THE GIRL WHO CONQUERED THE MOUNTAIN
KONIG X READER [HUNGER GAMES AU]
You & Konig have been chosen to participate in a twenty-four tribute fight to the death.
18+, NSFW, 144k WORD COUNT, AO3, Virgin!Konig, Outcast!Konig, 18yo!Konig, GentleGiant!Konig, Mentor!JohnPrice, Fem!Reader, Blood & Injury, Graphic Violence, Death, PTSD, Alcohol Use, Slow Burn, Sexual Content, First Time, Smut, Fluff, Angst
CHAPTER ONE | PREV | CHAPTER NAVIGATION
➤ THE TRIBUTES II
If you’re being honest, the worst part is not knowing why it hurts so much. How could you be stupid enough to give Konig this much control over you? Why do you feel so churned up inside over a boy you’ve known for a mere few days and only exchanged a handful of words? And why, even after recognizing that your anger isn’t rightfully pointed at Konig, are you still so mad at him?
You have to put your face in your pillow and scream to let it all out. All of it, the feelings about Konig, the feelings of inadequacy, the feelings about the games.
Price gives you five minutes, five minutes of stewing in the anger, chewing and splitting and dissecting every contradicting emotion before he knocks on your door.
You ignore the first few knocks, and after a second round of rapping he calls your name through the door.
“Go away!” You yell.
He gives a softer knock, maybe with just a knuckle or two. His voice drops low and persuading, a hint of a playful tease, “C’mon Plucky.”
You let out an overtly-dramatic groan, “I don’t want to talk about it! Just leave me alone!”
“Who said anything about talking?” His gruff voice carries through the door, “Let me pour you a drink.”
That… actually doesn’t sound too bad.
Even after the incident on the train you’re itching to relax, to get that feeling of easiness again. You let out a huff into the sheets, begrudgingly standing and dragging your feet to the door, by no means gently swinging it open.
“There’s my ray of sunshine.”
You try to shut the door in his face, but his shoe shoots out to catch it.
“I’m sorry,” He says, not entirely genuine. He then nudges in the direction of the dining room with his shoulder, “C’mon.”
You let out a heavy sigh and step into the hall.
“‘Atta girl,” He says, leading you into the dining table.
You plop yourself down on the chair, and Price stays true to his word. He fills up a crystal glass with the decanter, and he doesn’t get too close when he sets it next to you, scraping the glass across the table and into your reach.
He takes his place at the head of the table. For a while you both nurse your whiskey in silence. You take in as much as your body allows, eagerly anticipating the warmth that blooms in your chest as it goes down. You stand to get another drink to wash down the offensive taste, and Price has the sense to not make fun of you for it.
When your cheeks are flushed with heat, when you don’t feel quite yourself anymore, your mouth opens to speak and the words slip out without your permission, voice low and fixated on the tabletop.
“I don’t want to die.”
Price presses his lips together, and taps the tabletop with a few fingernails.
“Then don’t.”
You shoot him a glare, “Everyone knows I don’t stand a chance.”
“I don’t know that,” he says.
You face warps in a look that’s begging for him to drop the act.
He rolls his eyes, almost annoyed, and lets out a huff.
“I don’t care for quitters much.”
“Can we be realistic for a second?” You say exasperatedly, “I have nothing. Not the strength, not the skill, and no chance of getting help in that arena. I am not the smart bet.”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” He says.
Your words flip from hot to ice cold, eyes narrowing at him, “It means everything.”
“Look, kid, tributes scrappier than you have won the games before. Stop counting yourself out and get your head in the fucking game.”
The harsh tone he ends with makes your lower lip bunch and your eye twitch.
He sighs with a long blink, a slight shake of his head, and when he speaks his voice is much softer.
”I get it. Yeah? I get the disdain. But it’s happening and I need you to get it together.”
It hits you all over again.
Your reality, the mere fact that you are going into that arena. You will have to survive, you will have to defend yourself, and you will most likely have to kill.
The booze seems to amplify the emotion, doubling the weight of the anvil that drops on your chest and steals every last wisp of air from your lungs. A sore lump forms in your throat and your mouth goes dry, tears welling in your eyes.
Price looks almost shocked, and then his forehead wrinkles and his arms cross as he leans in.
The tears are rolling now, big droplets that fall before catching on the height of your cheek, streaking down your face and your neck.
His hand reaches out to give a pat on your forearm before resting there, “Oh, c’mon now, Plucky.”
He sighs again, his voice gentle but persuasive, “I know a feisty girl when I see one. Before you even spoke I knew that you had a fire in ya’.”
You look at him with eyes red and glossed, your sight warped through tears.
He removes the hand on your forearm before giving a point in your direction, “You’re angry and I need you to use that. I need you to be a fighter. This is going to be the hardest thing you’ve ever done but I believe you can do this. I’ve seen a lot of kids come and go but there’s something about you.”
You scoff, voice slightly nasal, “I wouldn’t stand a chance against Konig, let alone any of the other tributes.”
“I know you’re smarter than that,” Price kicks back.
“Smarter than Konig?” You ask with a sniff, wiping your nose.
“No,” he gives a tilt of his head and perks his eyebrows, as if negating the ‘no’ before he continues, “I meant smart enough to realize that everyone else is going to overlook you. You don’t think that boy is going to have a giant target on his back? He’s a huge threat to the others and they know it.”
You hadn’t considered that, actually.
He sighs, “I’m not saying the kid doesn’t have a chance, but you are gonna find some sense, hunker down, and wait it out. They will underestimate you.”
Your eyes flick around his features, trying to decipher if his encouragement is genuine. The tears have stopped flowing, and you give a sniff.
“You’re going to put that fury, that fire, and you are going to channel it into survival. Even if you have to do it out of spite. Just don’t let anyone use it against you, okay?”
You give a shaky nod and take another sip of your whiskey with a wince.
“Yeah,” you whisper.
There’s another pause, Price tapping on the glass table as you both nurse your drinks.
The words come tumbling out one after another without thought.
“The careers want to ally with Konig and he didn’t say no.”
Price raises his brows again and gives one slow nod.
“Ah,” He says in understanding.
You can tell he’s pin-pointed the actual reason for your outburst, not the underlying one.
“He said yes?”
“Well, no,” Your eyes dart away, “He said he wanted to talk to you first.”
He nods again. “I’m not saying that wasn’t the right move, but I can see why you’re upset.”
“I’m not upset,” You say, your face still puffy from crying.
“Of course,” He says.
You shoot him another look with narrowed eyes.
“I’ll talk to him,” Price says, raising his palm off the table, “But you need to promise me you’ll go back down to training and give it your all. Forget what I said before, learn whatever you want for the rest of the day. And Konig doesn’t have to babysit.”
You nod again.
“Let the whiskey settle first,” He says as he stands, wagging a finger in your direction, “And drink some water, Plucky.”
Price saunters off with his drink, and you follow his advice without pushback. You let your face filter out the evidence of crying, hydrate, and wait until your cheeks drains of the tipsy heat before making your way back to the training center.
Konig’s eyes find you immediately. An instructor is speaking to him, but his head turns and locks on you. You catch a frown before you turn away. You can’t stand to look at him, he’s making all the complex and knotted feelings resurface.
You head to the opposite side of the training area, and find you’re not as intimidated by the weapons anymore. You pick up a handful of knives, following Price’s advice about channeling the anger. Whipping your arm with a grunt as you practice throwing at some dummy’s across the line of fire. Your aim is not great, but for the most part they are sticking into the dummy with satisfying thuds.
Everytime you get lucky and manage to hit the target, you take a step back to throw a few more from a farther distance.
Archery takes you a while to get accustomed to. You’d never used a bow before, you’re not sure how to hold it, and your positioning is all off.
The trainer does step in to help you out, and while initially overbearing he does prove to be quite helpful, guiding your positions and showing you where to pull the string.
You miss more times than not, but the trainer gives his best effort.
The spears are a bit heavy, and you don’t seem to be doing great at long distance throwing, but the short range throws are hard to mess up.
You curiously poke over swords, what remains of the booze in your system giving you the confidence to draw closer to the careers. You follow Price’s instructions on ignoring them. Pretending they’re not even there. The dirt beneath your feet.
“Done with your temper tantrum?”
A career, no doubt, each word knotted with arrogance.
You have to bite your tongue so hard it almost breaks flesh. Your expression goes sour, but you don’t whip around right away.
You so badly want to explode on them, let out your anger on the owner of the voice.
Instead you lick your lips, plaster a face drenched in curiosity, and turn on your heels.
As innocently as possible you ask, “Which of you three do you think is going to die in the arena?”
Their faces immediately fall, the boy from one’s eye twitches and the girl from two gives you a wicked scowl.
“Well, only one of you can win. Have you talked it over?” You shoot back a sweet smile and a shrug.
Titan lets out a maniacal, cackling laugh, actually grabbing his knees and doubling at the core.
His demeanor is enough to shake you, your face falling.
The other careers, with their loathing and hatred, are expected. That you can handle.
It’s clear Titan’s a wildcard, completely unhinged. That laugh is not one of someone who is entirely sane, hysterical enough to trigger the instinctual urge to run, dread knotting up your insides.
“I like you, Nine!” He says with a gulp for air. He lets out a final sigh through his wicked smile, “I think I get it now!”
He claps his hands together with a crack like thunder, and takes a step forward. You don’t have the courage to refrain from taking a step back.
“Funny girl,” Titan coos, his voice suddenly low and silky, eyelids fluttering in your direction, “You want to join the winners?”
Your face immediately twists. You go to speak, but your tongue is frozen.
Are they asking you to ally with them?
No.
“What is this?” You ask, a lot quieter and broken than you would have liked.
When Titan explodes into another fit of laughter, small droplets of his spit fly from his mouth and splatter onto your face. Your eyes close in a flinch, face pinching in a grimace.
“Don’t play shy, Nine!” He says after his fit. He drops his voice again, to an almost sultry tone, as if he was trying to flirt his way into an alliance with you, “We want you on our team.”
“Right,” you say when he confirms your suspicion, wiping his spit off your face. The notion is ridiculous enough for you to regain some of your confidence, “Fuck off, then.”
Titan explodes into laughter once more, and the boy from one sweeps him back with a push of his arm, clearly over the display.
“We can protect you in the arena, Nine,” One says gruffly.
“From who?” You ask, making a show of checking your nails, still dotted with wheat florettes, “From you?”
The girl from one perks up, “You won’t go hungry with us.”
“If you want my opinion,” you start, ignoring their offer as your finger points at the girl from one, “You.”
You point at the girl from District Two.
“You.”
The boy from one.
“And you.”
You hold his stare when you finish, voice taught as you jam your thumb in the direction of a hysterical Titan, “A weeks worth of bread says Hoo-Hah over here stabs you all in the throat while you’re sleeping.”
Titan finds this hilarious, his cackling escalating as his hands clap together.
The boy from one looks over your shoulder, cranes his head, and takes a step backwards.
“Keep your dog on a shorter leash,” He growls.
Your eyes roll and a long breath escapes you. Not at the insult, but at the realization that Konig is standing right behind you, still adhering to Price’s instructions.
Keeping you out of trouble.
Successfully.
The careers’ pointed stares bore into you as they walk away. Titan’s still laughing, and he calls out one final, “I’ll be seeing you, Funny Girl!”
His words send a shudder down your spine, stifling the twitch as you finish picking out a sword. You only turn to face Konig once they’re out of earshot, jaw cocked and head craned to meet his stare, “I talked to Price, and he said you didn’t have to chaperone me anymore.”
You inspect the sword casually in your hand, as if disinterested in his presence, “So, feel free to do your own thing.”
He swallows, eyes darting around your face, “Did- Did I?”
You drop your voice to an icy whisper, running a finger along the flat of the sword’s steel, “I’m not really interested in someone who fraternizes with careers. So.”
As awful as it is, you want to be mad at him. To make him feel how you feel.
His brows pinch and his head lowers, “I didn’t, I’m not!”
His eyes dart around, and he lowers his voice.
“It was on the spot and- I didn’t want to get on their bad side.”
He gives you just about the saddest eyes you’ve ever seen.
“Bitte-”
He cuts himself off, his arms at his sides and slightly lifted, begging for your forgiveness.
You give an annoyed huff, but not at him, at yourself, for immediately being tempted to forgive him. You’re aching to curl up in the arms of his comfort again, you don’t want to finish training all by yourself.
“I won’t do it, I won’t even mention it to Price. It was never-” He cuts himself off with a deep breath.
“It’s okay,” You whisper as you lower the sword and run your thumb over the handle’s crest. A drawn out sigh leaves you, “I’m sorry, it’s me. It’s just been hard.”
“I know,” He says. There’s a pause, and he looks down to the sword in your hand.
“Want to spar?” He asks.
“Uh,” You follow his gaze as you think, “Okay.”
He takes his time looking over the swords, keeping his eye trained carefully on the weapons as he asks under his breath, “What was that about?”
You look over your shoulder and eye the pack that convenes in a huddle, speaking to each other in hushed voices.
You step closer to him in an effort to keep your conversation unheard, “They asked me to ally with them, I think?” You shake your head, “I think they’re just asking everyone. Trying to lure in anyone they can for an easy kill? I have no clue.”
He gives a hum, giving a glance over his shoulder that was probably more discreet in his head than it was in real life, “What’d you say?”
“A lot. The gist was ‘Fuck that and fuck you.’”
Konig draws a sword and holds it at his side. It seems much lighter in Konig’s hand than it does your own.
“Must have been funny,” he says, his eyes lingering on the careers.
You blow out a huff of air, “Easy crowd.”
You make a gesture with your index finger that suggests Titan’s not right in the head, swirling it next to your temple to mimic scrambled brains.
He nods carefully, and ceases his line of questioning.
Sword training is more enjoyable than you thought it would be. The sword is heavy in your hands, and by time you finish your wrists and forearms are more than sore, but it is satisfying to swing and thrust the blade at targets.
You round out the day without disturbance, and you both make your way back to the suite.
Price is less lenient about his questioning. At dinner, he coaxes every word of your interactions with the careers from you and Konig.
He’s less pleased with your responses, “Taunting them? Are you nuts?”
“Not as nutty as the boy from two,” your tone is curved and paired with a flare of your eyelids as your teeth slide a perfectly cooked piece of steak from your fork.
“Even more of a reason to steer clear of them!”
“Hey!” You say, mouth still full of half-chewed steak, “They provoked me.”
“I don’t care, that’s not how you handle it.”
“What happened to being fiesty?” You say, throwing your arms up.
“The last thing you need is attention drawn to you,” Price shoots back.
You roll your eyes, “Whatever, it’s too late for me to fix it. Not like I’m gonna see them again anyway.”
“You’ll see them in the arena,” He says gruffly.
“John’s right,” Ruby interjects.
You blow a dismissive puff of air, but underneath it you wonder if he’s right. Your stomach turns at the thought you made a life-threatening decision by running your big mouth. If even Ruby agrees with Price, maybe he truly does have a point.
“She stood up for herself,” Konig blurts out on your behalf, “She did the right thing.”
Your eyebrows pinch, lips pulling back.
Price wears a matching expression, the wrinkles in his forehead deepening as he looks at Konig with shock and confusion torn through his features.
Konig’s briefly confident façade fades as he takes turns shifting his gaze between you and Price, his posture deflating.
“Well,” Price says, his brows perking for a moment as he returns his attention to his plate, “That’s that then.”
You continue holding Konig’s stare, trying to figure out why he would say that. What he stood to gain for getting Price off your back.
For making you feel better.
Encouraging you to pick fights with the careers to ensure they hunt you down and pick you off in the arena?
You don’t have an answer.
“Tomorrow they’ll be doing individual training,” Price starts, “Now’s the time to pull out all the stops, got it?”
“Aye aye,” You mutter, not at all genuine.
Price points his fork in your direction, “Be good, Plucky.”
“Not likely,” You say.
You’re certain you’ll be unremarkable. Wedged in the tail end in the middle of the pack, destined to be overshadowed by those that come before and after you. There’s nothing notable about you. No size or strength or skill to draw anyone’s attention.
After dinner, Price dismisses you and Konig so he, Ruby, and the stylists can go over strategy.
As you turn to your respective doors, you utter a weak, “Thanks.”
Konig pauses for a moment before nodding his head slowly.
“Of course.”
Ruby lets you sleep in until late morning, and by time you wander in for breakfast, everyone’s nearly completed their meal.
“Morning, Sunshine,” Price says.
You grunt in response, loading your plate and taking a seat.
Training starts at noon, so you have a few hours of free time after you down a hearty breakfast.
You spend it out on the balcony, soaking in the sun and watching the clouds roll by. You nurse a glass of orange juice as you take in the noisy city below.
Just before noon, Ruby collects you, has you change into your training outfit, and leads you and Konig down to the gymnasium.
You and Konig share a look as Ruby shoots back up in the elevator. A Capitol attendant leads you to a sterile, concrete sitting room with rows of benches, half full of tributes waiting to be evaluated. You sit towards the back, Konig following and sitting down next to you. He leaves a generous amount of space between you so he can spread his legs.
The room is quiet aside from the careers, sitting together and rowdily chatting. Every so often you hear Titan’s maniacal laughter, his cackle knotting your insides.
It doesn’t last long. They pull you in order of district, so the careers are drained from the room one by one, and they don’t return. The room goes quiet shortly after Titan is pulled from the room.
It’s a heavy air you all breathe, in a room full of people who will be trying to kill each other in a matter of days.
As the number of tributes dwindle, the air is easier to draw, but the lack of stimulation has your thoughts racing.
So you do what you've been when you find yourself spiraling.
“Did you bring a token?” You ask Konig, voice as low as you can manage in this stiff room.
“No,” He says at a whisper, “I forgot.”
“Y’know, it’s stupid, but I kind of wish I brought one. Something to touch in the arena. I can’t help but feel like a reminder of home will help me keep some sanity in there.”
He nods slow, and you worry you’ve overshared.
“I don’t want to think of home,” he mumbles, scraping his shoe along the concrete floor.
Your brows pinch as you find him.
His elbows are planted on his knees, leaning his weight on them. The pads of his fingers rub together slowly, mesmerizingly, as he fixates on a spot on the floor.
You realize, and it took you longer than it should have, that District Nine is two different places for you and Konig.
District Nine had its glaring problems. The majority of the population poor, overworked and starving. Unjust laws and cruel punishment. A society run primarily on fear.
But to you, it was still home.
Your friends, family, and every good thing that has ever happened you have resides in District Nine.
You knew it was not a place that was kind to him - it is a place that rejects anyone that is different, that does not fit the mold of district expectation.
But did Konig have anything waiting for him back home?
Did District Nine offer Konig any distraction, any love, any shred of light in the dark dismal place it was?
You don’t ask.
When it is your turn, you stand, legs made of jelly and a slight tremor in your body.
“Wait,” Konig blurts, and you turn on your heels. He fumbles through his words, “Be- Be good.”
You blink, not sure what to make of Konig reinforcing Price’s demand. You nod slow, lips parted to release terrified breaths.
Standing in front of the gamemakers with no crowd to hide behind is beyond intimidating.
You announce your name, your district, and they let you begin.
You take an edible plants and bug test, make a makeshift splint, throw short-range tosses with a spear, swing a sword, and throw knives around with about 35 percent accuracy. It’s subpar all around.
Once again, you find yourself in front of Price, grilling you about every detail.
You already know you’re getting a low score, but you’re sure it’s still going to be a blow to your ego.
You all settle in the sitting room for the announcement of the scores.
The careers do well, obviously. Scoring in the 8-10 range.
Everyone else settles on an average of 5-7.
As the boy from eight’s score of ‘7’ fades on the screen, the room draws a collective breath.
You see your solemn headshot, and after a painful few seconds, the number ‘5’ flashes on the screen.
“Others have certainly done worse!” Ruby chimes.
Price gives a light, encouraging bump on your shoulder, “Not bad, kid.”
You rub out your shoulder, which doesn’t actually hurt at all, and stare at the floor with wide eyes. You realize in this moment that Price’s opinion of you might actually mean something to you, because you can tell his compliment is only half genuine, and it stings. You wanted to do better for him. To be a tribute he could be proud of.
Not a five.
Below average.
Your score fades, and Konig’s intimidating headshot flashes on the screen, those hooded eyes staring menacingly at the camera.
“From District Nine we have Konig,” There’s a pause, everyone in the room holding a collective breath, “With a score of ten.”
For a moment, the room is silent, faces made of stone as you all process his score.
Ruby lets out a squeal in excitement, and Price actually lets out a pleased laugh. His pride for Konig twists your gut.
Your lower lip clamps between your teeth with a roll as your thumb rubs circles in your palm.
“Atta’ boy,” Price says, his fist stiffly pumping in the air.
This praise is genuine.
When Konig finally takes his eyes off the screen, he lets out a breathy laugh of relief, his body untensing.
Ruby is behind him, squeezing his shoulders and giving him an excited shake.
You’re happy for him, really.
You are.
You’re also jealous, disheartened, and nauseous.
You have both been evaluated by professionals, and he blew you out of the water. He did twice as well. Ranked superior in every way. You knew he was, but it didn’t ease the blow of seeing the undeniable data.
You hate not excelling. You crave to be above-average, to get a perfect score, to be on the end of the room’s, the country’s, adoration.
Your score was broadcasted to all of Panem, and now everyone knows how average you are. How weak you are compared to all these worthy tributes.
Your confidence has surely taken a hit.
He will be the better bet, he will get the sponsors, and he will get Price’s affection.
It’s fine.
“Congratulations,” You mutter as you meet Konig’s stare.
You can tell he’s noticed your lack of enthusiasm, and for a moment his face wavers, his eyes showing a glint of that unsure look before he looks away with another nervous, relieved laugh.
“We should celebrate!” Ruby says in her high pitched squeal.
Konig nods absentmindedly, staring at the television but not retaining what’s on the screen, wearing the widest grin you’ve ever seen stretched on his face. He’s riding the high of the praise, the joy of receiving the highest score, of being a winner.
It’s pissing you off.
Taking pride in scoring highly in a test designed for a fight to the death.
He should be ashamed.
While everyone’s busy gushing over Konig’s score, you quietly slip out of the room and isolate yourself in your quarters. Face down on the bed and groaning into the soft duvet.
An oblivious Ruby grabs you for dinner. You’re not hungry, and you don’t want to be subjected to Konig’s celebration, but you’d do good to put on a few pounds for the arena.
Konig’s score is all anyone is talking about at dinner, and his accomplishment makes it easy to be disregarded. The only input you offer is the sound of a fork scraping around your plate as you inspect some roasted greens.
You don’t say much of anything, keeping your focus to your meal and doing your best to tune out the team’s adoration for Konig.
You can feel the burn of his stare every so often. You don’t have the ability to decipher the expression he wears from just your peripheral, probably pity, maybe annoyance for the lack of praise.
Now is probably a better time than any to sever this tie. You know the feeling of inadequacy, the jealousy, the anger inside of you - it’s all misdirected. Konig, once again, is just doing what he’s supposed to. A victim of the games and these unfair conditions just as much as you. But the feelings are there, and your introspection does nothing to quell them. Might as well make use of them and take your opportunity to shed the security he blankets over you.
You are officially done with him.
No more reassurance, no more babysitting, no more Konig.
He is the male tribute from your district.
Your opponent.
That’s it.
You excuse yourself before dessert is served, retiring to your room for the night. You take a long shower, steaming yourself under the intense pressure as you stare blankly at the glittery gold swirls in the marble walls.
From outside the bathroom, you can hear someone knocking on your bedroom door, but you make no action to answer it. Eventually the attempted visitor goes away, and after a thorough soaping you let the heated dryers dry you off. You get dressed, climb into bed, and drift off.
Ruby’s voice rouses you early in the morning and instructs you to report for breakfast to go over today’s plan.
You’re slow in doing so, and when you take your place, everyone’s already sat. You avoid meeting anyone’s eyes as you load your plate and dig in.
Ruby claps her hands together, “Tonight is the big interview!” She lets out a squeal, “Very exciting!”
“Very,” Price says sarcastically.
Ruby either doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care, pushing on, “We’ll each have four hours with you, I’ll be training you on stage presence, and John will be working with you both on content. Konig, you’ll start with me, and then we’ll switch. Your stylists will collect you at the end to get you dressed, and then we’ll head to stage. Sound good?”
There’s a pause before Konig clears his throat, speaking for the both of you when Ruby’s words go ignored, “Yes. Thank you, Ruby.”
She gives him a proud smile, and swirls a glass in her hands, “Such a polite young man you are. It’s surprising someone with as much decorum as you is district.”
You roll your eyes at your plate when you feel her stare.
Ruby’s unsubtle dig at you, casting a light on Konig to make you stand further in his shadow, the way she speaks of the districts as if you’re all just ravenous animals in the jungle - it all sparks a simmering heat under your skin, your eye twitching and lips warping into a snarl.
It makes you want to prove her right. Show her just how ravenous the districts can be.
Your grip on your fork is tight, white knuckles shaking around pure silver.
The mood at the table shifts when Price gives a hearty snort, amused by the snide remark and particularly, your rage.
You don’t contribute to the conversation, angrily stabbing into roasted potatoes, the metal of the fork roughly grating along your teeth with each furious bite.
You get it, okay? Konig is superior in every way. You can’t even beat him at being nice.
You know your place.
He’s their golden boy, their favorite, their victor.
And you are the rude little brat from District Nine who will be dead and forgotten in less than a week.
You don’t speak for the rest of the meal, ignoring the small talk and Konig’s periodic stares in your direction.
Once breakfast is cleared away, the group splits up, Ruby disappearing with her golden boy while Price leads you to the sitting room.
Price sits with a grunt and begins to wordlessly study you.
“What?” You ask, already defensive.
“I’m trying to figure out how to put this,” He sighs, “So far in the competition, you have flown under the radar. And I advise that during this interview, you do the same.”
“Be forgettable,” You say dryly, slicing through to the point he was dancing around with a roll of your eyes, “Got it.”
He sighs again, looking to the ceiling, “You didn’t make an impression at the reaping, the opening ceremony, or with your score. It helps that Konig has been taking the heat off your back.”
“Oh, it helps that I’m overshadowed and forgettable in every way?”
“Yes, it does,” He shoots back impatiently. He rubs his temple before he speaks again, forcing himself to lower his voice, “I want them to underestimate you.”
“I have not been underestimated,” You say with an exasperating swing of your arm, “I have been estimated! I have nothing to offer!”
“Kid, I need you to trust me on this one.”
“So what do you expect me to do, go out there and flop?”
“No,” he says, “You don’t flop, you don’t shine. You will answer the questions honestly, nicely, and humbly.”
You scoff, rolling your eyes, “That’s not going to get me sponsors.”
“Neither will the attitude you’re currently peddling,” He stands with a grunt, “I’m not going to bother going over the interview questions with you. In this case - the less preparation the better.”
You raise a brow and suck in an air of superiority, “You really think that’s a good idea?”
You’re met with a shrug, “Probably not.”
“Fine. I’ll wing it. But don’t come crying to me if you don’t like my spontaneous answers.”
He sighs in defeat, “Just be good, will you?”
You narrow your eyes at him, “I’ll be better than good. I’ll be forgettable.”
“Atta girl,” He says, and heads for his quarters, “Enjoy the next three hours and fifty-five minutes of free time.”
“Wait,” You say, too eagerly.
He stops and turns to you, and you immediately shrink in on yourself, eyes darting to the side.
“How’s Konig going to play it?”
The corner of his lip perks up ever so slightly, “Does it matter?”
You look to the floor.
No, it doesn’t.
Konig could spit in Caesar's face and condemn the Capitol entirely and still have sponsors lining up to send him gifts.
Price saunters off, and you stare into the intricate pattern of the carpet long after his door clicks shut.
You wish you hadn’t asked.
You take the opportunity to try and nap, but you can’t. You’re too nervous about the interview. Even more nervous that you have no answers prepared, no idea what the interviewer, Caesar Flickerman, is going to throw at you. You wish you could have pushed back on Price’s lack of preparation, too flared up by his suggestion that you’re forgettable to get your priorities straight at the time. You linger on the thought that maybe Price didn’t prep you for your benefit, but for his own. Spare him the trouble of dealing with his insolent, weak, pitiful tribute.
You’re still embarrassed about him seeing you cry. Bleeding where you shouldn’t, once again.
Ruby comes to collect you once she’s done with Konig, ready to train you for stage manners.
It mostly consists of Ruby having you practice walking in heels and a gown, shredding you on every one of your imperfections.
“Smile - oh, not like that!”
“They’re just high heels, dear, everyone wears them!”
“Shoulders back!”
“Don’t scratch yourself in front of the audience.”
“Don’t sit like that! You look like a shrimp.”
“Keep your legs crossed! It’s unladylike.”
“Stop fidgeting so much.”
“You’re slouching again!”
It’s grueling work, and she’s not as lenient with the free time as Price. You’re suddenly thankful he dismissed you early.
Your lack of stage manners only doubles the weights of inadequacy strapped to your ankles, which is making it difficult to have a confident posture and be agreeable, but you grit your teeth and get through it.
You wonder how Konig’s session with Ruby went.
Probably better than yours.
Once she’s done with you, clearly not happy with the final result, you find yourself face down on your bed again.
Ruby collects you once more to usher you to Mauve and her prep team, who will be completely transforming you for the interview.
Mauve offers little reassurance as she gets you dressed, does your makeup, and styles your hair. She doesn’t look as bored today, much more attentive as she puts on any final touches. You have the feeling her silence is derived from focus more than it is indifference.
Your stomach is bubbling, your insides knotted up and underarms pouring buckets of sweat.
When she pulls away from you, she has you stand, only a slight wobble as you move to the mirror.
Once again, Mauve has transformed you into an entirely new person.
The dress is stunning. A baby blue a-line that brushes against the bottom of your thigh. Layers of tulle gently puff out at the skirt like rolling blue clouds. The bust is decorated with intricate patterns of sparkling silver lace that resemble leaves climbing up your ribcage. Matching baby blue flowers bloom along the dress, each with their own perfect blue pearl stitched directly in the center. The petals sit in patches of the shimmering lace, mostly on the bust of the dress and up the see-through straps that rest delicately on your shoulders, but a few sprout in rare patches along the tulle skirt and on your matching shoes.
Mauve has attached matching jewels to your body, and smaller, daintier flowers that appear to have climbed from the dress and propagated onto your skin. One side of your face is dotted with the blue blossoms in the shape of a crescent, starting just above the end of your brow and curving around your eye, the flowers stopping just below the height of your cheek. They sit in a cloud of sparkling silver glitter that reflect like early morning dew in the moonlight.
A string of blue pearls adorns your neck. Your hair is simple and girlish, but still elegant. Soft curls with more flowers pinned into stands of your hair. Heavy, fluttering eyelashes that partially obscure your vision, accented with a soft peach lip and sparkling silver eyelids.
You look beautiful, no doubt about it. But it’s so soft, so gentle. It seems almost too innocent and pure for you to be wearing it.
While the sensation of jewels and flowers glued to your skin is unusual, it’s a big step up from the wheat dress in terms of comfort.
Mauve arranges your curls, repositioning some of the flowers as she sees fit.
“Thank you, Mauve,” you say, still staring into your own reflection.
She sucks in an audible breath, meeting your eyes in the mirror. This might actually be the first time she’s made eye contact with you other than to evaluate her makeup.
She gives you a shaky nod, and then returns her attention to arranging the tulle on the skirt of your dress.
You’re led backstage, where you’re met with the tributes, waiting impatiently in their refined dresses and sharp suits. Your stomach does somersaults at the sound of the audience, already boisterous before the interviews have even started.
It’s all too real, all too fast, having to be interviewed with every last citizen of Panem hanging on your every word.
You want to run, run and run far but there’s nowhere to go. You shift anxiously on your high heels instead, sweaty hands fidgeting at your sides, trying to quell the nausea.
And then you see him.
Konig was already staring at you when you met his eyes. In his baby blue suit, a silver tie with steel-colored glitter sparkling in the pattern of leaves. Pinned on the lapel of his suit is a boutonniere, perfect blue pearls stitched into the center of each baby blue flower. They’re arranged in a bundle that sits in a tuft of smaller, soft white flowers.
You’re both stunned, lips parted and eyes blown as you soak each other in.
You are the only two tributes dawning matching outfits.
What were they thinking?
Are you supposed to be continuing this act that you and Konig are going to be allies in the arena?
Because that would have been nice to know before, instead of having this strategy sprung on you at the last minute before going live in front of the entire country.
Konig blinks his wide eyes a few times in rapid succession and then looks away to find his dress shoes.
You look away from him quickly, eyes darting around the ceiling as you take a dry swallow.
The rock that’s been sitting in your stomach since you woke up this morning has seemed to double in weight. You’re sweating under layers of makeup and tulle, rubbing the moisture on your dress.
Ruby corrals you both together, giving last minute pointers. You can barely hear her, your heartbeat pumping loudly in your ears. She tells you to stop chewing on your fresh set of nails, which Mauve transformed with strokes of baby blue, accented silver swirls and flower designs.
You’re shaking with fear, your breath catching on each exhale.
A stage crew member claps his hands and announces that the show will be starting soon. He has you line up in order of district, so you’re standing in between the terrifying boy from eight and Konig, both doing little to make you feel better.
You try not to acknowledge him, but his presence is a burning heat behind you. He’s impossible to ignore, towering over you only a few inches behind.
You want to look at him, to share this moment of terror with him, to talk to him.
But you are done with the boy from your district.
You pinch your exaggerated eyelashes shut, thoughts swirling. The frustration of yearning for his comfort but denying yourself the satisfaction, the frustration of even yearning for his comfort in the first place, it makes your cheeks burn and your fists clench.
Caesar Flickerman warms up the crowd, and each cheer that vibrates beneath your feet threatens to make you gag.
The districts tick by one by one.
The girl from one, Sapphire, with District One’s standard blonde hair and eyes that pair with her name. She’s more than charming, but there’s a hint of intensity to her words, a sense of determination.
The words coming from a perfect smile and dimpled cheeks turns your stomach. She is not a competitor to mess with.
The boy from two, Titan, seems to match her charm and determination, but there’s a layer of humor, of thick, chaotic irreverence that projects from him. He punctuates his sick jokes with his killer smile, showing off those canines as he laughs through his own brutality. He’s huge, no doubt one of the monsters in the competition.
The boy from three is awkward, the girl from four a wild card, the boy from six stoic, the girl from seven high-spirited.
The girl from eight is afraid. Terrified.
Not even Caesar’s impressive skill of putting his tributes at ease could relax her, she looked like she was about to throw up during the entirety of her interview.
The boy from eight does not answer any of Caesar's questions, a painful three minutes that offers little to distract you as you shuffle nervously on deck.
You take a deep swallow, looking to your shoes.
“Up next,” Caesar starts, “We have a lovely young lady from District Nine!”
He announces your presence, your name, and the audience screams in anticipation.
A stagehand ushers you onto the stage in front of the crowd.
Dizzy, blinded and sweating, you stumble forward, your own breathy pants deafening you with each step.
Caesar grabs your wet hand once you’re in his range, cupping it in both of his. You’re back to reaping day, standing in front of the crowd with a blank mind, shaking with fear.
“Wow, don’t you look just stunning!” Caesar says, using both his hands to make a dramatic gesture in your direction. “Like a princess!” He adds, eyeing your intricate dress.
You give a shaky laugh with a sheepish, “Thank you, Caesar.”
You blindly reach behind you, not so gracefully sitting on the ornate chair as you eye the crowd, but you do remember to cross your legs.
“So, tell me, are you enjoying your stay at the Capitol?”
You take a deep breath, voice choppy and hitched, barely over a whisper, “It’s certainly extravagant.”
The audience gives a far too generous laugh.
“My dear, I’ve been meaning to ask you, are there any special skills you’re hiding from us that might give you an edge in the arena?”
You look over to the crowd again.
“Um,” You swallow, your mouth dry as you look to Price, “Well, my mentor thinks I’m feisty?”
“Feisty! I love it!” He looks out to the crowd, “Don’t you just love that?”
The crowd gives a cheer, and Caesar continues, “We love a passionate tribute, don’t we folks?”
You give a small smile at his reassurance, eyes genuinely lightening and shoulders relaxing as he works his magic. You know it’s just for show, but Caesar is skilled at instilling confidence in his guests and putting them at ease.
He crosses his legs, using his cue cards to loosely point in your direction, “Speaking of your mentor, I was actually chatting with him backstage earlier, and he shared with me some very eye-opening things about you.”
You don’t even have the sense to hide your blatant confusion and worry at what he’s going to say next.
“You did? Oh no,” Both Caesar and the audience seem to find this funny, though.
“That’s right!” He says with a knowing, cheeky grin. Caesar leans forward in his chair, and his voice goes serious, as if he’s sharing a secret with you.
“He says that you’re a very bright young lady,”
You let out a breath of relief as Caesar continues,
“-and he also shared with me your nickname.”
You let out a laugh, looking down at your lap.
“Would you tell us about that?”
You nod, an embarrassed smile on your face.
“Price calls me Plucky,” Your eyes find Caesar again, who’s listening very intently, “He probably told you it’s because I’m determined, but I think it’s just his way of saying I’m a huge pain in his ass.”
The room explodes into laughter. Caesar’s arm darts out to grab your shoulder when he leans forward, as if you’ve made him nearly fall out of his seat from laughter and he needs you to help him up.
You can’t help the smile that spreads on your face, bunching your cheeks at the audience you’ve put in stitches. The camera cuts to Price, who gives a long, drawn out nod to confirm your statement.
“Language! Language!” Caesar tuts when he’s caught his breath, but it’s clear he’s not the slightest bit serious, “All of Panem is watching, my dear!”
Your hand comes up to cover your mouth, eyes wide and looking around like you’ve been busted. You’re both still giggling like school children, though.
“It’ll be our secret folks,” He says with a wink, “But it’s certainly a nickname you’ve earned, I see.”
He gives you a sly side-eye, and before you can respond he softly hits his cue cards against your arm, “Oh you know I’m just teasing, I’m just teasing.”
“Price isn’t,” You say dryly, and the crowd loses it again.
When they finally lull, Caesar’s shaking his head, pleased, “Very funny! He was right about you being a bright young lady.”
You shrug modestly, “And a pain in the ass.”
He thwaps you with his cue cards again, shaking his head as he joins the chorus of laughter, “You are bad, you are bad!”
You give him a wave of your hand, a cheeky smile on your face, “I hear that a lot, actually.”
“I’m sure!” He gives a quick laugh before his next question, “Do you think your wit will translate well in the arena?”
You think on this a moment, your voice not exactly conveying confidence, “I hope so. Maybe if I make the other tribute’s laugh they’ll be distracted long enough for me to get away.”
The audience responds well to this, another hearty laugh filling the room.
Soft crowd.
He settles the rambunctious crowd with his palms, “Alright, alright we’ve got time for one more question folks.”
He leans close to you, his face serious as he cups both of your sweaty palms in his, “Do you think you’re feisty enough to have what it takes to win this thing?”
You don’t.
You absolutely don’t think you have what it takes to win this thing. You’re not even sure you want to win this thing, let alone have the means to actually do it.
Your stare finds Price, who gives you one more nod, this one nearly indistinguishable.
You find Caesar again, gnawing slightly at your bottom lip. When you speak, your voice is low, serious.
“I do, Caesar.”
He gives the top of your hand a firm pat.
“I think so too,” He says, and gives a slow nod.
He stands, guiding you from your seat. He drops one of your hands and lifts the other up for the crowd, “Give it up for District Nine!”
The crowd goes crazy at the second announcement of your name, whooping and hollering and clapping in a thunderous applause that goes on long after you’ve left the stage.
You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding after you’ve disappeared behind the curtain. You put a palm to your forehead as you laugh in disbelief. Not only that it was finally over with, but it actually went sort of well.
You hear Ruby before you see her, presence announced by a squeal fit to break glass. “That. Was. Amazing!”
She unclips your mic from your dress, “They loved you, dear, they absolutely loved you. You were fantastic!”
“Thank you,” You’re practically heaving breaths of relief, hands shaking out what remains of your nerves, “Thank you.”
Caesar finishes his segue and announces, “We have another very fierce tribute up next, a young man from District Nine, Konig!”
As the audience erupts, your head swivels over your shoulder to get a look at him. He’s shooting you one last nervous glance before he steps off the stage. You find a screen backstage showing the broadcast and Ruby pokes her nose over your shoulder.
“Woah-ha-ho! You’re even taller in person!” Caesar’s starts with a laugh.
He makes Konig stand back to back so the audience can compare their size, which they adore. Konig gives a polite smile, but he is clearly nervous.
“Haha, alright,” Caesar says when he’s had his fix, prompting them both to settle onto the chairs.
“Tall, handsome guy like you. The girls must throw themselves at you in your district!”
Konig shakes his head, a one-note breathy laugh leaving him, “My district doesn’t care for me much.”
You frown, and you hear the audience give an ‘Awhhh.’
“And why ever not?” Caesar asks with a tightness in his brow, suggesting the very notion is ridiculous.
“They don’t seem to care for my size,” He answers with a shrug.
“Well, it’s a good thing we love that here in the Capitol!” Caesar’s voice gets louder to fight the escalating cheer of the crowd, “A big, strong tribute like him? Isn’t that right? We love it!”
The crowd erupts, and Konig gives a smile, noticeably untensing. Caesar really does try to help the tributes out, he knows how to defuse your anxiety like no other.
“You go out there, you win this thing, and your district will have to change their minds!”
The audience clearly agrees, their shrieks overlapping.
Konig offers a humble smile and a coy nod, and Caesar gives him an encouraging pat on the shoulder.
“I think we’re all very eager to talk about this ten you got in training,” Caesar starts as the crowd settles, “A score that high is uncommon for someone in an outlying district. Can you give us some idea of what helped you earn a ten?”
Konig’s arm crosses over his chest to rub out his opposing shoulder, “I guess the gamemakers like a big strong tribute, too.”
Big laugh from the audience, from Caesar as well.
“District Nine seems to have given us a pair of comedians this year!” Caesar says to the audience with a big smile, “C’mon, give us a flex, would you? Let’s see it!”
Konig’s face turns pink, and after a moment he hesitantly obliges, lifting his arms to flex his biceps to the crowd.
He gets more confident as the crowd roars in approval, whooping and blowing kisses in his direction.
You find yourself smiling at the screen, amused huffs of air blowing from your nose.
“Stand up! Stand up!” Caesar hollers.
Konig laughs as he stands, switching up his poses for the crowd. Every time he moves the audience goes nuts. He’s picking up an air of confidence, arrogance almost.
It’s a good look on him.
“Careful now! Careful now! Wouldn’t want that suit to tear at the seams!” Caesar exclaims.
The crowd roars at the very idea. Konig bows his head to the crowd and graciously takes his seat, but he still carries a proud smile.
“Alright, alright,” Caesar says, swinging one of his legs over the other, “I know you’re much more than a nice hunk of meat.”
This brings on another round of cheering and whistles from the audience, and Konig plasters a genuine, cheesy smile on his face.
Caesar waits for the crowd to settle, “I’ve been meaning to ask you about the opening ceremony.”
You such in a sharp inhale through parted lips, eyes wide as your stare locks on to the screen.
He continues, “I think we were all very touched to see you comforting your fellow tribute.”
Your face immediately drops, and suddenly you’re too aware of your breathing. Your stomach triples in weight, its demanding presence dropping low in your abdomen.
They are talking about you.
“I think that speaks to your character, wouldn’t you say?”
The question, directed at the audience, earns overlapping landslide approval.
“Tell us, is there a teddy bear under that grizzly bear exterior?” Caesar asks him, brow raised, his head tilted slightly to the side, and a cheeky smile plastered on his face.
Konig looks as panicked as you, frozen in his chair and muscles stiff.
“I- Well,” He gives a nervous laugh pointed at his lap, “I do what I can.”
“And you do it well! Were you two friends in the districts?” He asks casually.
Your teeth are grit in unease, fists clenched as you swallow each word. Why is Caesar using Konig’s time to talk about you?
Konig’s palms rest on his knees, his fingers tightening around his dress pants. He stumbles through the start of a few sentences, turning pink.
He seems just as caught off guard as you are.
Did Price not prepare either of you for the interview?
Did Price think that’s what was best for you both or did he just want to drink alone in his room, away from the two brats he’s forced to mentor?!
Did he not even bother to know what questions you were going to be asked?!
Konig doesn’t know what to say. The silence has stretched on far too long, your nails are digging into your palms so tight it’s leaving behind crescent-shaped indents on your skin.
“It's okay,” Caesar says with a laugh, “Even I get nervous from time to time.”
He gives a shaky nod, “Äh, no, we weren’t. I knew of her, though.”
You blink in rapid succession as you try to make sense of what’s unfolding before you. You can’t help but feel stunned. It must be a joke, a prank, a dream, because none of this seems real.
“There’s been buzz in the Capitol about a possible alliance,” Caesar says, enunciating carefully, “Are you planning on going at the competition alone, or will we be seeing some teamwork from you?”
“Äh,” His eyes linger backstage before he returns his gaze to Caesar, “It’s up in the air.”
Konig’s fingers are searching for a loose thread to pull, but his suit is brand new and too high in quality to have loose threads.
“I see,” Caesar says, moving on.
“Do you think you’re ready for this competition?”
You look to your shoes and let out a breath of relief that the subject has passed.
He asks a few more questions about his skill, about his strategy to stay alive.
Konig keeps it surface, with minimal fumbling through his answers, but his cheeks remain noticeably flushed, and unease stitches into each sentence.
The crowd doesn’t seem to notice, showering him with adoration.
You’re less jealous. Maybe because you’re still riding the high of doing well enough on your interview.
Caesar has him give one last parting flex to the crowd before he leaves the stage. The moment he’s off screen his hand finds his head, letting out deep exhales through parted lips.
For a moment his wide eyes find you before they flit down to his dress shoes.
Your hands stop shaking somewhere around District Eleven’s tributes, and you’re all dismissed once Caesar closes out the show.
When the elevator deposits the tributes from District Six, you and Konig are left alone in the elevator.
“What the fuck was that?!” You ask, more panicked than angry. He knows it’s not directed at him.
“I- I- I don’t even know,” His hands raise, “Price didn’t tell me they were going to ask that.”
He seems just as frantic as you, but his is swirled with nervousness while yours is engulfed with anger.
“He made us look stupid!” You hiss.
“I froze,” He says, using his palm to rub his face, “I looked weak.”
“Wha-“
You cut yourself off, brows furrowing.
Konig is worried about looking weak? He’s the biggest, strongest tribute out of all twenty-four of you. Looking weak should be the least of his concerns.
Does he regret offering you his comfort on the chariot, now that a spotlight has been placed on it?
You don’t ask.
“You didn’t look weak,” You say, low and quiet to the floor.
You can see him tense from the corner of your eye. After a moment his shoulders relax.
“You didn’t look stupid,” He says, matching your cadence.
Your eyes find him, and for a moment you stare at each other. Caught in this awkward moment as you try to dissect what the other would stand to gain from complimenting an opponent.
The elevator doors parting breaks the stare, and you both make your way into the suite, finding it empty.
You grunt upon the absence of the people who hold the answers you’re looking for.
“Why did they match us?!”
He shrugs when your eyes meet his, palms raised.
You let out another frustrated noise, stepping over to the decanter and helping yourself to a glass.
After the day you’ve had, you’ve earned it.
The metal tray clunks unhappily as you replace the bottle, taking a hearty, painful sip.
Konig hesitantly steps closer, pulling out a chair for himself and sitting at the dining table.
You let out a noise of disgust at the repulsive taste, and then your eyes find Konig. His forearms rest on the table, his fingers stitched together and thumbs circling around each other, watching you intently.
“You want some?” You ask, gesturing the glass in his direction.
He shakes his head, and you go in for another sip. You pace for a while, fuming and dissecting as you nurse your drink.
When the elevator doors open, you don’t hesitate.
“What the hell was that?! What happened to being forgettable?!”
“I could ask you the same thing. You did a little too well, if you ask me,” Price says evenly, unfazed by your outburst.
“Maybe I could have done what you wanted if I’d actually gotten some coaching.”
“It went perfect. You both acted how you needed to,” Price says evenly.
“You call that perfect? Why would Caesar bring attention to me when the whole point was to keep me under the radar?! And why didn’t you tell either of us about it?! We looked stupid!”
“Kid!” Price finally bursts, “I’ve been doing this my whole life, will you just trust me?”
You scoff.
“Oh yeah, how many victors have you mentored again? Because last I checked every last tribute you’ve coached is six feet under!”
It is clear immediately that you went too far.
The room draws a collective sharp inhale, the air gone ice cold.
You can see it, the pain he usually hides behind a generous amount of whiskey and a gruff exterior flooding his features. For a moment he is stunned, his constant squint loosening as he combs through every tribute he’s mentored, all of their faces flashing in front of those sad blue eyes.
He gives a heavy sigh.
His voice is low when he speaks, solemn, pained even, a bit of a crack to it.
“Kid, I did you a favor. If you can’t see that, then, well, I’m sorry.”
Your heart immediately sinks, and you wish you could stuff the words back into your big mouth.
You realize in this moment you have been seeking out a fight. Ever since you got here, all you have wanted to do is let out your anger. To not have your energy matched, to have hurt instead of riled, it wracks you with guilt. It weighs on your shoulders, in your stomach, in the sore ache of your chest.
You pinch your eyes shut, fists clenching at your sides.
“I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”
You meant the apology, but the words feel foreign in your mouth, having to coax them up with force.
His eyes lower back into his signature squint, and he nods slow.
After a beat, a small, sad smile appears on his face, and he offers a wink.
“It’s okay, Plucky.”
You huff through your nose, a faint smile on your face.
A pain in his ass.
Dinner is stiff and awkward, but the room has relaxed by the time you settle in to watch the interview replay.
You have to block it out, you can’t stand to watch yourself being interviewed. It’s too embarrassing, your body folding in on itself at the sound of your own voice.
You’re relieved when your interview is over, and shortly after Konig is announced.
He seems to be having the same problem you did, unable to watch his own interview, staring at the floor as he slips further into the couch’s cushions.
You find yourself pinching back another smile at Caesar and Konig’s bit at the start.
When Konig is asked about you, your face drops when the shot cuts to you. You hadn’t realized there had been a camera trained on you. On screen you can see your genuine stunned reaction, face slack. Your wide eyes glued to the stationary shot of Caesar and Konig, hanging on to every word.
You can feel Price’s stare out of the corner of your eyes, dawning that sly, knowing grin.
The camera cuts back to Konig, flustered and stained pink.
The whole interaction, it just feels off. Uncomfortable, awkward, tripping Konig up on tough questions instead of building on his confidence.
“You both did so well!” Ruby chimes as Konig is dismissed from the stage and Caesar introduces the next tribute.
Neither you nor Konig bother to respond, eyes fixated on the screen but not paying it a lick of attention.
You’re still lingering on Konig’s interview. It’s bothering you, like the interview is implying there’s something between you and Konig. His response, his lack of definitive answer, the shocked features, the lack of preparation, the cut to you.
There’s something so slimy about it all, and your stomach can’t seem to digest it.
When Caesar closes out the show, Price switches the TV off and Ruby skips off to check in with the stylists.
“Tomorrow,” Price starts, “They’ll wake you early. We can’t accompany you to the arena, it’ll just be the stylists.”
You almost managed to make it the entire day without thinking about tomorrow. The interview was a huge distraction, but now there is nothing to worry about except for the games.
“Listen closely,” He snaps his fingers, demanding eye contact from you both, “Do not step off your pedestal until the sixty seconds are up. Do not even think about going into the cornucopia. Turn and run, you understand?”
You press your lips together, pinching your eyes shut, trying to block out his words.
You don’t want to think about this.
After a pause, he drops the stern voice, rubbing the back of his neck, “Look, uh, kids. I’ll be with the other mentors. I’ll still be there for you, every step of the way.”
Your stomach twists in knots. You hate this, you hate how Price is dropping his tough guy act, letting his pity pour out and slosh against your shoes.
“I, uh,” He trails off, clearing his throat, “I know you can do this.”
He goes to say more, but the inhale saved for his words gets freed with a heavy sigh.
“Just-“ He cuts himself off, sitting back from his lean and ripping his hands apart. His feet squirm against the rug, “Be good, kids.”
There’s a million snarky things you think of to say, but you have the sense to hold them back, because it’s not his fault, and he is trying.
You nod, stiff but genuine.
Price stands with a grunt, and points his finger back at you, “I’ll see you tomorrow for breakfast. Go to bed.”
He heads back for his room, but stops without turning around.
“Now.”
He’s trying to execute his authority with a stern tone, but his voice breaks on the word. He waits, back still turned to you both, until he hears you and Konig rise from the couch and move to follow his instruction. Price disappears to his room without looking over his shoulder.
Before Konig and you open your doors, hands lingering on the doorknobs, you share a worried, unsure look.
You give him a forced, assured nod, and you both part.
Being alone in your room, alone with your own thoughts the night before the games, it’s torture.
It’s swallowing you again - the fear, the anger. The thoughts tearing over one another, a hurricane of anxiety meeting a tornado of rage that only strengthen and enable each other.
Mumbling unintelligibly to yourself, trying to deflate the anger, to expel some of the racing thoughts so that they’re not clouding your mind. It’s useless, shoveling out buckets of water from a ship that’s already half submerged.
You pace your room, fists clenched at your sides, fuming to the air. Your hands press to your ears to stop the overwhelming and overlapped trains of thought that barrel at you from any direction.
The tears flow mercilessly and without warning.
Price must be punishing you for your nasty comment by sending you to bed early, because this is unbearable. He had to have known you wouldn’t have been able to sleep tonight regardless.
Long after the tears have stopped, you find yourself sprawled on the bed, the back of your hand supporting your head as you stare at the wall. A knuckle lightly sheened with your spit absentmindedly plays with your lips. You’ve boiled yourself out, exhausted from crying and working yourself into a frenzy.
Numb.
Your eye catches on the line of light shining from underneath your door, interrupted by two evenly sized streaks of darkness.
You instinctively roll your eyes, a movement that makes the space behind your sore eyes ache, waiting for Ruby or Price to call out.
You anticipate the knock, the shout through the thick wood of your door, but it doesn’t come.
The shoes make a light shuffle outside your door, and after the pause goes from awkward to uncomfortable you stand, wiping your spit on your shirt and stepping towards the door.
When you pull the door open, hand still clasped on the doorknob, it’s not Ruby or Price on the other side.
It’s Konig, half-turned like he was just about to leave without making his presence known. At the sight of you his hands pull up with a slight stumble, clearly startled by you.
You raise your brow at him.
“Ach, I-” He looks away, his fingertips rubbing together at his side. He takes a breath, closing his eyes tightly before finding your stare. His mouth is open, primed to say something, but the words won’t come out.
“It’s okay,” You say, giving him permission to relax. Konig doesn’t need to explain himself. It’s the night before the games, and that is the golden excuse for any unusual behavior.
For not wanting to be alone.
You open the door so it’s fully gaped, turning your back to him and crawling into your spot on the bed.
He lingers in the doorway, a slight sway as he watches you.
“You coming in?”
He finally accepts the invitation, stepping a few paces into your room and softly clicking the door shut behind him. He doesn’t dare move closer, standing stiff in his spot a few paces from the door.
The corner of your lip perks up ever so slightly.
“You can sit,” You say, voice both nasally from crying, and somehow still bordering on patronizing. You give a pat toward the other end of the massive bed.
His hand pulls up to his chest again, flicking his gaze between you and the empty space of mattress. It’s the same look he had given you when Price gave him the whiskey on reaping day. As if you were setting a trap for him.
You give him a nod and a roll of your eyes, your ghost of a smirk blooming into a half grin at his coy reservations.
You don’t even feel the bed shift under his weight when he sits down on the Capitol’s extravagant mattress.
You both sit in solemn but comfortable silence, each of you staking your claim on a point in the room to unfocus your eyes, mulling over what tomorrow will look like.
“I wanted to thank you,” He says after a long pause, breaking through the silence with his blurted words to admit the reason for his visit.
“For?” You ask evenly.
“That day,” His eyes quickly shift to the side, “In District Nine.”
You immediately cringe at the memory, “Oh, don’t- I was having a really bad day that day. It was - I’m not usually like that. I can be mean but, not- Not like that
“I needed to say that,” He blurts out over top of your words, “Before tomorrow.”
Your gaze flicks down to the bed.
He continues, his words coming out smushed together, like one long word, “I think about that everyday. You were the only person back home that ever stood up for me.”
You look to him, face soaked in confusion, almost horrified. He thinks of that memory you’re ashamed of everyday? And he thinks fondly of it?
“I’m sorry,” You say with a dry mouth, “For how they treated you. You didn’t deserve it,”
You pause, swallowing hard as you pick at a loose thread on the pulled back covers, “And I’m sorry for now. You don’t deserve this either.”
“Neither do you,” he says.
Another round of silence follows before he rubs the back of his neck, clearing his throat, “I also, äh,”
He pauses for a moment, and you stare at him expectantly.
He gives a shaky laugh, “It’s dumb, sorry.”
“Go on,” You goad with a flick of your hand.
He’s gone pink, features flushed and eyes averted as he retrieves something from the pocket of his lounge pants and shoves it into your hand.
“A token,” He mumbles, “For your sanity.”
You sit up from your sprawled position on the bed, hand sliding along the sheets as you rise.
He’s purposefully avoiding your gaze, worry plastered on his features as he looks to the covers.
Your brows relax as you inspect his gift. It’s a golden locket, a shiny clasped rectangle, about the size of the nail on your thumb. You rub your thumb over the front as you inspect it. It reminds you of a small, thin book. The metal is slightly warmed from living in Konig’s pocket. Your nails pry open the locket, and inside reveals a dried wheat florette, cut from his opening ceremony suit, curled up and sloppily pressed inside.
For a moment you stare blankly into the locket’s insides, even breaths as you process the gift, the intentions behind it, and the cozy warmth that’s blooming throughout your chest.
When you look to him, lips parted in shock and stars in your eyes, he’s shifted his gaze to his fidgeting hands.
“Ruby helped me,” He mumbles, “She let me borrow it.”
You blink at him, looking down to the gift that sits so delicately in your palm.
“This is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.”
Your words come out a lot breathier than you intended.
He finally meets your eyes, both of you wearing matching, stunned expressions.
There’s a tense pause before you utter, “Thank you.”
He scans your face and nods, looking away.
You stare down at the golden token in your hands, trying to figure out why. Why Konig would go out of his way to bring you comfort in the arena. Why Konig would give you such an extravagant and thoughtful gift.
This game you’re playing, it’s killing you. Trying to dissect the underlying strategy in every interaction you have. The bittersweet taste of getting the comfort you crave, while knowing you’re being lured further and further into his trap.
You want to accept it. You want to believe everything. You want to take him at face value, because the act he’s playing is uniquely tailored to your needs, and never in your life have you ever needed so badly.
He knows exactly where to apply pressure, rooting for weak spots and pressing generously. He knows where to slice you to get you bleeding freely, to get you to stop resisting the temptation.
“We could stick together,” Konig says, “In the arena.”
Your head shakes, in the same way it did when you heard his voice for the first time. Taken aback and with an almost horrified look on your face.
“What?”
“We could look out for each other,” He says, a little more sure, a little less lost.
This.
This is why.
He thinks he can buy your trust so that he can trick you with the promise of allyship, only to stab you in the back the moment you turn around.
“I would just hold you back,” you say carefully.
“No. Not at all.”
“What could you possibly gain from teaming up with me?” You gesture at yourself, top to bottom, clearly referencing the lack of athleticism and survival skills.
“We can keep watch for each other, share supplies. You- you’ve always been smarter than me. Braver than me. You can make the plans, and I can be the muscle.”
“I am not brave! You-“ When he recoils, you realize you’re speaking too aggressively, and cut yourself off with a breath before continuing with a softer volume, “You don’t know anything about me.”
He primes to say something but stops himself.
He lets the moment pass, and after another round of mutual brooding he tries again, his words whispered and unsure, “We could still help each other.”
A faint yet dangerous scoff leaves you.
“You- You understand why I can’t do that, right?”
He looks confused, so you continue, one hand moving to emphasize your words.
“Imagine you’re in my shoes. How could you trust someone so much stronger than you, so much bigger than you? As soon as you decide the truce is up you could snap my spine like a twig. I wouldn’t stand a chance against you.”
His face sinks, his body deflates on itself, and instantly you understand your fuck up. That you were counting him out for the exact same reason everyone at home did.
Your fist clenches, and you let out a grunt at yourself, “No, Konig, I didn’t mean- It’s just-” You trail off, searching for the right words but coming up empty, another frustrated grunt leaving you instead.
“I wouldn’t do that to you,” He says, in his harsh voice that’s spread thin and quiet, as fragile as glass.
You start over with a hard blink, repositioning yourself so you’re facing him with your legs crossed in front of you, “Okay, try this- What’s the best case scenario, Konig? We manage to protect each other until the end - until it’s just us? And then w
He stays silent, shoulders slumped and gaze finding the stretch of mattress that sits between you.
You press forward, “Have you ever thought about what happens? After the win?”
He doesn’t say anything, but he looks at you with pessimistic expectance.
“The guilt? The memories of gruesome death? Knowing twenty-three have sacrificed themselves so that you could live?”
You sigh again, your voice dropping to a sharp, cold whisper.
“The best case scenario would be for me to die in that bloodbath. Quick and done.”
His muscles tense at your words that fill the room with a chill, but he remains silent.
There’s another long pause, and then you whisper again, your voice devoid of its edge.
“I don’t think I can do it,” You swallow, looking up from the inch of bed you had fixated on, “Kill someone, I mean. I don’t think I’d be able to live with it.”
“Hopefully you won’t have to.”
“Yeah,” You say breathily.
You don’t push back. You don’t remind him that no one wins the games without killing. That refraining from killing ensures your death.
“I could do it for you,” He offers, another bid to get you to be his ally.
You shake your head slowly, eyes weakly half-lidded. Your voice drops to a strained whisper.
“I can’t. I’m sorry.”
He doesn’t push, just gives a disappointed nod towards the sheets. You hope that means he understands. Understands that teaming up with someone so powerful is a risk a weakling couldn’t afford. Understands that being allies is an agreement that can only ever be temporary.
There’s another long pause. Your thoughts feel so loud you’re sure Konig could hear them.
“Should I go?” He asks, voice low and broken.
“No,” You say, too quickly.
That ‘No’ is heavy with the weight of many things unsaid.
Please don’t leave me.
I can’t be alone right now.
I am terrified, I am lost, and I am going to die.
I need someone by my side tonight.
Someone just as unsure and just as lost.
He rubs the pads of his fingers together.
You look to him, eyes swelled in a pathetic, desperate plea.
“Would you stay here tonight?”
His brows raise, a sharp inhale as his posture straightens out. He looks surprised, as if that was the last thing he expected to hear from you.
“Of course.”
You wonder if his words are held down by the weight of things unsaid, too.
You slowly lay back down on your side, letting your head rest on the pillow this time.
Konig very gently lays himself down in your wake. He keeps himself right up to the edge of the bed, leaving as much space between you two as possible. He nestles into a pillow, lying with his back flush to the mattress, hands folded over his waist.
You’re not sure how long you lay like that for. Hours maybe, Konig staring up at the ceiling while you switch between the wall on the other side of Konig and the back of your eyelids.
“Do you think you could kill someone? And live with it?” You ask softly.
He thinks on this a moment.
“I’m not sure about living with it, but I would kill if I need to.”
You don’t see the point in telling him he will need to. You’re sure he knows.
“You could win,” You whisper into your pillow.
He doesn’t say anything. Just shakes his head.
Maybe it’s the exhaustion, maybe it’s Konig’s broken eyes, maybe it’s the imminent death - but you find your arm dragging across silk, fingers inching over the sheets and towards Konig. Your eyes flutter shut again, and after a long painful pause, a large hand tentatively cups yours.
A spark ignites at your fingertips and shoots up your arm at once, a dizzy heat blooming in your chest and making its way to your cheeks. You don’t dare open your eyes, hoping Konig is oblivious to the warmth.
You’re both still, neither of you daring to move in fear of scaring the other away.
His hand is so warm, his palms and fingers fully encompassing yours. It makes you feel dainty, his hands being nearly twice the size. You don’t pull away when you start to reflect each other’s body heat, a thin layer of sweat forming on laced fingers and palms.
It‘s like he’s grounding you, that if he were to let go you might float away or slip into a dark oblivion.
When you finally dare to open your eyes, you see Konig staring up at the ceiling with blown eyes. You lift your head a couple inches from the pillow and give his hand a light, reassuring squeeze.
Konig tilts his head to you, meeting your gaze as his cheek nestles into his pillow. He looks nervous, more nervous than usual on this night before the games. You’re sure it read on your face, too.
He squeezes back, and even though his strength is unmatched you can tell he’s trying to be as gentle as he can.
Your eyes flutter shut again, a ghost of a smile on your face.
It’s a dizzy warmth. Cozy, but also electric? Exciting but relaxing.
It’s weird, how a simple gesture can feel so contradicting, so extreme.
Maybe it’s because you’re chasing the feeling, or maybe because it’s the night before the games, or maybe it’s because you‘re already in too deep, but without thinking, you slowly pull your intertwined hands closer to you, and give the slightest tug on his arm.
You hear him suck in a taught breath.
He hesitates, and you’re worried you’ve pushed it too far. That you’ve hit the boundary of the level of comfort he was willing to offer, and he was going to withdraw it entirely.
You don’t dare open your eyes, you can’t bear to see his expression.
And then he inches closer. His hand squeezing yours a little tighter as he scoots across the mattress, arm tensing as he slowly makes his way to you.
He stops when there’s only six inches of mattress between you.
The silence in this room is loud, the only thing cutting through is uneasy breaths, the rise and fall of chests on otherwise still bodies.
Minutes pass and you work up the courage to slink closer, resting your head on a strong shoulder. He sucks in another shallow breath but doesn’t object. If he gives you a look, you can’t see it through shut eyes.
Your mouth goes dry, nervous about being so close to a boy like this. His body is radiating an intoxicating heat, you can smell his scent, the remnant of his shower, the laundry detergent used to clean his shirt.
Your head nuzzles into his shoulder, finding a comfortable groove in hard muscles to lay your cheek. Your nose presses right against him, inhaling his scent with each breath. It’s rousing and soothing all in the same, a wave of drowsy euphoria washing over you.
When his shoulder flexes and shifts underneath you and his fingers slip away from yours, you spring up, instantly sobering. Your eyes immediately search Konig’s expression, worried you’ve sufficiently made him uncomfortable.
His face stays even, only a slight plea in his brows as his arm raises and presses against the pillows, inviting you to nuzzle into his side.
You hesitantly accept, closing what little gap remained between you, carefully resting your head on his chest. You don’t put weight on him right away, worried he might pull back and tell you you’ve misunderstood his gestur
When he doesn’t, you let yourself melt into him, let his breaths gently rock you. You can hear his heartbeat under your ear, rapid with nerves this night before the games.
The rest of your body follows shortly after, shifting closer to him and curling up into his side.
When he accepts this, and enough time has passed, a limp, closed fist moves from the tangle of your own limbs, resting on his side. It follows the billows of his ribcage on each breath.
You’re pushing it, you know that, but your arm still snakes over his torso, tentatively resting a forearm over his firm waist.
You gnaw on your bottom lip, waiting for him to scoot away to the other side of the bed. After a careful pause he responds by intertwining his fingers with yours.
His arm brushes against the height of your shoulder before you feel the ghost of fingers, and then a light hand tentatively rests on the middle of your back.
An hour must have passed, from the initial hand holding to now, each of you taking turns deepening the embrace, pressing your bodies closer and closer together.
Long after your eyes have fluttered shut and breathing evened, the hand on your back slowly trails upwards, between your shoulder blades, the pads of his fingers just barely grazing you over your shirt. It sends electricity up your spine and raises goosebumps on your arms, and you have to suppress a shiver.
You can’t help the content hum that leaves you at the light, imperfect but mesmerizing circles he traces over the back of your shirt.
Konig’s scent, his heartbeat, his steady breathing, his gentle touches, it all lulls you into the purgatory between sleep and wake, disconnected from the world but still aware enough to feel him slink his fingers higher, soft touches getting lost in your hair. Combing through the locks, letting strands slide through the gaps in his fingers and sending tingles up your scalp.
You’re already in over your head. Might as well squeeze him for all the comfort he’s worth tonight.
Because tomorrow, all bets are off.
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