. His stylists had trimmed his hair, shorter than he’s used to. The sensation of the wind on the back of his neck is a foreign sensation. He supposes he should feel lucky if that’s the most they changed about his appearance — for the most part, they left his face alone. At least, before he dies, he’ll still be able to recognize himself in the mirror.

Han leans a little further over the railing. With how big the Capitol’s billboards are, he can see some even from here. A good number of them have a familiar face, tantalizing smile flashing at him almost blindingly. The familiar pain it triggers almost makes him turn away, but he forces himself to remain. To learn of the place he now calls home. 

It’s so jarring, seeing a place like this after a lifetime in District 8. The looping road of the grand City Circle, with the President’s Mansion standing imposingly just up ahead. Tall buildings, windows still lit, shiny and fancy and nothing like the endless grey factories clouded in smog he’s so used to. Everything here is so bright. The perfect backdrop for his performances, probably. He’s probably been to the President’s Mansion, and sang on the very stage Han had been standing in front of only yesterday, and who knows where else. Does he enjoy it here? Is he happier than he was before, without the districts’ endless misery? Without…

His train of thought is cut off by the sound of the entrance door sliding open, and Han turns around to find the very same face he’d just seen on the billboards below. 

Oh.

Even without the billboards, and the backdrop of Capitol lights, JL is still so beautiful it hurts. Every time Han glimpses his face, he’s reminded of watching news broadcasts back at home, whenever he would be lucky enough to get a showing or announcement of JL’s most recent stage. It’s so strange, seeing him these days, without a screen or stage or crowd of people between them. Seeing his warm-toned hair ruffled by the same wind, and his eyes reflecting the same stars.

All these days together, and they still had yet to speak to each other at all, much less alone like this. Han knows he couldn’t have avoided him forever, not when JL is one of his mentors now. But he had hoped…

…Well. He knows JL doesn’t want to see him. 

“I’m sorry,” Han says, breaking the silence between them for the first time in two years. “Did you want to spend time here? I can get out of your way.”

JL’s mouth twists. Something flashes in his eyes, so intense Han has to look away. He expects a stony confirmation, or even angry screaming — all of which he would undoubtedly deserve. What he gets isn’t exactly that.

“What are you doing here?”

His voice is quiet, almost unheard over the wind. Because of that, it’s hard to tell if he actually sounds angry or not. Han can only shrug, and answer honestly. “Just…taking in the view.”

Silence. And then, footsteps. Han looks up, surprised, as JL walks towards him. He stops just beside him, in front of the railing, and Han turns to take in the view below, just like he had been doing before. Except this time, he’s all too aware of the presence at his side, every hair on his body standing on end, every nerve hyper-attuned to the new scent of jasmine carried by the breeze. 

JL must be used to grandiose views like this, unlike him. Han is not brave enough to look at him, not like this, so he can only imagine how the city lights paint his complexion. This…this is JL’s home. As much as Han despises the artificial beauty of the Capitol, it is at least saved by the one true star in its sea of false ones. 

Does JL want privacy? He never answered Han’s question. Han is about to push himself away from the railing, to force his feet to walk away, when JL speaks again. 

“Do you like it?” 

Like what? The view? Han hesitates. “It’s nice,” he says finally. “Very pretty.”

“It's not like you to lie, Park Han.”

He stiffens at his full name. It’s unsettling, hearing it from JL. But…he supposes he doesn’t exactly deserve to feel upset about such a thing.

Is it not like him to lie? If only JL knew. If he knew the true extent of all the lies Han has told…

“I’m just trying to be polite.”

“That’s not like you either.”

Han huffs, something almost like a laugh, and shakes his head. How familiar, for him to be this picky. “I’m sorry,” he says, folding his arms as his weight sinks just a little heavier on the railing. “I guess, given the circumstances, can you really blame me for being a little unlike myself?”

This time, JL has nothing to say. Han’s eyes trace over one of the billboards in the distance, an advertisement for some kind of makeup product. Not music-related at all, but it makes sense, with how distinct and radiant JL is, that they would want him to model as well. Every cell in his body aches to face the boy next to him, to drink in his image and engrave into his memory the one face he would want to see before he dies. He wants. He wants — god. No, this has to be good enough. 

At least, this way, he can see JL smiling.

“Park Han,” he hears. “You misunderstood my question.”

“Which one?” 

“What are you doing here? In the Games? As…as a…” A sharp pull of air through teeth, an audible swallow. “I thought I made sure you wouldn’t sign up for tesserae. One more year, and you would’ve been free. So why are you here?”

Han…isn’t sure how to answer that question. “I don’t know,” he says. “I didn’t sign up for tesserae, but it’s not like my name wasn’t going to be in there. I just got unlucky.” He shrugs. “Or, maybe I am lucky to some people. Not everyone lives up to eighteen years.”

“You’re not going to die.” 

He smiles without humor. “It’s not like you to lie, Jeyelie.” 

“You — ”

There’s another breeze, this time from how swiftly JL has whirled toward him. If he wasn’t angry before, he definitely is now. Was it the nickname? Han’s smile is quick to fade. He should’ve known better. The name just slipped out too naturally.

“Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

JL’s knuckles go white around the railing. “All these apologies,” he grits out, “for meaningless things. You say you’re sorry but you won’t even look at me. Why? Am I really that unbearable to look at for you? Do you hate me that much?”

“Nothing like that,” Han says hurriedly. “I don’t — I mean — I…”

I can’t look at you without breaking my own heart. I can’t look at you, because if I do I’ll have to see how horribly I’ve hurt you. I can’t look at you because if I’m reminded of the one thing I want most in the world that I can’t have, I’ll do something stupid. I can’t look at you without wanting to beg for your forgiveness and tell you I still love you and kiss you senseless. 

I’m scared. I’m dying. I know you hate me now. I love you. 

He closes his eyes.

“…I’m sorry.”

Distantly, through the mess of his swirling thoughts, he hears a scoff. Then, all the air is knocked out of his lungs, as a hand grabs his shoulder, spins him around, and shoves his back against the railing. He chokes, eyes flying open, and — 

“Do you even understand what you did to me?”

This close, it’s unavoidable. JL is all he can see.

JL, seething, teary-eyed, beautiful. An inferno blazing with the fuel of JL’s endless passion, that threatens to consume Han just from being this close. His hand is scorching where it fists Han’s jacket, and for a delirious moment Han thinks it wouldn’t be so bad, if these were the hands he would die to. 

“Listen to me, Park Han. Listen.” JL presses his chest with all the strength of a victor. “When I went to my Games, I made a promise to you. I did everything I could to keep it. I killed innocent children, I blackened my soul and stained my hands red, I sold myself to people that would’ve cheered for my death as loudly as they do for my music, because I made a promise to you. I lived. I came back to you. I lived for you.” 

The day JL was reaped, Han wasn’t there. He had fallen ill a week prior, and his condition was so severe that the healers told his caretakers to start preparing for the worst. He remembers nothing from then, too lost in fever dreams and restless slumber. Nothing, except the faintest sensation of a hand in his, grounding enough to pull him into coherency for just a few seconds, and star-bright eyes, and a single conversation. 

“The Reaping is today, you know? The…the Peacekeepers say you don’t have to go, which is a relief, but…”

“…don’t go…”

“H-Hani-hyung! Are you — ”

“Stay…?”

“…Don’t worry, Hani-hyung. I’ll come back. No matter what, I’ll come back to you. I promise.”

The next time he woke up, JL was gone. Taken by the one reaping Han couldn’t be there. The one reaping Han couldn’t have volunteered to take his place in.

He will never forgive himself for that. 

“I promised you,” JL says, “and now you owe me a promise, too. You owe me the same promise. You have to live. I don’t care what it takes! I don’t care if you don’t love me anymore, you still owe me. Promise me! Promise that you’ll win!”

“Why…” Han can barely breathe. JL is so close. “Why do you care?”

“What?”

“I was horrible to you.” Everything JL said is one hundred percent true. “You did so much for my sake, and I rejected you. I know you must hate me for that, so why do you care if I live or die?” 

For some reason, this is what makes JL’s grip falter for the first time. 

Perhaps he, too, is remembering, like Han is now.

When JL asked if he wanted to move to the Capitol with him, Han refused. And when JL cried, pleaded, showed signs that he wouldn’t go without Han…Han had to say the one thing he knew would make JL leave.

“I don’t love you the same way you love me anymore.”

“You have everything,” Han says now, quietly. “Your dream, your fans, your new home.” He can still see the silhouette of the Capitol, reflected in JL’s eyes. “You don’t need the stupid boy from District 8 that would just bring you down. Someday soon, you’ll be so happy here that you’ll forget all about me. So…you don’t have to worry about my Games. You don’t have to worry about someone you hate.”

Han tries to smile for him. It must not be convincing enough, because a new flame ignites a fury across JL’s entire expression. 

“You…”

JL raises his fist. Han braces himself for the impact, ready for a pain that could never register through the torment that hollows him from the inside out every waking moment. 

Except, all that comes is a weak, quiet thud.  

He blinks. JL’s hand has landed right over his racing heart. 

“Have you really believed that?” JL whispers. “All this time?”

“I expected it,” Han says. “You don’t have to act otherwise, I know that — ”

“I was going to come back.”

“You — what?!” 

Fear seizes his body like a bolt of lightning. Han stares, hoping he just misheard, surely JL will say he was just joking, it was just a lie, surely — why is JL looking at him like that? Like…like…

“The day before the reaping…” JL lowers his head, as if the weight of his confession threatens to crush him. “I told my manager that I was planning on moving back. To District 8.”

No.

“I had to leave for the reaping anyway, and there were things I would come back for, like mentoring and other gigs we already booked, but…I packed most of my things. I was planning to move everything to Victor’s Village before the Games.”

No.

“Why?” Han asks, more scared than he’s ever been, more scared than when he heard his name called for the reaping. “Why would you want to come back?! Why would you leave everything behind, this is your home — ”

“This was never my home!” JL snaps his head up to glare at him. “How can you be so stupid? Do you think I would ever call any place home if it didn’t have you there?!”

 “You can’t do this,” Han protests. “I — I already told you — ”

“I don’t care. I don’t care if you don’t love me, just — ” His glare melts into a wordless plea. Somehow, this is more painful. “I just wanted you back in my life. I was…I was going to beg you to let me stay this time, you wouldn’t have to return my feelings, I can live with that. But I can’t live without you.” He sniffles. “I miss you.”

His tears, that had been welling up even when he was angry, finally spill over. His head bows once more, as he collapses into muffled, shaking sobs. 

“Why did you make me leave you behind?”

Han’s heart, held together with clumsy patchwork and fraying threads that have barely managed to weave together at all over two years, shatters immediately upon watching the first tear fall from JL’s eye. He…he can’t believe it. All this time, after he had tried so hard to drive JL away in the cruelest way possible, to make JL hate him…it hadn’t worked. He doesn’t understand.

How could JL still love someone like him? 

With a shuddering breath, Han tries to think of what to do next. Maybe…maybe, if he’s going to die soon anyway…should he just tell the truth? What’s the point of continuing to lie, if even the worst words weren’t enough for JL to stop loving him? He supposes, in that way, they’re still the same. JL could twist a dagger into his back and tear the threads of his heart until there’s nothing left of him, and the shards of his soul would still ache to love JL one last time.

JL’s fist has unclenched, perhaps involuntarily, fingers now splayed out. Can he feel Han’s pulse racing? Can he feel the same incomplete rhythm, that was always meant to beat in time to another’s, and now staggers unsteadily like the melody of a dying songbird?

Slowly, Han lifts his own hand, and covers JL’s with his own.

“Jeyelie,” he calls softly. Then, a little more uncertain, “Yence?”

JL’s breath hitches. Han can’t help but wonder how long it’s been since anyone has called him that, if he’s this shocked to hear it.

“Yence,” he repeats. “Do you remember when you would tell me about your dream? When we were kids?”

They had practically grown up together. Two forgotten orphans, that found solace in hidden alleyways and dark corners muffled by quilted layers, where they could sing and laugh and drown out the rest of the ugly, smog-filled world. Han knew, even back then, that JL was something special. Too special for a place like District 8. No amount of industrial fumes and smoke could’ve concealed JL’s starlight forever.

When I grow up, JL would always say, I’m gonna be a singer! I’m gonna be so famous that everyone in Panem will want to hear me! I’m gonna sing for the Capitol!

Everyone else called him childish. Told him to grow up. Everyone in District 8 was fated to disappear into the textile factories, and bleach the vibrance of their lives to color the fabric under their fingertips. But Han listened. Han listened, and smiled, because everything he was as a person existed only to believe in JL. 

“Is…is that why?” JL stifles another sob. He hasn’t moved his hand away from Han’s, and Han is pathetic enough to find joy in that. “That doesn’t make sense. My dream…I wanted to do it with you. We were always supposed to sing together.” 

“They didn’t ask me to sing for them,” Han reminds him. “They asked you.”

“But I told you that you could come with me!” 

“To do what? Be a distraction for you? Get in the way of your dream?”

“Why do you keep saying that?! You’re not a — a distraction, or a burden, or anything like that — ”

“Be honest with me. If I came with you, and it turned out I wasn’t happy here…if I didn’t like living in the Capitol as much as you…what would you have done? Would you have stayed, or would you have left with me?”

“Wh-what does that matter — ”

“Jeyelie,” Han sighs, almost sick with desperation for JL to understand. “The President came to see you.”

This is the one thing JL never seemed to get, that Han understood down to his very core. The one thing JL, sweet, shining, hopeful JL, does not fully grasp about how their world works.

The Districts are fodder. The Capitol plucks a new plaything from their ranks, bashes them together like clumsy children with plastic dolls, and if they want to keep their new plaything, that’s exactly what they do. Their offer for JL to live with them was not a kind offer, nor was it a heartfelt request. It was an order.

Han casts a furtive glance around. No tribute would be naive enough to believe this place is unmonitored. Even if the wind and the chimes from the nearby garden may be loud enough to drown out their exact words…he will have to speak carefully.

“The President,” he begins, every choice of words deliberate, “came to visit you personally, only a few days after you came back. I was there to let him in. He wanted to remind you about the chance they extended to you, to perform at the Capitol full-time. It’s…unthinkable…to refuse such a privilege.”

And yet, at the very first sign of hesitation Han had shown when JL brought it up to him later, his nerves the aftermath of speaking to the President himself for the first time…JL had, without a second thought, told him it was okay. 

“If you don’t want to go, don’t worry! You can just live with me here.”

“Here? But aren’t you…”

“Eh? Hani-hyung, don’t be silly. Why would I go anywhere without you?”

“I couldn’t let you do something like that for me,” Han says now. Please, please understand me. “I couldn’t risk it.”

With how brilliant JL is, it made sense for the Capitol to adore him to such an extent. The perfect face for happiness, televised performances, advertisements for the glory of winning the Games. If JL didn’t want to play the part they had in mind for him, he was no better than another one of the several broken toys in their long-forgotten chest. 

Han has heard stories of the punishments. Nightmares of JL going through them…they haunt him more often than he’d like to admit.

And if all it cost, to guarantee JL’s permanent safety and success, was him? 

“You can be happy here.” Han lets his thumb run over the back of JL’s hand. “Look at all you’ve done, in just two years. You’re not hurt. That’s all I wanted.”

“I am,” JL murmurs, so low Han almost doesn’t hear. He sounds like he’s realized something. “Because you’re here.”

He wipes at his still-flowing tears. His gaze drifts, to where their hands are connected over Han’s heart. He finally steps away, no longer forcing Han back against the railing. Just as Han is about to panic over the idea of JL letting go, he’s thrown into an entirely different kind of panic, as JL clasps Han’s hand in both of his.

“Then,” he asks, “what you said, that day…it was a lie?” His voice begins to waver. “Do you still…”

Han can feel his eyes begin to sting. The truth, that he’s had to chain down and lock away for two years, practically bursts forth with a fluttering of wings, and it’s such a wondrous, freeing thing that he finds himself smiling, even as the new wave of grief threatens to bowl him over. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, finally voicing the one apology he knows JL has wanted from him, this whole time. “For lying to you.”

JL’s lower lip trembles. A new dawn, something like relief, like hope, outshines the night’s reflection in his eyes, as shaking hands rise to cradle Han’s cheeks. Their foreheads touch, and Han thinks he’s crying now, too. He’s not quite sure. All he can feel are JL’s hands, and the warmth seeping through JL’s clothes as he wraps his arms around JL’s torso.

There’s no hesitancy to their movements, not even after two years apart, but there is a slowness, born from their shared desire to revel in what they have been longing for all this time. Han savors every second, every breath, every sign that JL is real, and here, in his arms where he belongs. The faster his tears flow, the tighter his fingers hold on, to the point that he doesn’t think he can let go of JL again even if he had to. The rhythms of their heartbeats intertwine, a melody made whole once more.

“Don’t do that again,” JL demands with surprising ferocity through his tears, although his touch remains gentle. “Don’t lie to me. Not about this. I don’t need protecting. I just need you.”

“Okay,” Han agrees, only because he thinks it will kill him if he ever has to say those awful words to JL ever again. “I won’t.” And, because he thinks it will kill him if he doesn’t say this right now, “I love you.”

“Say it again.”

Han can’t help his chuckle. “How many times?”

“Enough to make up for two years, Hani-hyung!” JL pouts. “Two whole years!”

A rush of warmth floods his being, all the way down to his toes, upon hearing JL call him that again. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He lets their noses brush together, and basks in the smile JL can’t seem to hold back at that. “I love you. I love you, I love you, I always have.” He cups the back of JL’s head. “I’ll never stop.”

There is nothing, nothing, Han wants more right now than to kiss him. So it comes as a bit of a surprise, and more so a disappointment, when he feels a hand on his chest stopping him, just as their lips are about to meet.

“Wait.” JL takes a deep, shuddering breath, like it’s a physical struggle to hold himself back this way. “Not yet.”

“What’s wrong?” Han asks, relief giving way to worry. 

“This is…incentive.” His thumbs brush the top of Han’s cheekbones. “You’ll only get your kiss after you win.”

And, just like that, reality crashes back in and sends Han’s heart plummeting like a stone. His shoulders droop. “Yence…”

“No, no. Don’t give me that.” JL’s frown, as adorable as it is, makes Han’s skin prickle with anxiety. “I told you, didn’t I? You owe me a promise now.” 

“I don’t know if I can — ”

“You can, Hani-hyung,” he insists. “If you love me, the way I love you…then what’s stopping us from being together?”

Ever since the reaping, Han had accepted his fate as a dead man walking. He had accepted it, because there was nothing left for him. The love of his life, he had cut away with his own hands, and he knew the Games would discard the rest of him with the same cruelty and none of the remorse. He had thought, for JL, that his death would be a good thing. A relief, even.

But JL still loves him. JL loves him, and believes in him, and if he really still wants him…

The last of his fear dies. In its place, cold and steady, settles a new resolve, that solidifies like steel as he meets JL’s eyes once more. 

“You’re right.”

He will walk the same path. He will blacken his soul and stain his hands red, and lock himself in the same cage he has despised all his life, if it means he can have this. If it means a new life with the most brilliant star in the world.

“I’ll win,” Han vows. “No matter what, I’ll come back to you.”

Behind them, the chimes ring, as warmly as a morning’s first notes of birdsong. 

“I promise.”

Two years ago. the Capitol found a songbird. This year, they may have found another.

“Ah! What’s this!” Cha Woongki claps his hands together, already on his feet as soon as District 8’s male tribute walks onto the stage with a miniature keyboard in hand. “I know what this means! Do you have a song for us, Park Han?”

The tribute laughs. He’s handsome, dressed in flowing white satin accented with silver jewels along the hem and down his neck, his bangs swept perfectly over his forehead. He first gives the impression of a regal ice prince, but as soon as he smiles for the first time, that impression melts as fast as the audience’s hearts, as his smile lightens his countenance with a truly infectious joy. Some audience members are already cooing at him. 

“I do,” he says. “Would it be alright to sing it?”

“Yes, yes, of course! But let me ask my questions first! I know a lot of our viewers are curious about you, isn’t that right?”

An overwhelmingly enthusiastic response from the audience. Everyone wants to know about this tribute. The one that the famous JL himself fought so hard to return to, and, perhaps more prominently, the one that supposedly broke his heart. 

A good number of members keep casting their glances above towards the mentors’ row, where JL is now. JL, their expressive and excitable star, is oddly still, hands covering the lower half of his face. It’s impossible to tell what he might be thinking. 

Meanwhile, it’s easy to see, right away, why he would fall for Park Han. He’s charming, effortlessly falling into banter with Woongki like they’ve known each other all their lives. The audience laughs as he complains about the formality of his full name only to grow flustered at Woongki’s question of “Would you prefer Hani?” and eagerly joins in calling out “Hani-yah!” to the now blushing boy on stage. The first minute ticks by lightheartedly just like this, but as the second minute approaches, Woongki’s questions start pointing to what everyone really wants to know. 

“So, Hani,” Woongki says. “We’ve already heard a lot about you from a special someone. A certain mentor of yours. I’m sure you know who I mean.”

Everyone is leaning in, attuned to every detail of his reaction. Han is nodding. “Of course I do.”

“Your reunion after his Games was so sweet. Wasn’t it?” This, he directs to the crowd, always an expert at engaging them. “So, imagine my surprise when JL moves all the way here, and you’re nowhere in sight! What happened?”

“Ah…” To his credit, Han doesn’t seem uncomfortable at the prying. He’s surprisingly composed, especially in front of such a large audience, the likes of which he’s probably never faced before. He drums his fingers on one knee. “To be honest with you, Woongki-ssi…I thought he would be happier without me.”

“What?” Woongki’s eyes go round. “Why would you ever believe something like that?”

“He found such wonderful love and acceptance from everyone here. I didn’t want to get in the way of that, you know?” He chuckles a little. “I was just a stupid boy in District 8. I thought I would just get in his way.”

The audience reacts, some shouting “No!” and “We love you!” Half of the screen cuts to JL himself, who doesn’t even seem to notice, too focused on the tribute on stage. 

“Hani,” Woongki chides, “anyone here could’ve told you otherwise. I mean, his reaction to your reaping said it all, wouldn’t you say?” and here, the screen cuts to District 8’s reaping, to JL’s reaction of unfiltered despair. “He even had to leave the stage!”

For the first time, Han seems a little dumbfounded. “I…I was in such a shock that I didn’t see that, I think.” His expression smooths. “But don’t worry. I know better now.”

“Know what?”

He gestures to the keyboard. “Can I show you?”

The instrument is a Capitol invention, small enough to carry in one hand, and expandable into a full-sized keyboard at a moment’s convenience. The crowd is curious, now, about how he learned to play, how long he played, did he learn music with JL? But Han plays coy, shooting them a wink.

“I only have three minutes here!” he says apologetically. “If you want to know, you’ll have to wait until after I win, okay?”

“Ooh, bold words!” Over how loud the crowd is cheering, Woongki has to raise his voice to be heard above them. “And you truly believe you can win, Hani?”

“Of course.” Han’s answer brims with a confidence practically unheard of for a District 8 tribute. “Who could be more desperate to win than me?”

The last minute of his interview is dedicated to his performance. Han’s fingers find their place over the keys, as he takes a final, deep breath. This time, when he speaks, it’s not directed to Woongki, or the audience, but to where the mentors are sitting. 

“Thank you for your song, all those years ago,” he says. “This is the answer I never got to give you, until now.”

With that, the song begins.

JL’s voice is famous in Panem for good reason. He sings with a sweet clarity, effortlessly smooth and bright. People like to say there’s no song he can’t sing, because his range and versatility allow him to take to any concept like a duck to water. 

The audience, listening to Park Han’s voice for the first time, are not expecting it to be so different. 

Where JL’s voice floats, Han’s rings with a flooring richness. There’s a depth like that of a strong brew of coffee, contrasting so nicely to the open warmth of his falsetto. Every word he sings so clearly means something, and the strength of his tone grabs the listener for the journey and never lets go. 

Already, it is easy to hear how their voices are meant to fit together. Already, the audience wants it.

Han sings a song of sorrow. Of regret. Of desperation. 

I won’t leave you again, he promises, every press of the keys a signature to his sincerity. So please let me come home to you.

When he finishes his song, everyone is on their feet for him, but it’s not the crowd that the cameras cut to first. It’s to JL, sobbing, but still managing to nod as his eyes never leave Han’s. To them, the rest of the Capitol may as well not exist. All they see is each other.

I’ll wait for you.

Contrary to what the entirety of Panem believes, Woongki has never found happiness in his job.

He hates the Games. Has hated them ever since they took Kyungho away from him. But he has been hosting them ever since he was young, younger than some tributes even, and it’s likely he will carry this role for the rest of his life, just as his father did before him.

As bad as each year is, this year is especially so, because he knows JL is suffering even more than him. Due to the popularity of his story with Han this year, he gets called to more interviews than last year. The audience can’t get enough of him. Look at how strong he’s being, Woongki hears in fawning whispers. So reliable, our JL! He cares so much about Hani, you can see how worried he is, but he’s smiling for us! 

Woongki sees what they don’t, beneath the well-crafted mask. 

His friend is in agony.

This year’s Games are a labyrinth-like setting. Tributes have to find the right path if they want to survive. If they’re lucky, they’ll find valuable gifts — food, medicine, water. If they’re unlucky, they’ll find the Labyrinth’s beasts, or traps, or even another tribute, lying in wait to swoop in for a surprise kill.

Han, like JL, surprised Woongki with his strength. He doesn’t ally with anyone, and the Careers are too wary of him to recruit him, thanks to JL’s cutthroat tactics two Games prior. He had been smart enough to avoid the bloodbath at the Cornucopia on the first day, which had taken out nearly half the tributes, but still managed to grab a small backpack. It hadn’t seemed like much at the time, only containing a compass and bottle, but by using the bottle’s slightly reflective surface he’s been able to avoid any ambushes. 

Woongki had assumed his strategy would be to find a place to lie low, and let the rest of the tributes take each other out. But Han is a little more ruthless than he expected. He deciphered the clues of the Gamemakers that led to one of the most valuable prizes in the maze — a stockpile of food — and instead of taking it, he left it out in the open. He traced back his path, leaving subtle signs that made the clues just a little more obvious. And, when more tributes would find their way there, praising themselves for their skill in discovering such a jackpot, they would be hoisted into the air by a concealed rope trap that swiftly snapped their necks.

“I guess all that time with textiles means knowing how to tie them!” the commentator, a far too cheery older man, had remarked upon the first tribute Han had eliminated this way. “Kids, don’t try this at home!”

Today is, hopefully, the final day. There are only three tributes left: Han, the girl from District 1, and the boy from District 4. Woongki remembers interviewing all of them. Onyx, the District 1 girl, her brutish appearance that was scorned in her District but made her perfect for the Games. Tylan, the District 4 boy, who spoke fondly of his little siblings back home. He split from the Careers early after their brutal murder of the twelve-year-old girl from District 12. He and Onyx will most certainly have a bone to pick with each other. 

Woongki is supposed to be on standby, ready to interview the mentor of the winning tribute as soon as the Games end. He’s taken this opportunity to stay in JL’s mentoring room, both to support him, and give him a sign of reassurance. 

“I’m here because I know he’ll win,” Woongki had said, gently unworking JL’s tight fist to twine their fingers together. “He promised you.”

JL hadn’t responded — he hasn’t said a word all morning — but he clings tightly to Woongki like a lifeline. There are no cameras that broadcast mentor rooms to the public, only surveillance ones, but Woongki doubts they will begrudge him for being here. After all, it’s not like he’s breaking any rules.

They watch the feeds in tense silence, the live broadcast playing on a screen further away. The Gamemakers haven’t really messed with the weather, until today; a deadly storm casts darkness across the entire labyrinth, lightning blasting the ground and leaving craters in its wake. It’s intimidating at first sight, absolutely, but Woongki knows how these Games work. Knows, as the three tributes dash in a frantic attempt to outrun the lightning, that none of the bolts will actually hit them. This storm is meant to chase, not to kill. 

The Gamemakers want their finale. 

The camera pans to the center of the arena just as Han and Tylan arrive. They ran directly here, as opposed to Onyx who is still lost in the brambles. Perhaps both of them picked up on the Gamemakers’ intentions. 

“Sorry for this,” Tylan says, brandishing his spear. “You don’t seem like a bad guy.” 

“Same to you,” Han replies, and their duel begins. 

The viewers (those from the Capitol and Career districts, at least), are probably excited. Han has made it through the entire Games so far without engaging in combat, and Woongki can imagine their eagerness to see how Han fares in a fight. Some of the bettors discounted Han for this very reason, claiming that in the inevitable head-on fair fight, he stood no chance. 

Han is fast, though. Fast, and sure-footed, and in good health given his secure shelter and food supply, not to mention the wealth of sponsored gifts he’s received. In comparison, while Tylan has had a fair amount of outside support, he’s been struggling to navigate the maze structure, and is running on little rest. Three days of training with a knife is apparently enough for Han to fend off Tylan’s attacks, and he buys enough time to climb to the top of the Cornucopia just before the storm starts to flood the arena. 

“Ah, the rain is falling a lot heavier now,” the commentator observes. “Han may have earned a little reprieve — oh! Tylan’s climbing! Seems water can’t keep a District 4 tribute down, hey?”

The fight is more perilous this time, with both balancing on the rain-slick Cornucopia surface. This time, though, it’s clear who has the advantage. Tylan has lived on boats all his life, and has probably weathered storms just as bad as this one all throughout his life. It’s a losing battle, and Han seems to know it, eyes darting around like a cornered animal as Tylan closes in. So does JL, who is whispering “no, no, no,” over and over, close to hyperventilating. Woongki’s pretty sure the circulation in his hand has long since been cut off by JL’s merciless grip.

“It’s over!” Tylan has to shout over the thunder and tempestuous winds. “Give up now, and I’ll make it quick!”

Han grits his teeth, and charges forward again. Clearly, he’s not planning on going down without a fight. He is fueled by desperation, and it might have caught Tylan off guard, because this battle is close. They’ve locked weapons, blade against spear, for one second, two —

THWACK!

And then Han is stumbling, crimson blooming across his abdomen from the dagger that Onyx threw from below. He collapses, his body falling over the edge, and there’s a terrific BOOM in the distance, and then — nothing. 

He’s gone.

“NO!” 

JL is screaming, pale with horror, grabbing one of the monitors like he’s trying to break it or reach through it.

“Hani-hyung,” he sobs, “no, no, you promised, Hani-hyung — !”

He crumples to his knees, and it is all Woongki can do to support his weight as he breaks down. Every cry is a raw, guttural noise, as if he’s the one that has been stabbed. Woongki holds him, knowing that for once, there is nothing he can say to make this better. There is no way he will be able to fix JL’s shattering heart. All he can do is hold him, and watch the finale continue, because he owes it to every tribute — and to Park Han — to see these Games end.

Onyx has leapt onto the Cornucopia, too. This final duel is a lot worse, Tylan fighting far more viciously compared to when he was fighting Han. Perhaps it’s because this is the last tribute, perhaps it’s because he has no respect for Onyx whereas he had at least some for Han, perhaps it’s because they are both Careers and he knows she will be a more difficult opponent. Whatever the reason, it is bloody and gruesome and awful. Exactly the kind of thing the Capitol loves.

Tylan’s weapon has better reach compared to Onyx’s sword, but Onyx is able to land much worse blows, every slice and hack slowing him down more and more. She slashes his eye, and he stabs her in the shoulder. She howls in pain.

“This is getting good, everyone!” the commentator says gleefully. “I hope you all have your bets placed? One of them will have to end it fast if they want a chance to win here!”

Tylan must have realized this as well. With the blood still flowing from his eye, and all his other wounds, his time is limited. So, in a very reckless move, he lunges and tackles Onyx off the Cornucopia. The cameras are quick to cut back to the ground, water now having risen to knee-level, revealing that somehow, Onyx managed to twist their momentum and land on top of Tylan. She’s pinned him down now, holding him by the neck just above the water, grinning ear to ear. She knows she’s won.

“We have a vicious competitor, ladies and gentlemen! Looks like Onyx is going to make this one slow.”

JL is still crying. Woongki doubts he’s even hearing any of the commentary, doubts he even cares. He almost looks away to try to check on JL, when something catches his eye. A flash of movement. 

“Jeyelie,” Woongki calls hurriedly, shaking him. “JL! Look!”

Something about his urgency thankfully cuts through. Onyx has pressed the tip of her dagger underneath Tylan’s good eye, and JL looks up just in time to see her bloodthirsty grin freeze on her face.

A cannon booms.

Park Han, bleeding and drenched head to toe, yanks the dagger out from where he’d just stabbed it through the back of her skull, and lets her corpse fall into the water.

“By the stars above!” the commentator cries out, sounding well and truly baffled. “Park Han is alive!”

“H…Hani…hyung?” JL’s voice is barely more than a breath. His eyes are locked to the screen now, staring like it is his only salvation. “He…but…the cannon…”

“It must have just been thunder,” Woongki says in awe, also unable to look away from Han, who is staggering forward like it hurts just to walk. “He’s alive, Jeyelie. He did it.”

Han’s arm is wrapped around his stomach. He not only survived the injury, but also pulled the knife out himself, and used it to kill its very owner. A weapon meant to be his end, turned into his victory. Talk about brutal…no, not just that. That’s not quite the right word. 

Who could be more desperate to win than me?

He’s still holding the knife as he drops to a kneel, and lifts Tylan’s upper body above the water with what must be the last of his strength. Tylan coughs, his eye struggling to focus on Han. 

“I’m sorry,” Han tells him.

“M-me…too…” His eye slips shut. “Make it…quick…”

Han nods, and brings the dagger down in one strong, precise movement. Tylan slumps underwater once more, and the last cannon booms. 

Trumpets are blaring. The commentator’s voice rings out, this time also in the arena, as he declares, “Park Han, ladies and gentlemen! Your new victor!” The water is draining, leaving behind only two corpses and one kneeling figure, head tilted skywards as he heaves for air. 

It’s over.

“Hani-hyung,” JL whispers, and Woongki can tell he’s crying again. “Oh, god…he really…”

Woongki’s earpiece is buzzing. They’re going to be cutting to an interview any second now, and Woongki should be moving both of them out of this room. He’s about to help JL stand, when JL makes a strangled noise of distress. 

On the screen, as the hovercraft flies down, the camera zooms in on Han. Han, who isn’t standing up. His eyes close, and his lips form a soundless word — JL’s name — before letting out a long, relieved sigh. The way he falls is slow, almost gentle, like he’s finally finding rest. He’s unconscious before the hovercraft arrives.

“Hani-hyung!”

Woongki doesn’t even get a second to react before JL is bursting out of the room. There’s a muffled commotion outside, most likely other staff members startled by JL’s mad dash down the halls. He’s probably rushing to find Han, to get to wherever will let him see Han as soon as humanly possible, and the cameras are undoubtedly capturing everything. What a story this will be, JL’s desperate scramble to reach his loved one. 

He glances one last time at the feeds, where the two corpses still lay visible. 

The Capitol can have their story for today.

One day, he will make sure they never get another.

The days after leaving the arena are a complete blur.

Han is barely coherent for most of it. It’s an odd cycle of waking up in some restraining clinical bed, being given a small tray of food, and then getting knocked back out as soon as he finishes eating. What he does register, though, is that every time he wakes up, his scars have faded a little more. The bones in his hands jut out a little less. And he is always, always alone.

More often than not, he won’t be aware enough to remember the Games, or understand where he is. Only JL’s absence. His chest hurts, and he knows it isn’t related to any kind of injury or illness, but it still feels like a chunk of himself has been torn away. Where is he? Just one glimpse of his face would be enough…please…

The sleep they force upon him is always dreamless. He doesn’t even get to see JL there.

Finally, one day, he’s awake with nothing tied around his waist or attached to his forearm. He is slow to regain his wits, only sluggishly noting the absence of all his wounds and pain and soreness, until it hits him. He’s free. He won. It’s over.

Where is JL?

It’s only after he bolts out of the room, nearly crashing into the rest of his team, that he gets his answer. 

“They want to capture your reunion live,” his stylist, a tall young man named Shuaibo who has always been kind to him, says. His eyes are bright with anger, but not towards him. With how spirited he is, Han wouldn’t be surprised if he actively protested on Han’s behalf. “I’m sorry, Hani.”

He should’ve known.

Privacy? Grace? That’s not a thing, not for victors, not for the Capitol’s shiny new playthings. Why would they care about Han’s feelings, about his need to see someone he loves at his most vulnerable and confused, when they could create content from it? 

He won the Games, yes. But it’s here that he really, fully understands that he will never be free again.

“The ceremony’s in a few hours,” Shuaibo says, guiding him with a light hand to his back. His words hold an unspoken assurance in them. You’ll see him soon. “Let’s get you ready.”

The stylists dress him in something mercifully simple, just slacks and a collared white shirt (no jewels, thank goodness for that). The entire time, Han can’t help but think of how odd this all is. Only a few waking hours ago, he was running for his life, burning his own hands tying and re-tying rope traps, murdering people. For entertainment. And now he’s being showered in luxury, and dressed in silks, pampered by the same people who tried to send him to his death. 

He doesn’t want this. He feels so wrong, so uncomfortable in his own skin, a tether unmoored in this strange new life. When it gets too quiet, he starts hearing echoes from the arena, of screaming and thunder. 

Is this how he felt, too? 

The rest of the team has left, so it’s just Shuaibo here, who catches his eye in the mirror as he fixes a black tie around his neck. If he knows what’s going through Han’s head, he makes no sign of it. He just offers a small, apologetic smile. 

“I’m glad you made it,” he says quietly.

Han is reminded, then, that Shuaibo had also worked with JL. He had been new. JL was his first ever tribute. He tried to save Han just as he tried to save JL, make them memorable, ensure they were loved because that was the only chance tributes like them had to win. 

His throat chokes up. All he can manage is a small, shaky, “Thank you.”

“Hani.” Shuaibo lowers his voice. His next question is heavy with a meaning Han doesn’t understand. “You know my friend? Woongki-hyung? He’s JL’s friend, too.”

Han frowns. Of course he does. Woongki interviewed him, just as he did everyone. How long ago was that? It feels like a lifetime. “What about him?”

“Don’t look so worried. He’s a good guy.” He pats Han’s shoulder. “Ask your JL to introduce you to him.”

“I…will?”

He doesn’t get much time to dwell on that cryptic conversation, before someone is knocking on their door, and then they’re being escorted down the escalator and to the area backstage. They keep Han strangely far from the stage itself, and a pointed glance from Shuaibo tells him that yes, it’s exactly what he thinks. The victor and their support team are supposed to rise from beneath the stage, with the mentor and tribute rising last in quick succession, but obviously, one person is missing. They’re telling everyone else to enter except Han, and once more, he’s alone.

All this effort, just to keep them separated. Just for a little show.

He finds, foolishly, pathetically, that he doesn’t care. Right now, he’s too desperate to feel angry or wronged or upset towards the unfair society that upended his entire life. Every part of him, down to the marrow in his bones and the veins that pump his blood, aches for the one person he hasn’t been allowed to see. His heart beats for half of a whole, and his hands close around empty air, and he thinks he would agree to play ten more Games if it meant he got to see JL right now.

A sign on the wall flicks on: “ON AIR.” Through the walls, Han can’t hear anything. Not the anthem, not the audience, not anyone. He would laugh at the ridiculousness of it all if he didn’t feel so sick to his stomach. They don’t even want him to hear JL’s voice.

After what feels like an eternity, someone comes out and rushes him to the platform beneath the stage. Han barely has time to balance himself before the plate he’s standing on starts rising, rising towards blinding lights and the overwhelmingly loud screaming of the crowd. He blinks, forcing himself to adjust, already searching, where, where —

There he is.

JL, only a few yards away, so beautiful Han can feel his knees buckling. He’s already running towards Han, and they collide in the middle, not a single second of hesitation between their arms flinging around each other and their lips connecting for the first time in two years. 

Finally.

Finally.

JL’s lips are warm, and sweet, and hungry. His kiss is so all-encompassing that he may as well be devouring Han completely, draining all the air from his lungs and the strength from his limbs. Han tangles his fingers in JL’s hair, trying uselessly to pull him closer, close enough to never be pulled apart ever again. The crowd is cheering, triumphant music is playing, and Han notices none of it. There is nothing, except the starlight bursting behind his eyelids, and the inferno consuming him whole.

They break apart only for air, and even then they still hug each other tightly, Han burying his face in the crook of JL’s neck, breathing him in. He’s sure he’s ruining JL’s perfectly nice clothes, crumpling the fabric with his too-greedy hands and staining it with his tears. His own shirt feels a little wet, too. He can hear JL’s quiet sniffles. 

“Good incentive,” Han whispers, for only JL to hear.

JL chokes out a watery laugh, hugging him tighter. “Shut up.”

When they are forced apart, too soon, by an apologetic producer (not by Woongki, who seems more than delighted to just have the ceremony be them kissing for three hours), Han cups JL’s face one last time. Memorizes the curve of his smile, the shine of his eyes. 

“It’s okay, Hani-hyung,” JL says, breathless. “We have forever now. We did it.”

Han smiles at him, because it’s impossible not to smile at JL. His thoughts in response to that are something he will never tell him. Not here, not anywhere the Capitol has ears. Which is everywhere.

But he knows, deep down, that they don’t have anything anymore. Not their lives, not their souls, not their freedoms. 

Only each other.

The Capitol has two songbirds. 

A shining star and his crescent moon, two treasures that rose from District 8 into glory. Two victors that beat the odds to be with each other. They are a legendary love story, one that will be celebrated and cried over for years to come. 

Individually, their voices were already adored, but the first time they sang together, it’s as if time itself stopped to listen just a little longer. They were always meant to sing together, the citizens say, dabbing tears from their eyes. It’s so obvious now! 

They are inseparable. Hand in hand, arm in arm, and even when the stage separates them their eyes find each other, as reverent as the gaze of a blind man watching his first sunrise. Sickeningly in love, everyone loves to say. Reportedly, the President was so enamored with them that he offered to host their wedding in his own mansion. 

Catch two songbirds, keep them in the same cage, throw away the key. What could be better than getting to hear their duets, forever? 

…

It only takes a few months.

One night, unseen under the new moon, two figures walk hand in hand to a concealed doorway. They greet someone there happily, two lovers catching up with a friend, who invites them to come inside. They are led further and further in, until not a single hidden eye could ever hope to catch them. Hidden from the heavens themselves.

It’s here, in this unheard, secret room, that they finally speak honestly.

“Woongki-hyung,” JL says, clutching Han’s arm. “We’ll help you. Just tell us how.”

Not too far in the future, the Capitol will find their cage empty. 

Their two songbirds, stolen from right beneath their noses. They will rage, and search, and pretend to be investigating due to worry, and eventually will announce their tragic deaths. The lovebirds, with such beautiful songs, gone too soon. How tragic. How horrible.

Not too far in the future, the two songbirds will soar into the night, free, free at last. Never to be heard from again. Free to sing to the open air, to the night sky, without fear of cagemakers and snakes in the grass and eyes from the heavens.Their story will no longer be anyone else’s to tell.

For now, though, they just wait in anticipation, as Cha Woongki grasps both of their hands, and gives them his promise.