Chapter Text
The arrow missed the pack of ducks by a long shot, sending them all scattering away into the woods.
Colt groaned, flopping back against the nearest tree while Ryland blatantly laughed at him. Sure, they didn’t need to hunt—they had so much money now that buying food at the butcher’s was no issue, but all the meat there tended to be older while the game Ryland and Colt brought home was so fresh they had to worry about it taking off running. Besides, despite how cold it had gotten in the six months it had been since the Hunger Games, the twins liked going out together; it felt like their own personal place from home, in the forests surrounding the outside of District Twelve.
“I thought you were supposed to be hitting the ducks, Colt?” Ryland teased, poking his brother in the side. It was usually Colt, who hunted, while Ryland watched; after his games, neither of Ryland’s brothers were exactly keen on making Ryland kill anything again, and Ryland was happy to indulge with that. He’d all but fallen in love with a bow, sure, but he mostly used the skill for target practice in Victor Village—it’d be much less time, having Ryland hunt, seeing as nowadays he never truly missed. But killing anything, especially after his games, had left a rotten taste in his mouth, so he got out of it when he could.
It didn’t seem like that morning would allow for his comfort, though. Colt and Ryland had gone out early that Sunday morning; it’d become a tradition for the two of them to go out hunting every Sunday, so by now, both Simon and Court would know where they were. Usually, they expected something from the twin’s return, whether that be fresh game or some sort of herb or plant they’d found. But the sun was beginning to kiss the horizon, and neither brother had anything to show for it.
“We can always go into town again,” Colt huffed, sliding down the tree until he was sitting in the snow. The bow he was holding flopped over next to him. “Just buy something from the butcher’s place, and plagiarize.”
Ryland snorted. “Yeah, as if Court and Si wouldn’t catch that immediately. Here, give me the bow—we’ve been out here all morning, we ought to at least have something to show for it.”
Alas, in the deep cold of winter, there was hardly any sort of game around—the two had gotten lucky, with the flock of ducks that had, by some miracle, failed to migrate. Until Colt screwed up his shot, that was—it wasn’t like it truly mattered, seeing as they were so rich that money was basically spilling out of their ears, but it was the point of the matter. Ryland had really needed something good to come out of today, even if it was just a killed duck or another animal they’d hunted. Not that seeing Yao or the rest of the Prep team was necessarily a bad thing, but the thought of the Victory Tour was setting Ryland’s nerves on fire.
On the plus side, Yao and the prep team were supposed to be arriving at noon. They’d arrive, prepare Ryland for their first stop of the tour—District Eleven—and then they’d have him do segments on his ‘talent’, which he really didn’t want to think about right then. At least they weren’t going to be around for several more hours, which gave Ryland plenty of time to wallow in his own self-pity as he and Colt walked back out the forest, through the uncharged wire fence, and officially back into District Twelve.
The twins stop at their old house, first and foremost. They still got to keep it officially—by technical standards, it was still the designated home of Colt and Court. If Ryland was to drop dead right that moment, then they’d have to come back to living there—if Simon or Rocky didn’t take them in, that was. But, seeing as Simon had equal power as Victor as Ryland did, Ryland had no doubts that they would be staying living in Victor Village. But whatever worked for Court’s peace of mind worked, so it had become something of a gamehouse, where Colt and Ryland always stopped by after hunting. It was where they’d skin whatever animals they’d managed to poach, where they’d change out of their hunting gear, and generally right themselves after their Sunday mornings. It kept an abandoned quality to it, after they’d all moved out, but Ryland still loved the squat little place regardless.
Once they both deposit their empty game bags, Ryland ducks into the bathroom to change while Colt goes to change in their old bedroom. He swaps his old arena jacket—because yes, he kept that thing for a reason, and it wasn’t warm enough to stand the biting cold of winter but it was comfortable enough to wear it anyways—into a thick, dark blue coat that had fur clinging to its collar and sleeve cuffs, and he slipped off his pair of hunting boots into some sort of expensive, machine-made boot that Court had insisted on him getting. The hood is a different color—black—and he slips it over his head with no issue. The hood matches with the black gloves he slips on before he gathers his old clothes, shuffling into the kitchen to stuff them into his gamebag before waiting for Colt. Colt would be wearing nearly the exact same thing, Ryland was already sure, save for wearing a beanie instead of having the hood pulled up, like what Ryland tended to do after his games.
It was while Ryland was waiting for Colt that Jean-Claude showed up, whining and scratching at the door. An Australian Kelpy, with long fur that shed all over the place, that Colt absolutely loved—which was a good thing, seeing as Jean-Claude was a gift to Colt by Ryland, not two months after he finally got home. The dog tended to go with the brothers at times, but they’d neglected to bring him this time around—it was more likely than not that the dog had snuck out in some way, weaving through the district to come to their old house, where he’d wait at the door for either of the brothers. When Ryland opened the door, Jean-Claude came tumbling on in, barking and yipping excitedly.
It would usually be right then that they’d travel to Vlad’s place, tucked in a warm corner of town, to share some of their game with him. It had become a habit of Ryland’s to do so, after he returned home and learned how he’d taken care of his brothers while he was away; he’d always feel indebted to the man, as there was nothing comparable to taking care of his brothers. Vlad always appreciated it, even if he tried to deny the help most of the time; Ryland usually hid the fresh game in his freezer before he left. If that didn’t work, he’d slip the meat to whichever one of Olesya’s siblings they came across whenever going to leave, which worked every time.
They didn’t need to stop by there, not today, seeing as the last time they’d dropped by they'd handed Vlad enough meat to last an entire week, and that would be without rationing it. Ryland was half convinced that if they’d tried handing him anything else, he’d skin the both of them alive in the form of making them take free bread home.
So, the next stop was the market—the black market, technically, but as always, the Peacekeepers didn’t care enough to stop it. It felt weird, stepping inside with an empty game bag—traditionally, it was trading instead of actual money used for purchases. Not that money wasn’t used at all, but the people of District Twelve were typically so broke that money in any form was hard to come by. Which was why it felt like Ryland’s little bag of gold coins against his hip felt like it was burning their way through the fabric as he and Colt weaved through the bustling crowd, stopping at the stalls needed.
They try to hit as many stalls as possible, if only to try and help the people of the district more; it was outright disrespectful to them, to try straight-up handing them money, so Ryland tried to buy from as many people as possible. Coffee, Yarn, Eggs, Meat (that they were never admitting to Court or Simon that they didn’t kill themselves, though Ryland was confident that one of them would notice) and Oil were all thrown into the Rylands’ own game bag. As an afterthought, Ryland buys three bottles of White Liquor, and the clerk selling it doesn’t try to stop him. The liquor wasn’t for him, anyways—Rocky and Eva had both been stressed, with the upcoming Victory Tour, and Ryland hated to admit that he was too. He out of all of them knew first-hand how creepy the residents of the Capital could be, with their grabbing hands and odd comments. It made him feel disgusting at the best of times, but his Mentors were trying to help him with it—so they deserved the drink.
The sun was relatively high in the sky, once the twins finished up with their purchases. Ryland wasn’t paying particular attention to what all Colt bought, but he didn’t really care—if anything, his brothers ought to buy more. They were always so nervous about using the money Ryland and Simon won in the games, despite the both of them giving Colt and Court both the code and full reign over the safe.
A light snow had begun to fall, once the twins made it to Victor Village, with Jean-Claude following closely behind. It was around a half-hour walk from the town square, and a full hour and a half walk from their old house, but it felt like an entire different world, even with them having lived there for a full six months by then. The house inhabited by the twins holds a soft, warm glow in the windows, with smoke coming out of the chimney. The lights in Rocky’s house were off, meaning he was either at Eva’s house or Ryland’s—but given how Eva’s own house looked dark, it was entirely possible that they were both at Ryland’s house.
The snow had begun to stick as both of the twins and dog shuffled inside, the dog bounding off to go who knew where. Court had been spending all of that day and yesterday ensuring the house was perfectly cleaned and put together for the cameras, so the both of them pause at the doorway to shuck off their snow-covered boots—though Ryland’s barely got both his feet out before Court is there, hand falling on Ryland’s shoulder.
“Don’t worry,” Ryland huffs before Court can start lecturing them. “We’re taking them off here, I don’t want—”
“Oh, it’s just snow,” Court says absentmindedly, waving Ryland off. “Did you two have a nice walk?”
Immediately, Ryland is on edge. He can see how Colt froze from next to him, as well, body going stiff. Court’s tone was all weird, like he was trying to not to break down screaming at a moment’s notice—and if that hadn’t set him off, then the words did. Court knew for a fact that Colt and Ryland had been out hunting in the woods.
Then Ryland sees him. The man in the tailored suit, sitting stiffly on the couch. The quality of the suit and surgically perfected features told Ryland he was from the Capital. In the kitchen to the right, all of the rest of Ryland’s family were there—Simon, Rocky, and Eva. All of them looked various stages of pale and nervous. Something was very, very wrong, and Grace would bet money that it had something to do with the Capital.
“Walk?” Colt gave a forced laugh. He’d noticed something wrong, then, too—he inched closer to Grace, his hand finding his twins’ own. “It was more like skating out there. It’s getting really slippery.”
“Yeah, I’d bet.” The grip on Grace’s shoulder tightens. “Someone’s here to see you, Ry.”
“What, did the prep team get here a bit early?” No, it couldn’t be that. Court had talked to all of them over the phone before, to get used to them, seeing as they’d be in the house for a while before leading Grace off. It was really for Court’s sake of mind; he wanted to know who Grace and Simon were going to be around. If it was the prep team, then Court wouldn’t be so pale, and the rest of his family wouldn’t have essentially ran away to the kitchen to be as far away as possible. “I thought they were going to get here at noon? They'd be thirty minutes early, they’re usually exactly on time.”
Court shook his head. “No, Ry, it’s—”
“This way, Mr. Grace.” The man on the couch stood, as tall and imposing as ever. It was odd, being ushered around in his own house, but Grace put that aside as the man stepped forwards, gesturing for Grace to follow. Grace listens easily enough, quickly shucking off his coat and revealing the T-Shirt underneath before stepping around his older brother and to where the man was waiting on him. The man puts his hand on the small of Grace’s back, carefully leading him forward. From the corner of his eye, he can see both Rocky and Eva stiffen.
Grace was led to the door of the study, a room that’s door was never closed but, apparently, was now. The man pulls his hand away from Grace, gesturing to the door. “Go right in, Mr. Grace.”
Grace twists the brass doorknob, pushing the door open and stepping inside. The man closes the door behind him, but Grace hardly notices. In front of him, sitting at the desk that Court or Grace usually sat at, was a plump, bigger looking man with white hair—he was facing away, towards the window, but Grace could see a book held out in front of him. He smelled of roses and blood, and was overall vaguely familiar, but Grace couldn’t put a finger on it.
“Just a moment,” The elderly man said, holding his hand up as if to pause Grace. Grace hears the book snap shut, and the swivel chair groans as the man turns around. Grace freezes.
Sitting not five feet away from Grace was The Father.
In Grace’s mind, The Father was to be viewed from high pedestals and marble pillars, oversized flags billowing behind him as he looked down at everyone else. What could he possibly be doing in District Twelve, let alone in Grace’s house? His mind flies to other Victory Tours—usually, the Victor was seen with their Mentor, as well as with their stylist and prep team. On some occasions, they’d be seen with some high-ranked officials, depending on if they’d actually met any high-ranked officials or if the officials were just that big of a fan of them in the games. Never, not once had The Father ever been seen with a Victor on their tour. He only attends celebrations in the Capital, period.
He was a lot more scary looking right then, despite the easy smile on his face. His eyes reminded Grace of vipers, ready to strike at a moment’s notice. The lipstick he wore was a shade similar to blood, and it made Grace want to tear The Father’s lips off just by looking at it. The suit he wore—because gods forbid he wear anything other than formal attire—was a simple three-piece set, all black with a blood red tie, that was somewhat loosened for comfort. His features were, without a doubt, altered in some way—his lips were too plump, his cheekbones too high, his eyes far too wide. It was intended for him to look more appealing by Capital standards, Grace was confident, but it only served to make him look uncanny in Grace’s mind.
If he’d made the journey all the way to District Twelve, then Grace was in serious trouble. No, not just him—his entire family was in trouble, and they might not even know it. A shiver goes up Grace’s spine at the thought—his entire family, all the people he cared for most, was waiting out in the kitchen for him right then. They had no clue what danger they were in, just by The Father being in their house, by being close to them. It was more disturbing to think about how close they were when considering how much The Father must hate Grace right then, seeing as he outsmarted him. How Grace outsmarted the sadistic Hunger Games, and had gotten both him and his boyfriend out alive. He’d made the Capital look stupid, and had undermined all of The Father’s control in the process.
All Grace had been trying to do was keep himself and Simon alive. Any act of rebellion or something against the Capital was purely coincidental, Grace hadn’t even been thinking about that. But the Capital wouldn’t be seeing it that way; whenever the Capital decrees that only one can live, and another has the audacity to directly challenge that, then that was rebellion in of itself. Grace had only thought of that after the games had ended, and now had to act so impossibly love-sick that he truly intended for the both of them to die. Which was a simple enough task, seeing as Grace loved Simon, but it was still aggravating.
Grace had been quiet for far too long by that point, standing in shock as he stared at The Father, so the man before him took matters into his own hands. He sat the book to the side—the book Grace was currently in the middle of reading, mind you—and gestured for Grace to take a seat before him.
Grace complies easily enough, stiffly walking forwards and sitting down in the plush chair before the desk. It had been placed there by Colt as a joke, acting like Court was giving him an ‘official interview’ that had gotten Colt chased by Court not ten minutes later. The reminder of the memory makes Grace relax slightly, only to tighten whenever The Father begins to speak.
“I think this will be much easier on the both of us if we agree not to lie to one another,” The Father says simply, folding his hands in front of him. “What do you think?”
Grace was sure that his tongue was frozen and speech was therefore impossible, so he shocks himself when he replies in a steady voice. “Yes, I think that will save us plenty of time.”
The Father smiles down at Grace. It is nothing but a disturbing sight—in fact, The Father being there at all was disturbing. “My advisors were very worried that you were going to be difficult with me. Are you planning on being difficult?”
“No,” Grace shakes his head. “I have no reason to be.”
“That’s what I said,” The Father nodded. “Any boy who would be willing to go through such lengths to save his and his love’s life isn’t just going to throw it away. And think about all the family said boy has. Two lovely brothers, two very generous Mentors, and a…partner,” He said the word ‘partner’ very oddly, and Grace didn’t like it. He hated it, actually. When was this meeting over?
“Now, Mr. Grace,” The Father drawled, leveling Grace with a very odd look. Grace wanted to run away and hide at said look—no, he just wanted The Father out of his house overall. “I have a very disturbing problem. A problem that began whenever you pulled those berries out in the arena.”
“Is that so?” Grace’s shoulders tensed impossibly more.
“Yes,” The Father leaned back in the swivel chair. Grace made a mental note to burn that chair, whenever The Father left. “Now, if Gail Meyer—the Head Gamemaker of this last year, I know that isn’t common information—had any sense at all, she would have blown you to bits the second you pulled out those berries. But, alas, she had a sentimental streak, and here you are now. Are you able to guess where she is?”
Grace gives a tense nod. He knows from the way The Father was saying it that Gail Meyer has been executed.
“Now, there was nothing us in the Capital could do but allow you and that Convict to play out your little ‘lovesick’ scenario,” The Father hummed, his tone a sense of false-pleasant, the one Grace was used to hearing towards unwelcomed guests. “And you two were rather good at it—it must be easy, with how you two do, in fact, love one another. The people in the Capital surely ate it all up. But there are some in the Districts here that haven’t fallen for it.”
There must be a flicker of bewilderment that crosses Grace’s face, because The Father quickly addresses it. “Now, of course, you couldn’t have known about this. You have no access to any news outside of your own home, you couldn’t possibly know what's happening anywhere else. But in some places, they viewed your act of love as an act of defiance, of all things. And if a little, weak-looking boy from District Twelve of all places can directly defy the Capital and walk away unharmed, then what’s to stop them from doing the same? What is to prevent, let's say, an uprising?”
It takes several moments for the words to sink in. Grace suddenly feels very chilled and elated, all in one. “There have been uprisings?”
“No, not yet.” The Father shakes his head. Disappointment slams into Grace like a train, but he doesn’t dare let that show. “But they’ll follow the course if things do not change. Uprisings tend to cause revolutions, you know.” he rubs the spot just above his eyes, where Grace also tends to get headaches. “Do you know what that would do? How many people would die? The conditions many would be forced to be placed in? Believe me when I say that if the Capital released its grip on the Districts, even for a moment, then the entire system would come crumbling down.”
“Must be a rather fragile system, if it can be taken down with a couple of berries.” Thank the gods that nobody from in the kitchen was listening to Grace right then, because he would’ve been strangled.
The Father stares at Grace for several long moments, a light frown dancing on his face before he schools his expression. “Yes, I suppose it is. Just not in the way you’ve been led to believe.”
“I didn’t mean to start any sort of uprisings,” Grace tells him simply.
“Oh, don’t worry, I believe you.” The Father folds his hands in front of him. “It doesn’t matter—your stylist tended to be very prophetic in his styling choices. Angel on Fire, you have left a spark that, if left unattended, will burst into an inferno and collapse all of Eden.”
“Why don’t you just kill me now, then?” Grace questions.
“What, publicly?” The Father gave a laugh. “That would only add fuel to the fire.”
“You could arrange an accident, then.” Yeah, thank god that nobody from the kitchen was listening. Suggesting that The Father kill him would not impress any of them.
“And who would buy that?” The Father didn’t look impressed. “Not you, I’m sure. You’re a very smart boy, Ryland Grace-Gentry.”
Grace hated the way The Father said his name. He hated The Father’s voice. He hated The Father being in his house, he hated looking at The Father, he hated, hated, hated. “What do you need me to do then?”
“I need you to be as smart as you have been,” The Father hummed. “I mean, if you’re not, then I could easily have one of those people in the kitchen killed. Your twin, perhaps? It’s not doing either of you any favors, going out into the woods each Sunday.”
Grace felt his stomach drop straight out of his chest and onto the floor.
“Now, I need the Districts to truly believe that you’re truly lovesick with that Convict boy,” The Father hummed. “This tour is the only thing that’ll be able to turn things around, to truly show how delusional with love you are. Even if you and I both know that is a lie—you are far too smart a boy to be delusional with anything.”
“I will be.” Grace gives a long, deep breath. “I’ll be so lovesick that I'll even think I’m crazy. Everyone in the Districts will believe I’m delusional with love, I’ll convince them all.”
“You’ll want to aim higher, if you want to succeed.” The Father pushed himself out of his chair, slowly rounding the table. Every step the man took felt like a knife stabbing itself in Grace’s chest.
“How so?” Grace chokes out, just as The Father falls to be right next to him, looming over Grace from where he was sitting.
“Convince me,” The Father murmured. He leaned down, his face impossibly close to Grace’s own. Grace was utterly frozen as The Father reached out, stroking a finger along Grace’s jaw. He wanted nothing more than to tear the skin off that was touched, as though he’d been infected. “You really are a beautiful boy, Grace. Beautiful and kind. It’d be a shame to leave your family without someone like you.”
He presses a kiss to Ryland’s cheek. And with that, The Father leaned back up, making his way to the door. Grace stays utterly still as the door clicks shut behind him.
—
Ryland has been alone with The Father for ten minutes.
Ryland has been alone with The Father for ten minutes.
It was taking all of Simon's self-control, to not burst into the office right then and demand to know what was happening. And even then it was iffy—truly, the only thing keeping him grounded was Court’s arm around his shoulders and the iron-tight grip his hand was in with Eva’s own. Eva herself looked worse than Simon felt, Rocky included—they’d both huddled in close with one another, both of them tense and nearly shaking—no, trembling. With fear or rage, Simon wasn’t quite sure, but he was leaning closer to rage.
But their combined rage was just a candle to how Court and Colt looked. Simon had gotten to know the two of them over the last few months, which was how he could recognize just how ticked they both were. Court was all quiet and stiff, shoulders hunched as he leaned against the kitchen counter, expression carefully blank. Colt looked to be physically restraining himself, jaw clenched so tightly Simon swore it would crack and his hands closed so tightly into fists that it looked as though his hands were going to bleed. There was a murderous gleam in both of their eyes—one wrong word, and either one or both of them were going to go storming into the office, most likely followed by the rest of them. Out of all of them, Colt looked the most visibly angry, but that was expected from him—Simon imagined that if it was his twin being or doing…something with The Father, then he’d be equally as angry.
But no, it was so much worse for him. Ryland was his light in the dark, his saving grace from back in the arena. If it wasn’t for Ryland, Simon would be long since dead—he needed Ryland more than he needed air itself. To see Ryland get hurt was to see the brightest light go dim, and that wasn't something Simon could handle.
Which was why whenever the sound of the door opening and closing, followed by the man himself stepping into view with a carefully blank face, made Simon nearly burst into a sprint to the Office. Everyone else in the kitchen looked to be about on edge as he was as The Father turned to look at them, giving them all considering looks with his hands folded neatly behind his back.
“You lot are lucky to have such a sweet boy like Ryland become so famous alongside The Convict,” The Father says eventually, voice even and almost kind if it weren’t for his glaring eyes. His gaze snaps to Simon, and all Simon wants to do is bare his teeth and glare until the man backs off. “If the public didn’t love the two of you so much, then I would’ve bought that boy ages ago.”
The words chill Simon to his core. What.
He can only stand there, mouth agape, as The Father smiles kindly at the group before turning and leaving the house, the Capital guard following behind him.
Instantly, Simon is in a dead sprint towards the office.
—
The Father’s breath stank of blood.
What does he do, drink it? Ryland deliriously imagines the man sipping the substance from a teacup, dipping a cookie in it and it coming away dripping red. Red, like the blood seeping from Martin's chest, red like the blood that pooled around Filch’s mutilated body, red, red, red.
Ryland snapped himself out of it with a harsh pinch to his wrist. Still, the room felt like it was spinning in odd, lopsided circles, and he distantly thought he might pass out. Passing out would be a blessing, at that rate—he couldn’t for the life of him stop hearing what The Father had said. Districts, threatening to uprise? A direct visit from The Father himself? A direct death threat to Colt? Who was in danger because of him, now that he’s still alive? Who was going to die because of him? Who was already dead because of him?
This was all Ryalnd’s fault. He should’ve just died in the arena, like he was supposed to—he should’ve been quicker in slitting his throat, or ate the poison berries before Simon had any chance to react. Then his family would be safe. Then Simon would be safe. It was already six months post-games, they all would’ve gotten over and forgotten about him by then. It wasn't worth the trouble, wasn’t worth the pain, wasn’t worth his family's lives. He couldn’t lose them, he just couldn’t—
He needed to listen to The Father. He needed to convince everyone that he was crazy, that he was delirious and couldn’t speak on his own actions. The thought of listening to The Father made Ryland’s skin crawl, but what choice did he have? Colt would die if he didn’t get this right. His entire family could die, and it’d be all Ryland’s fault, and everyone would see how disgusting and vile and rotten he was—
“Hey hey hey, Angel, stop that.”
Ryland hadn’t noticed anyone come into the room until Simon’s hands were gently pulling Ryland’s hands away from his biceps, where he’d clawed at them until they became scratched-up, bloodied messes. He’d been clawing at his skin? It was as if Ryland was trying to literally tear away how dirty he felt—he’d barely even felt the pain until right then.
And then there was Simon, crouched in front of him, gripping Ryland’s hands in an iron-tight grip, as though Ryland was going to try clawing at himself again. No, not just Simon—everyone was in there. Colt knelt next to Simon, his hands resting on Ryland’s knees, while Court was to Ryland’s right, his hand on Ryland’s cheek and thumb rubbing something away. The Father’s kiss must’ve left a mark from his lipstick, then, if Court was wiping it away—the thought of the kiss made Ryland want to scream. Behind him were Rocky and Eva, Rocky with his hands on Ryland’s shoulders and Eva off to the side, not touching but present. Ryland was eternally grateful for Eva, in that moment—he didn’t want to be touched. He really, really didn’t want to be touched, but what was he going to do? Shove everyone off of him and run to the bathroom to scrub at his skin until he feels clean?
They can’t know. They were all already in so much danger—none of them could know what was going on. Not about the Districts, the danger, the anything.
Ryland takes a shaking breath. “I’m okay.”
“Are you?” Simon questioned. If possible, the worry on everyone’s faces grew. “You…don’t look too good right now, Angel.”
“What did that bastard do?” Court’s voice came off as a growl, and it was all Ryland could do to not flinch at it. “Did he touch you at all? Don’t lie to me, Ryland.”
Touch him? Why would Court be asking—oh. The mark left on his cheek—they all knew something had to have happened, he could only imagine how things looked for them right now. Ryland being in a private meeting with The Father, and himself clawing at himself with a kiss mark left on his cheek.
But still, he didn’t want to talk about it. All he could get out was a trembling, meager, “I feel disgusting.”
Everyone’s faces dropped.
“I didn’t—nothing like that happened,” Ryland was quick to say, panic flaring in his chest. He knew it was an ever present worry of all of theirs, how he was so desired by the Capital. “He didn’t—all he did was kiss my cheek. And—And call me beautiful? He was really weird about it, he got all—he got all close to me, but he never touched me like that. We talked about a few other things, but it was mostly about the Victory Tour, nothing to really worry about. Apparently, it’s tradition for the Victor to meet him before the Tour, for ‘good luck’. He said he met with Simon before me?”
Almost all of the last half was lies and bullcrap, but his voice was already shaking anyways, so the lie was concealed well enough. Simon looked completely and utterly baffled, as well as everyone else—thank god they bought that.
“No, he didn’t meet with me.” Simon muttered, looking utterly frazzled. “Why would he lie about something like that?”
Ryand just shrugged, hissing in pain whenever his arms stung at the movements.
Court was quick to jump on that wince. He crouched to be eye level with Ryland’s arm, carefully cradling his right arm in his hand. His right arm looked a considerable amount better than his left—he’d barely bloodied up his right arm, with only a scratch or two deep enough to bleed. His left arm however? His horrendously scarred one? Whenever the scarred skin broke there, it tore. His left arm was all but a mess of blood, and it left Ryland’s right hand covered in blood. Ryland found it somewhat befitting; his hands were already red with the blood of those he’s killed, why not add his own into the mix.
“Oh, Ry,” Court murmured, swiping a line of blood away. His gaze flickers between both arms, then up to Ryland. “Come on, let's get you to the bathroom to get you cleaned up. The Prep team should be here soon, anyways, and they requested last time for you to already be in the bath when they arrived.” His gaze flits over to Simon, a teasing tilt to his voice. “You too, Mister. You and Rocky get to Rocky’s place already, if you don’t want the Prep team to skin you.”
Simon nods at Court’s words, but doesn’t dare look away from Ryland. “You gonna do okay alone, Angel?”
Would he do okay alone? Ryland felt the absolute safest with Simon, no questions asked. But Court was right—the Prep team would show up soon, and they all needed to be ready whenever they came. And the camera crew wanted a shot of Ryland and Simon walking to one another anyways, for ‘flare’ or something of the sort, which Ryland couldn’t care less about but felt he should comply to get it over with. He knows that, if he only asked, then everyone in the room would bid adieu to any care that they had for the Prep team or cameras. But Ryland truly didn’t feel it was worth that—he’d be okay for the moment.
Which is exactly what he said. “I’ll be okay, don’t worry. Make sure to pester Rocky the entire time, though, okay? Don’t give the guy a break.”
Rocky gives an indignant squawk, lightly slapping at Ryland, though it’s all good natured. Everyone relaxes somewhat—if Ryland was okay enough to joke around, then he was okay. At least, to them, he was. Simon laughs as he stands up, and—after asking permission—presses a kiss to Ryland’s mouth, then his hairline before he follows Rocky out of the house. Eva follows after the both of them after giving Ryland a quick glance-over, as if reassuring herself he was okay before leaving.
Ryland stays relatively silent as he’s led out of the office by his brothers, Colt keeping an iron grip on Ryland’s hand and Court closing the office door tight behind them before leading him off to the bathroom. He stays quiet as Court sets him up on the bathroom counter, pressing a cool, wet rag to his arms and gently wiping away the blood while Colt begins the bath. None of them are used to warm water—in their old home, they either used cold water or nothing, and even then the water would later be boiled and reused. To simply plug a drain and unplug it whenever they were done was preposterous, and all the soaps and fancy things they had were incredibly foreign to them all.
It’s once Ryland’s arms are both properly bandaged that Colt and Court finally leave the bathroom, ordering him to call for either of them if he needed them. Colt had taken it upon himself to make the bath extra fancy, dumping a little bag of dried flowers into it, and it was metallic looking enough to show that oils had been dumped in as well. As a courtesy, because who knew how long Ryland would be made to stay in the tub, a tray had been set up on the opposite end of the tub—it held a cup of steaming tea, a candle that was already lit, and one of Ryland’s many books. When Colt had gotten the time to do that, Ryland had no clue, but he wouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. He slipped into the silky water with ease, relaxing at the warmth that enveloped him.
His mind couldn’t get off of The Father, though, despite how hard he tried. He’d not wanted to tell anyone what had happened earlier, but he’d calmed down a bit from then. Realistically, he’d have to tell someone. But who? Not Colt or Court, that was for sure. They’d only make themselves sick with worry, it wasn’t like they could do anything about it anyways. The only ties they held through the Capital was through Ryland. But what about Simon? Ryland desperately wanted to tell Simon, but he’d probably be able to do nothing about it either. In fact, he’d probably worry more than either of his brothers combined, which he didn’t at all deserve. He deserved to live a completely peaceful, fulfilled life.
But that would leave only three people that Ryland could trust with the information; Rocky, Eva, and Yao. Yao probably wouldn’t be able to do too much, but Ryland was confident he’d be able to do something. Still, that would put Yao in the line of danger whenever he never asked to be. So Yao was a no-go. Eva, definitely not. They’d grown close over the six months, sure, but it was a crap-talk-together sort of arrangement. Eva was the only person Ryland would willingly let curse him out, and Ryland was the only person around that was allowed to tell Eva when she was being rude or crude. Along with that, Eva and RYland would only go to one another to talk badly or ‘gossip’ about someone or something. Their tempers and opinions aligned nicely with one another, so they got along swimmingly. But she wasn’t the person that Ryland would first go to, whenever danger struck—he trusted her, sure, but not to that degree. Was that opinion slightly skewed, seeing as she ordered Olesya to die right off the bat in the games? Yes, but nobody could really blame him for that.
Which would only leave Rocky, then, to deal with Ryland’s trouble. Rocky would be able to help, Ryland was sure—Rocky already stuck his neck out for Ryland several times over, and while Ryland hated that Rocky had to constantly protect him, Rocky would absolutely want to know about what was said. Not that the others wouldn’t but they wouldn’t be able to work like what Ricky could—besides, the Capital and Rocky were sort of old friends in the fact that Rocky had been around for so long. If Rocky spoke out on Rylands behalf for anything, then the Capital would listen.
Ryland slides further into the tub, keeping mind to keep his arms braced on the edges as his head goes under. He and his brothers used to go to the lake all the time, out in the forest—it was where Court taught them to swim, and where Ryland went whenever he needed to be alone. It had belonged to someone else at some point, with the little cottage sort of thing sitting to the shore of it, but it had long since been abandoned. After the twins were taught to swim, Court and Colt stopped going to the lake pretty much all together—not that Ryland could blame them,especially whenever their father would use water as a punishment. But Ryland quickly got over the fear of drowning by spending hours at the lake, paddling and swimming around. There was always a spike of fear whenever he went under, but he got used to it over time.
Either way, the water worked wonders in blocking out the outside world in its entirety. Still, Ryland was able to hear the sounds of commotion—the closing the doors, the cheerful greetings, muffled responses that Ryland couldn’t hardly make out. He’d only just come back up for air whenever the bathroom door creaked open, and the same Prep team that he had back in the Capital came bustling in.
“Grace, your eyebrows!” Octavia screeches right off the bat, and Ryland utterly fails in stifling a laugh as the three of them make their way to the tub. Octavia takes Ryland’s chin in her hand, turning his face this way and that, inspecting it with a frown.
“Now now, it’ll be okay,” Viena reassures, patting Octavia on the back. She quickly takes Ryland’s hands in her own, inspecting the callouses and bitten nails. Her gaze flicked to the bandages wrapped around Ryland’s biceps, but she didn’t mention anything about them. “Now, these are the big issue here. Honestly, Grace, you couldn’t have given me something to work with?”
Ryland winces, offering a sheepish, “At least I left my hair alone?”
“Thank god for that,” Cordea sighs in relief, smiling as she goes to stand behind Ryland, running her hands through his hair and inspecting the wet strands. The fact that his hair was left alone seemed to calm them all down drastically, and they all pressed kisses to Ryland’s cheeks as they set about getting to work.
The lot of them start talking at Ryland as they set about doing their separate jobs—Cordea begins massaging all sorts of creams and goos into Ryland’s hair while Viena rubs odd oils into his hands, and Octavia has him prop both legs up and out of the water so that she can rip the hair out of them. Nobody in the district shaves or waxes, and Ryland was growing ever the more grateful for that fact as she smears burning wax onto his legs, only to rip it off moments later. Why hadn’t they’d done this before, at the Capital? It was so cold outside, were they expecting him to show his bare legs to the world?
After they have him get out of the bath, they wrap him in his large, fluffy robe and lead him out of the bathroom and into his bedroom, where someone had already set up his and Simon’s vanity for the team. They sit him down on his chair, move Simon’s chair out of the way for the moment, and quickly get set to work plucking his eyebrows, waxing his arms and stomach, pressing fake nails over his real ones and making sure they stick before getting to painting them. Cordea trims his hair as well, making sure it was nice and neat before getting to work styling the mess.
By the time they were done, Ryland’s eyebrows were stinging, his nails were painted a baby blue, and his hair was soft and fluffy, laying in a purposeful messy sort of way. Makeup takes an average amount of time, with it being left mostly natural—they cover up blemishes, use cool tones for his base, and throw on some lip gloss and silvery eyeshadow before they’re done. They leave just as Yao comes in, followed by Court, the two of them engrossed in some sort of conversation before their gazes settle in on Ryland. Ryland and Yao were quick to embrace, murmuring greetings before Yao kissed Ryland’s hairline and ordered him to sit back down.
“Court told me what happened with your arms,” Yao hums as he steps right up behind Ryland, running his hands through his hair to fix it up properly while Court, who had gotten dressed in a nice button-down and slacks, takes a seat on Ryland’s bed. Court being there was purely for Court’s benifit—Yao had offered long ago to let Court stay in the room with Ryland, while Yao worked and did his thing. Yao was just as aware as anyone of how Ryland was perceived throughout the Capital, so Court got to stay in the room and banter with the two of them while Yao helped Ryland get all dressed and prepared. “Your arms will be covered anyways, seeing as it’s cold as an ice cube outside, but I’ll make sure none of the outfits put too much pressure on them.”
“Thank you,” Ryland says gratefully. His arms were beginning to sting, now that he wasn’t focused on the pain of being waxed. He told the two as much, and Yao frowned.
“I never told them to wax or shave you,” Yao mutters as he leans over, running his hands down Ryland’s right arm. His gaze runs along Rylands now smooth legs from where they were visible under the robe. “In fact, I gave them specific instructions not to. You’re going to be covered up anyways. I’m sorry they did that, I’ll have a stern talking to with them.”
“It’s alright,” Ryland waves Yao off. “It hurt, sure, but it’s not like you could help it.”
“Why would they want to wax him?” Court questions, and oh, he doesn’t sound happy. He doesn’t look happy, either, from where Ryland can see him from the mirror. Neither does Yao, at that—in fact, he didn’t think he’d ever seen Yao look so ticked.
“Because I wasn’t there,” Yao sighs, running a hand down his face. He gives Ryland an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, Grace, I thought that they’d be fine with you while you were naked, they seemed perfectly fine last time. But last time I was there with them, and—gods, I already know why.” Yao turns to look at Court. “They probably won’t be coming back into your house after this. They’ve spoken before on how they love how ‘soft’ and ‘delicate’ Grace looks, they don’t—they did it for their own personal gain. I’m so, so sorry.” His gaze shifts back over to Ryland. “Did they touch you anywhere that they…shouldn’t have?”
Ryland shakes his head. Despite just taking a bath, he felt gross all over again—of course, he couldn’t get so lucky as to not be changed or altered for another’s gain. Why couldn’t he be normal? Why couldn’t he just—was it so hard for someone to look at him and—he shakes his head, brushing away the thoughts.
The clothes that he’s put in only make him feel slightly better. The cropped shirt he’s put in is plain black and skin-tight, but not tight enough to press too harshly on his arms, and the pants he’s put in is pretty much the same as all the other pants Yao usually puts him in—loose and flowy, up to his waist, black and bunching up on the ground. They stay bunched up until Yao has him slip on a pair of soft grey boots that have a three-inch heel to them, boosting Ryland up. A silver belt is slidden on as well, the star buckle in the front glinting in the light. The silver matches the silver star earrings that Yao clips on him, as well as the silver choker that goes around his neck—he very quickly decided he hated the choker, and told Yao as much, who nodded in understanding and quickly discarded the item. All of these, however, were background pieces to the real star of the show—the grey furred coat that Yao has Ryland slip on. It’s fuzzy and warm, and it has little black spots to match all the other black Ryland was being made to wear. It was cropped to the same length as the shirt, and it had large pockets that Ryland slipped his hands into immediately. It was, overall, warm.
Naturally, Ryland looked good in the outfit. No, he looked great in it. He told Yao as much as he led both him and Court out of the bedroom and down into the living room, where a camera crew had pushed all the furniture to the side, setting out all sorts of outfits and a little studio sort of area to get views of Ryland holding them and talking about them. Fashion designing was his ‘talent’, after all
Gods, talents. The thought made Ryland sick to his stomach. All Victors were supposed to have one—it was something they could be interviewed about instead of the games or whatever else. It was something that the Victor did after the games, whenever they got out of the games, now that they didn’t have to work in the industry or go to school. Simon already had one—botany. He loved plants and knew almost everything there was to know about them. They’d had a garden set up outside, before the winter came, in which afterwards one of the rooms in their house was turned into a little greenhouse for Simon to work in. Ryland also had a talent, thank you very much—he loved reading and writing, and almost anything to do with books. He’d told Yao as much over the phone. But apparently, that wasn’t good enough; people in the Capital could read, of course, seeing as they all got education. But books were seen as drab and boring, only really around for aesthetic purposes. Hearing that had ticked Ryland off for days, but that didn’t change the fact that he needed to pick something else up, and fast.
Alas, nothing that would interest the Capital was something that Ryland had managed to pick up, so they were…well, forgery wasn’t exactly the right word. They were just simply telling the people that Ryland designed the clothes made—which technically wasn’t a lie, not directly. Ryland was the ‘inspiration’ for the clothes. Yao designed and made the clothes, of course, which was the only reason they looked so good sitting out right then.
Ryland grins up at Yao as looks over all the outfits. “Did I design my outfit today?”
“No, you aspire to design your outfit and be like me, you fashion hero,” Yao says dryly. He has Ryland follow him through the living room while Court gets whisked away with Colt to do who-knows-what, Ryland didn’t particularly care.
“You know, I think I show a lot of promise,” Ryland snorts as Yao picks up a stack of cards, handing it to Ryland to hold.
Yao looks even more unimpressed, though Ryland can see the smile threatening to break out on his face. “Oh, don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll one day be at my level. You’ll read the cards off-camera while they’re filming the clothes. Try to sound like you care, yeah?”
It was easy enough, pretending to care about the outfits in particular. He liked them for the fact that Yao designed them, which was enough reason for Ryland to speak like a puppet, saying meaningless things like “Don’t you just love it?” and “Oh, this one’s so perfect!” The sound crew records his chirpy voice to put over the recording, then he’s all but tossed out of the room to record the outfits in peace.
That’s whenever he finds both Colt and Court, both being interviewed by another crew. Colt was dressed just as nicely as Court, the both of them wearing matching clothes that only vaguely resembled what Ryland wore—both wore black slacks and grey button-downs, and a fluffy scarf had been wrapped around Colt’s neck. In Colt’s arms was Jean-Claude, naturally, who was all cuddled up and panting happily, wagging his tail whenever Colt would give him scratches. Court was leaning forwards slightly, on the toes of his shiny white boots, as though he were about to take flight—
And suddenly it’s not Colt and Court standing there, but Martin Dubois, with his bright, toothy smile and spear embedded in his chest. Martin, who Ryland failed to save, who died in his arms, who was covered in red, red, red—
Ryland is quickly shaken out of his thoughts by Yao, who slips the coat’s hood over his head. “You’ve brought hoods back into fashion,” Yao hums, “In fact, you’ve brought and are bringing a lot of things back. Lots of people have dyed their hair blonde, and angels are commonplace at the moment.”
It’s then that Court finally gets out of his own interview, holding something cupped in his hands. Ryland is quick to know what it is whenever Court clips it to his coat—the Angel pin, that was once Rocky’s but now his. He’d tried giving it back to Rocky, but was declined—the pin was, apparently, for good luck. Something that Ryland desperately needed right then as Court hugged him tightly, just as Yao grabs everyone’s attention.
“Okay, everyone!” Yao calls. “We’re about to do the outdoor shot, where our two Victors will greet each other! Okay, Grace, big smile, act like this is the most thrilling thing ever. This is the most exciting thing ever, yes?” Grace wishes he was exaggerating when he says he was literally shoved out the door.
At first, things were hard to see due to the snow. It had really picked up, from whenever Grace had first gotten home—it was really coming down in earnest right then. But then he he’s the cameras already recording to the side, and he sees Simon shoved out of Rocky’s house, and all he can hear is The Father’s voice saying, “Convince me.”
Simon, at the very least, looks to be matching with Ryland. He was wearing a thick black coat, with grey fur trim that matched Grace’s own coat. The coat went down to be right above Simon’s knees, and underneath was the same pair of black pants Ryland was wearing. He wore the same pair of grey boots as well, but they had wedges instead of heels that made Simon look a few inches taller than Grace. There was a silver belt wrapped around Simon’s waist as well, and silvery buttons on his coat, but his makeup wasn’t silver at all—it was dark and moody, with a smokey eye and deep red lipstick, similar to what he’d been put in for their final interview before going home. His hair was done similarly as well, the left being swooped to the side then pinned back, but he wore this pair of fluffy earmuffs that matched with Grace’s coat. All in all, he looked just as good and better than Grace expected, even if they both knew just from looking at each other that Yao only had a part in their outfits, not the whole thing.
A huge smile breaks across Grace’s face, as does Simon’s, and they begin walking towards one another. Then, as though they couldn’t help themselves, they ran towards one another. The two of them meet halfway, Simon catching Grace and spinning him. This was his fatal mistake—it truly had become slippery outside, so the two of them ended up slipping and falling, Grace landing on top of Simon. It’s in that exact position that the two kiss, the camera crew recording them making awe-ing sounds. The kiss is all fur and snow and lipstick, but underneath all of that, Grace can still find the steadiness that Simon brings to everything. It was nothing but reassuring, having Simon back into his arms, holding him close as they helped one another stand back up. Simon laughs as he brushes snow off of Grace, and in turn Grace laughs and kisses him again, holding him close.
As long as Simon was here with him, then nothing could go wrong.