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angelfic · 9 months ago

Text

— IT’S SO SWEET

pairing: jason todd x best friend!reader

summary: the 3 times jason takes care of you and the 1 time he lets you do the same. alternatively, jason thinks he's invincible, but his best friend needs to be protected at all costs.

warnings: unedited. again. pls don't kill me. swearing, kissing, mentions of blood/weapons/injuries, mentions of periods, reader is a nursing student, best friends to lovers!!! <3

author’s note: *shoves it at you* another one of these fics with the same format, this time with jason :) listen to 'sweet' by cigarettes after sex while reading this btw. and let me know what you think!! drop an ask or a message, don’t be shy!💌

1. when finals are going to kill you.

Sometimes you think being a vigilante like your best friend is worth the constant risk of dying if it means you never have to open another textbook again. When you voice this to Jason, he scowls like you've just threatened to kill a kitten in front of him.

"That's not funny. Don't even joke about that," he scolds, still frowning at you from the opposite end of your kitchen island. His Red Hood suit is sprawled out in front of him as he stitches up a loose hem, compliments of the last goon he most likely beat to a pulp. You make a face at the fact that his sleeve is covering your anatomy notes, ignoring the way he leans down in attempt to catch your eye. He resorts to snapping his fingers in your face. "Hey. Hey, I'm serious."

"Jason," you sigh, setting down your pen and resting your chin on your hand as you talk to him. "I'm studying for nursing school finals in my kitchen, because I didn't want to walk the five more steps it takes to get to my bedroom after making instant ramen. Do you really need me to tell you I'm not being serious about becoming a vigilante?"

His shoulders relax very slightly, but his expression stays annoyed. "You're going to give me an entire head of grey hair before I'm even thirty."

"Well, at least we know it'll suit you," you say through a yawn as you point to the white streak running through his hair. "So, if anything, you're welcome."

He gives you another withering glare, going back to his stitching. The tiny needle in his large hand distracts you for a minute until you realise that Jason has stopped sewing and you're actually staring into nothing now. He notices your eyes that have glossed over and immediately reaches over to slam your textbook shut, startling you back to attention. It isn't until he does this that you feel the exhaustion seeping into your bones, emphasised by the knot in your neck and the cramp in your writing hand.

Jason drags your textbook away from you, along with your notes. You take a second to appreciate how careful he is not to crease the pages, knowing you'd lose your mind. "Okay, you're done for today."

"Huh?" you mumble stupidly, his words registering in your mind too late and you realise he's just hijacked your study material. "Wh- Hey! Give it back, Jay, I have-"

"Finals, I know. Last I checked, you need to be alive to take finals and I don't see that happening unless you take a nap," he says, voice a little too calm for someone who you're about to pounce on and claw at until you get your textbook back. You sluggishly clamber off your stool and step in front of Jason, who immediately raises his arm to hold your textbook out of reach.

You look up at him and attempt an intimidating glare. "Hand over the textbook, Todd."

Jason raises his eyebrows, huffing out an exasperated laugh. "Lift one of your arms to get the book and its yours."

Your finger doesn't so much as twitch, but you sway a little until you reluctantly accept that maybe he's won this one. And maybe a nap does sound pretty good right now, you think with a groan, dropping your head so it rests on Jason's chest. Your arms hang floppily at your sides. "I'll kick your ass after my nap," you mumble into his shirt.

"I'm terrified," he deadpans, and you hear the thud of the textbook on the counter before his large hands come up to grip your waist so he can walk you backwards to your couch, knowing you well enough to anticipate your grumbles if he were to attempt to take you all the way to your bedroom. You smile into his chest.

"You've met your match, Red," you say as dramatically as you can for someone who's practically the equivalent to a sack of potatoes against Jason right now. When you feel the back of your legs hit the couch, you grip onto the bottom of Jason's shirt and tug at the fabric before he can let you go. "You're my human pillow, where do you think you're going?"

Before he can answer, you nudge him onto the couch and he obediently lies down so you can nestle in next to him and plop your head back onto his warm, muscled chest. You blame your exhaustion for your shameless behaviour.

Despite the tiredness, you can't help irritating Jason just a little bit more. "Hey, Jay. What would my vigilante name be?"

"Shut up," he says without any bite, resting his chin on top of your head. You snicker into his shirt, half delirious with fatigue but awake enough to feel his face moving as he smiles when he thinks you're not looking.

"Something cool. Like Nightwing," you mutter sleepily, poking the bear.

"What? Nightwing is not as cool as-" Jason starts incredulously, but cuts himself off. "Whatever. Go to sleep."

You hum, eyelids feeling heavy and you start drifting off, the last thing you register being Jason's fingertip tracing circles on your back.

When you wake up, Jason and his suit are gone, but you have a blanket tucked around you and a box of your favourite cookies on the coffee table.

2. when, apparently, you aren't immune to the streets of gotham.

Considering you live in the most corrupt city in the world, you probably should be a little more cautious about going out at night. It's not like you don't take precautions, though. Like every woman in Gotham, you're loaded with pepper spray every time you leave the house. Unlike every woman in Gotham, you also have multiple vigilantes in your phone with whom you share your location with.

Even then, you aren't stupid enough to step into any alleyways. You wish that were enough to stay out of trouble, but as soon as you realise the streets have completely emptied while you've been distracted with your thoughts, you start panicking a little.

You're fine, you reassure yourself as you slide your phone out your pocket to pull up your recent texts. You keep your screen open just for some reassurance, gripping the sides of your phone tightly when you hear some distant footsteps.

It's only ten more minutes to the convenience store, so you're more irritated than scared when you hear the footsteps quicken behind you, catching up. Your fingers fumble to text an SOS to Jason, but you accidentally tap send on your chat with Dick instead. With slightly shaky hands, you try and send one to Jason as well, hoping it's gone through when your phone is suddenly knocked out of your hand.

"Oh, for the love of-" you hiss, when you hear the cracking noise of your screen against the pavement and you don't risk reaching down to grab it. Instead, you turn around slowly to face a dark figure, clad in a cliche, all-black outfit and stood in a threatening stance. God, you hate Gotham.

"Hand over your-"

"Wallet, money, most prized possession," you cut the man off, probably very stupidly. "I know the drill, hang on."

He falters for a moment before anger clouds his expression and he pulls out a knife before you can get your wallet out. You try not to sigh in relief. For anyone else that might sound crazy, but knives you could manage. Being best friends with Jason Todd means of course you've been made to learn self-defence. Disarming someone with knives was doable enough to learn as a nursing student. Guns, on the other hand, are out of your league.

The fact that you know how to defend yourself doesn't make the knife look any less threatening and sharp, though.

"Hey, look, I'm not gonna be difficult," you say, dropping your voice to a low murmur as though you're trying to coax a cat out of a tree. "I'll give you my money."

"Yeah. Yeah, you do that," he rushes out, sounding confused. You kind of feel bad for him. Most people confronted with a mugger would probably be a lot more scared than you're acting and it's clearly throwing him off his game. You almost regret bothering to send your SOS and as you're thinking about how you're going to apologise to Dick for wasting his time, you go to grab your wallet to try and stall before the mugger becomes violent. "Stop! Put your hands up. I'll grab it myself."

You furrow your brows, about to argue that no, he fucking won't. But you see that the man's face suddenly becomes ten times paler than before and he's looking behind you instead. Your shoulders sag with relief as you spin around to see Nightwing in all his black and blue glory.

"Is there a problem, ma'am?" he lowers his voice an octave and you fight the urge to roll your eyes. He seems to be focusing hard on acting like strangers, because anyone with eyes would see the problem very clearly in the form of a man wielding a knife.

"Please, help me," you respond, drily. Dick raises a brow at your flippant attitude, so you clear your throat, kicking it up a notch. You glance at the man behind you and try to look more terrified than you feel. "Please help me, Mr Nightwing. This guy's got a knife, and he's going to stab me with it."

The man frantically shakes his head, dropping the knife immediately and backing up. "I wasn't! I swear, man, I was just trying to scare her. Look, I'll just-"

"Hey." You hear another familiar voice boom, this time through a modulator. You sigh, lifting your head to see Jason, all the more threatening as Red Hood. His guns are already in either hand by his side and you have to respect the mugger for not passing out where he stands. If you didn't know it was Jason behind that mask, you'd be terrified to death. He tilts his head, evaluating the man. "Where do you think you're going?"

"Nowhere, I-"

"Exactly," Jason's warped voice comes out tight, and you hear the cocking of his gun, making you whip around to send a panicked look to Dick. He runs closer to you and you drop your voice to a whisper.

"I've got Hood, you take care of the guy."

"Don't do anything stupid," he says, not unkindly and the two of you snap into action.

You run back over to the mugger and step in front of him, making Jason falter in his movements and lower his gun. His chest rises and falls with deep breaths like he's exercising real control. "Move."

You stay as still as possible, arms splayed out in an attempt to cover the man behind you, despite the fact that Jason definitely possesses the skill to take him out even with you in the way.

"Put your guns away," you hiss when Dick has successfully restrained the man out of earshot and is dragging him away with ease. Jason steps towards them, but you stay in his way, using both hands against his chest to stop him. It's more of a symbolic gesture than anything, since you know you wouldn't be able to budge him an inch even if you threw yourself at him with full force. He stops anyway, looking down at you with his hands gripping his firearms tightly. "He was practically harmless. Let Nightwing deal with him. Please."

You're talking him down, trying to waste time so Dick can leave before Jason is able to do anything. You know you've succeeded when he tucks away his weapons, albeit reluctantly. Dick is too far away with the man now, anyway.

"What the hell were you doing out at this time?" he says, raising his voice instead of the usual quiet, deadly anger he reserves for the people who deserve it. It's how you know he's worried, when he doesn't try and control his temper. "And without dropping me a text first, so I could check on you? You do understand where you live, right?"

"Don't yell at me!" Your voice cracks in the middle of your sentence and you feel your lower lip tremble slightly. Jason stills. You refuse to cry, cursing your damn hormones and the fact you're a woman and the fact that you're cramping again. You aren't in the mood to talk to Red Hood right now. You want Jason. "And turn off your stupid voice thing!"

He obliges quickly, stepping closer to you. You're angry at one less thing now that his voice is back to normal. "I'm sorry for yelling. Please don't be upset with me, I was just worried-"

"You were going to kill that guy."

"Damn straight," he fires back, defensive again.

You glare at him and he has enough sense not to speak further. Shaking your head, you let out a frustrated groan. "He was a lousy mugger. That hardly deserves a bullet through the head."

"Are you forgetting that he had a knife?" he exclaims, throwing his hands up. Suddenly, as though he's remembering something, Jason folds his arms across his chest. "Why'd you call D- Nightwing for help first?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. How about next time, I'll ask the guy with the a knife if he can hold off for a second while I select the right contact number!" you grit out, hit with another wave of cramps, extremely tired of this conversation. "It was an accident, you idiot. I meant to text you first."

You can't see Jason's expression beneath his Red Hood mask and you aren't going to ask him to remove it in the middle of the streets, but you imagine he's mollified with the way his shoulders relax a bit.

Huffing, you walk away to get your phone, gingerly picking it up to inspect the newly made cracks all over. You vaguely register Jason standing over your shoulder before you shove your phone in your pocket, a problem for tomorrow. You turn around to face him and clutch at your lower stomach, breathing turning shallow.

"I was on my way to the convenience store," you explain, gritting your teeth. "I assume you're coming with me now?"

"Why did you need to go so late?" he questions, typically not letting it go. Instead of responding, you screw your eyes shut and puff out a few pained breaths. He immediately grips your shoulders and begins inspecting you. "What? Are you hurt? What happened, did he get you?"

"I have cramps, you ass," you groan, shoving his hands away. He ceases looking for an injury, and you don't need to ask him to remove his mask to know that he's relieved. "I was going to the store so late because I'm out of my sanitary products."

"Oh," Jason says gruffly, a hint of embarrassment creeping into his voice due to his excessive worry. "Well, I kept a whole box of pads and stuff from the other month in my apartment. It's closer, come on."

You sag with relief, dragging your feet to follow him as the two of you walk to his place. You're in his apartment so often that you're not surprised it's stocked up with period products as well as your usual things for when you stay the night. You feel a funny little flip that has nothing to do with cramps when you consider how he kept everything.

"Do you need me to carry you?" Jason asks, completely serious, snapping you out of your thoughts. "I know how bad the cramps can get."

"I took some meds a couple hours ago, they're not the worst yet," you explain, shaking him off and trying not to think about him offering to carry you all the way to his apartment just because you have cramps.

You reach his complex quickly and he sends you up while he enters through the fire escape from a back alley as not to expose Red Hood's living quarters. By the time you've entered through his door, Jason is already there, judging by his helmet sitting on his kitchen counter.

"Be out in a second," he calls from his bedroom and so you flop down on his couch, face down in one of the cushions as you try to think about something other than the sharp needles stabbing your lower belly. He walks out while you're writhing in pain and sets down some pads, two painkillers and a glass of water on the coffee table. "Here, take them now and go sleep in the bed. There's some snacks in my nightstand if you get hungry. Do you need me to stay home?"

You reluctantly turn over onto your back and see that he's also holding your fluffy panda hot water bottle. You might combust, there and then. Pouting, you reach out for the panda, grabbing it to hold it close to your body and sighing at the slight pain relief. "I'm okay, you can go back to patrol. Thanks for looking after me, Jaybird."

"It's nothing," he shrugs, turning away to hide the pink flush appearing on his cheeks and grabbing his helmet. He shoves it on quickly and you try not to let out an unattractive snort of laughter. He turns on his voice modulator. "Text me if you need anything."

With that, he slips out of his window, making sure to shut it tightly behind him. You stay on the couch after knocking down a couple of painkillers and try to entertain yourself with some TV while you wait for Jason to come back.

You mournfully scroll through your phone, trying not to cut your fingers on the broken glass. The actual phone seems to be giving up on you as it takes forever to click on one thing to the next. Giving up, you toss it on the table and close your eyes. Making make a mental list in your head of things to do tomorrow, you add buying a new phone to it and prepare to say goodbye to a healthy chunk out of your bank account.

You don't remember dozing off, but your alarm startles you awake and you grab around for it on the nightstand next to you. Turning it off, you decide to brave the world outside the comfy sheets and realise you're in Jason's bed. He must have gotten back late and put you there, you think with a smile, suddenly happier than you were when first waking up. This happy attitude sours a bit when you nick ur finger on the broken glass of your phone screen trying to turn off the rest of your alarms.

Making your way out of his room and following the smell of toaster waffles, you see Jason plating up some breakfast for you. "Morning," you yawn, plopping down on a kitchen stool. "How was patrol?"

"Same old," he says, giving you the usual, non-descriptive answer. For all you know, he could have taken down an entire drug ring single-handedly and you'd be none the wiser. He sets down a plate in front of you, as well as a rectangular box. "Here."

You inspect the box, confused and wanting to focus more on the food before you process what it is and your jaw drops. "Jason Peter Todd. What the hell did you do!"

"Your phone broke," he says, gruffly, clearly trying to downplay the fact that he bought you a brand new smartphone, a later model than the one you already have. "Don't make a big deal out of it."

"Of course I'm going to make a big deal, Jay," you say, frowning. "I was going to get one myself today. Why did you waste your money on me? How much was it?"

"Don't worry about it," he says flippantly, plating up his own waffles. You should have known better than to ask. There's no way he's taking money from you.

You sigh, shoving your waffles and the phone out of the way to make your way over to him. "Jay," you say softly, grabbing his face in your hands. His eyes widen slightly and you fight the urge to smile. "I can't accept it."

"I said it was nothing," he replies, furrowing his brows and you release his face in favour of hugging him instead. "And it's not a waste if it's on you. You're taking the phone."

"It's everything," your voice comes out muffled by his hoodie. The cost of a phone really is nothing to Jason. It wouldn't have made even the slightest dent to his bank account, but that's not the point. "You need to let me take care of you for once. Oh, one more thing."

He hums in question, resting his chin on your head and wrapping his hands around you.

"If you buy anything for me again, I'm cutting a heart shaped hole in your suit."

Jason huffs out a laugh and you feel the vibration through his chest. "What about the coffee I get you after class every Friday?"

You stay silent.

He snorts, knowing he's got you. He drops a kiss on your head and grins when you look up to frown at him. "That's what I thought."

3. when this guy just won't take a hint.

Jason owes you big time. You've had the longest week of your life and yet here you are, in a floor length, dark red dress and heels, for crying out loud.

Realistically, this is the least you could do for him, showing up to a gala thrown by his father to keep him company. You're more than happy to do this as a favour to him, but that fact doesn't make the heels pinch at your toes any less.

"I haven't worn this dress since high school," you grumble, twisting it around your waist where it fits snugly. You're thankful for the fact that it falls loosely past your waist, or you'd have ripped it from your body by now. "If I eat one thing, it might actually tear."

"I'll give you my jacket when you spot the appetisers," Jason says, absentmindedly. You squeeze his bicep gently in thanks from where your arm is looped in his as he leads you into the venue. "Anyway, we'll be in and out, as always. Just making an appearance for Bruce."

"In and out," you repeat, lowering your voice as the two of you enter a more populated area. You know even though Jason moans about these events, he wouldn't be here if he really didn't want to be. He cares, even though he'd never admit it.

Groups of businessmen, celebrities, entrepreneurs; basically a bunch of rich people who are dressed in clothes that are definitely more expensive than your rent are milling about, every one of them with a drink in their hand. Their unwavering smiles and the constant trips to the bar are nothing new and you wrinkle your nose at the atmosphere of the place. "Do they even know what charity Bruce is throwing this for?"

Jason raises an eyebrow. "Bruce could be throwing this thing for homeless badgers and they'd be none the wiser," he mutters, a hint of bitterness creeping into his voice. Rolling his neck, he takes a deep breath. "I should go say 'hi' to him, while he's talking to a bunch of people. Prove that I actually showed up. You wanna come?"

You almost agree, not wanting to be left alone, but just before you reluctantly trudge over to a group of Bruce's boring business associates, you thankfully spot Jason's brothers by the bar. "I'll just go hang out with Dick and Tim, is that okay? I can come with though, if you want."

"Nah, go ahead," he says, detangling his arm from yours and giving you a reassuring smile. "Come grab me when they start getting annoying."

"Be nice," you warn, gently shoving him towards the group of men as you make your way to Dick and Tim.

"Hey," Tim greets you with a smile, glancing up quickly before returning to his phone. He does a little double take, eyes snagging on your dress and his smile turns devious. "Well, you look nice. You're wearing a very... nice colour..."

"Tim," you heave a deep sigh. Dick rolls his eyes, but he can't help the corners of his lips quirking up. "You can't keep doing this every time I wear red."

"I'm not doing anything, just making an observation," he shrugs, rocking back and forth on his heels in an attempt to look casual. Tim glances around to see make sure no one is in earshot before lowering his voice. "Hey, totally unrelated, but I heard Jaybird nearly shot a guy for almost mugging you."

"Tim."

"Leave her alone," Dick intervenes before Tim can needle you further. He definitely enjoys it too, but ever the golden boy, he seemingly wants to keep the peace. "How are you doing after that, anyway?"

"Fine," you nod reassuringly. "Thank you, again for showing up, Dick. I really appreciate it."

"Don't be silly, it's-"

"I heard he got you a brand new phone, too," Tim pipes up, cutting his brother off.

"Tim," you groan, thwacking him in the arm with your clutch. He barely flinches. "For the last time, Jason and I are just friends."

Tim opens his mouth to respond, but his eyes dart behind you and he thinks better of it, choosing to just smirk like the troublemaker he is.

"That's good news." You whip around to locate the source of the voice, finding yourself looking at a guy you've never met before. He seems to be around your age, dressed smart and very rich looking. You stand there stupidly.

"For who?" you ask, chuckling nervously.

He shrugs, giving you a charming smile. "Anyone who wants to buy you a drink. May I?"

Understanding dawns on you and you glance at Dick and Tim with wide eyes, feeling a little awkward that they're here for this interaction. Dick keeps his expression carefully neutral as he considers the man, whereas Tim frowns when he meets your eyes, jerking his head as subtly as possible in Jason's direction.

This has you glaring at him and just to prove a point, you plaster on a wide smile of your own and return your attentions to the stranger. "Yes. You may."

The two of you walk closer to the end of the bar and away from the others. You pointedly don't look at them. "What was your name?" you ask the stranger, mostly for the sake of being polite.

"George." A rich guy name, you think to yourself. If Jason were here, you know he'd have a million things to say.

He asks your name and you give it to him as he orders you a drink without actually asking what you want.

"Pretty name," George remarks, handing you a glass of something you've never had before. You pretend to take a sip, smiling in thanks. "So, what's your story?"

You try not to outwardly cringe at the question, sorely regretting tonight's decisions despite the fact you've been here less than half an hour. "I'm just here to keep my friend company." You keep the story short, not bothering to explain how you know the Wayne family.

"Ah, well. I dont blame you for looking so bored. I'm just here because I have to be as well," he mutters, swirling the contents of his glass. "Business connections and such."

"Oh." You find yourself being less and less interested in this conversation. "Do you know what the fundraiser tonight is for?"

"God, no," George laughs, taking a sip of his drink. You try your hardest not to grimace, mentally checked out of the conversation already. "It's always the same shit, anyway. Forget all that. Drink up and we can get out of here."

You nearly choke on your own saliva at his sheer confidence and set down your drink. "I really shouldn't. I'm, uh, I'm okay staying here."

"Aw, come on," he leans in a little closer than you'd like and you try to look as imperceptibly as you can for Dick or Tim, but it seems they've left you to face the consequences of your own actions. Traitors. "You don't look like you're enjoying yourself. What, you don't like me-?"

"Hey." You feel Jason's presence at the same time as hearing his voice. You almost laugh at how relieved you suddenly feel and you and relax into his hold when he places both hands on your waist. Jason drops his voice to a murmur that only you can hear. "Ready to go home?"

You nod, turning to leave. About to bid a quick goodbye to George as not to be rude, you open your mouth but get stopped in your tracks.

"She's fine right here, man," George says, voice as smooth as glass. If the glass is shattered into sharp, pointy spikes that are as uncomfortable as this conversation, that is.

Jason's previously polite smile hardens as his front is now practically plastered against your back. "She can talk for herself."

"She was actually just-"

"She's right here," you interrupt, squirming out of Jason's arms to step back. He drops his hands immediately, but doesn't look at you. Instead, he assesses George through a narrow eyed gaze. You can't decide if George is being brave, or stupid for not cracking under the weight of Jason's intense glare as he stands there, all six foot two of him posing a threatening picture. "Right, well. I'm just going to-"

"Hey, hold on," George says, averting his all-too arrogant gaze back to you and gripping your upper arm, jerking you slightly. You flinch a little when he moves into your personal space. "You aren't going to give me your number?"

His grip doesn't hurt, but it's a world away from gentle and you almost gape at the fact he doesn't seem to be aware of how uninterested you are.

Jason immediately clocks this, stepping forward. "Yeah, I don't fucking think so," he says darkly and then he shoves at George. Hard.

The people nearest to you gasp and titter when they see George careening into the stools at the bar and you slap a hand over your mouth, shocked. Shocked that Jason had actually gotten violent as Jason and not as Red Hood. All over a random creep, no less.

Before George even has the chance to recover from the surprise of Jason's brute force, you pull harshly on Jason's suit jacket, steering him out of the venue and into the hall. He follows you without protest, still breathing heavily.

"What the hell was that?" you hiss, trying to keep your voice quiet, despite being alone out in the entrance hall.

"He grabbed you," Jason says slowly, as if he's confused as to why you're upset. His expression is tight, like he's being careful to control his anger even now that you're away from George. "I would have done a lot fucking worse to him if you hadn't dragged me out of there."

"You cannot go all Red Hood when you're Jason! It's suspicious as hell. Not to mention how you were practically back-hugging me like some sort of reverse bulletproof vest."

"I always do that," Jason says, calmly. The fact that he isn't raising his voice just spurs you on to raise yours higher. The multitude of emotions swirling around in a confused whirl around your stomach makes you nauseous.

"You hate being touchy in public," you say, pinching the bridge of your nose in frustration. "Last month, you punched Tim in the stomach for putting his arm around your shoulder. Anyway, that's not the point! You're so occupied with trying to take care of everyone that you never consider yourself. Or let anyone else do so. Yeah, that guy was an asshole. But he was just an asshole trying to talk to a single girl. He wasn't some... some crime boss or villain or evil freaking mastermind for you to take down!"

"I don't need looking after. And he didn't know you were single," Jason scoffs, running a hand through his neatly combed hair, mussing it up. If you weren't so irritated, you'd take a moment to appreciate how much you prefer it when he looks like this. Real and raw, like the current expression on his face rather than closed off and emotionless. "You came here on my arm, wearing my colour, like Tim's always fucking going on about. You... you're my..."

"Your what, Jason?" you ask, hysterically. You're almost yelling now, finally ready to snap at Jason's inability to share his thoughts with you. He stays silent, face going blank again, an indication that he's closing himself off to you. Your shoulders sag from exhaustion. "Come talk to me when you can give me an answer. I'm going home, I'll get Dick to give me a ride."

You don't wait for a response as you walk back into the venue. Thankfully, Dick is near the entrance and you don't have to subject yourself to too many stares before he takes you home. You don't glance at Jason on your way out.

4. when he asks for your help.

You're moping. You don't bother trying to deny it, but you're definitely moping around your apartment since your fight with Jason. You wake early every day and get dressed and study, but your movements are almost robotic in nature.

Dick has tried texting you a few times, but you've decided to just avoid looking at your phone, because it's the one Jason bought and it just makes you feel even worse. You aren't sure if Jason's tried contacting you, but your phone stops going off around the same time as Dick's evening patrol and you don't let yourself dwell on it further.

The two of you have never gone this long without speaking and aside from the pit of unease in your stomach as well as the sadness hanging over you like a dark cloud, you're also just bored. You have acquaintances from your nursing course, but no one close enough to do anything with this late at night.

Oh, well, you think to yourself, Chinese food and Grey's Anatomy for the second night in a row it is.

You take a quick shower, standing under the hot water for longer than necessary to let the time pass. Getting out, you change into your second pyjama set of the day, opting for a hoodie when you feel a chill in your room that wasn't there before.

You go to shut your bedroom window with a frown, not remembering why you opened it. The handle is stiff and you internally curse your landlord for��still not fixing it as you finally succeed in shutting the damn thing after a particularly hard tug.

It shouldn't have taken that much energy out of you, but you're panting when you walk out of your bedroom to enter the living room so you can sit in front of the TV and order the takeout that you probably shouldn't be eating.

Before you can even attempt to regulate your breathing, you look up in the direction of your couch to find Jason sitting there in his Red Hood suit and slap a hand over your mouth to smother your shriek.

"Oh my God," you gasp, your free hand flailing out frantically to grasp the door frame in an attempt to steady yourself. The minute it takes for you to catch your breath is enough time to take in the state of the vigilante sitting in the dark of your living room.

You switch the light on and Jason winces at the sudden brightness, but you take the opportunity to give him a thorough once over. His dark hair is disheveled and falling into his eyes from hours of confinement in his helmet and he has a fresh bruise blossoming across his cheekbone.

You hardly ever use the main light, usually opting for a warm-toned lamp instead, so when the main light casts the cuts and scrapes on Jason's body in a harsher light, you want to turn it off even more.

Jason's eyes flutter shut for a second and you immediately rush forward to assess him for any injuries causing major blood loss. "Did you get stabbed?" you ask clinically, your voice void of any emotion. "Are you bleeding under your suit? You need to stay awake-"

"I'm fine," Jason mutters, opening his eyes to peer up at you through tired eyes. "I'm not bleeding or anything. Just wiped out from patrol."

You relax slightly, taking a step back to create some distance between the two of you. "Oh. You snuck through my window to tell me that you're tired?"

"Anyone could have snuck through that damn window," he says, brows furrowing in disapproval. He's been hassling you about the security of your apartment since you can remember and you usually wave him off, but in this moment you bristle.

"You don't get to be annoyed at me right now," you say, crossing your arms and glaring at him through narrowed eyes. "Why are you here, Jason?"

He grimaces at the use of his government name coming from you and takes a deep breath. "I haven't slept."

"So, go home and take a nap," you say, exasperated, letting your hands fall to your side as you're about to turn around and walk back into your room. Before you leave, you hear your Nursing teachers' voices in your head, reprimanding you and you sigh. "And you want to clean those cuts before they get infected."

"Could you do it for me?" Jason asks quietly, barely audible. His jaw clenches with the effort of asking you the question. "Please?"

You blink at him. "But, I- You've never..." you trail off, not knowing what to say. Jason has always refused to let anyone else patch him up after patrol. Hell, he's even learned how to do stitches on himself when you're the one learning how to do them for a living.

"I want... to let you look after me," he whispers, looking at you imploringly like you're going to refuse. Your irritation immediately melts into something else that you don't want to analyse any time soon.

"Oh," you exhale softly, heart twisting unwillingly. You nod slowly, words escaping you again. "Okay."

Jason's head flops back onto the couch cushion and he sighs like all of the tension is leaving his body. His hair covers his eyes, but you don't miss the dark circles under them, contrasting starkly with his skin, pale from exhaustion.

You consider letting him stay there, but you know it'll be easier in the bathroom where you keep all of your first aid supplies and the lighting is better for when you're practicing your techniques. "Come on. Up," you say, gesturing to the bathroom with a jerk of your head and you walk away, allowing him to come in his own time.

While you're digging through your bathroom cabinet for all the supplies you've haphazardly thrown in after using them, Jason slips in and you glance over at him quickly. "Sit down," you mutter, reaching up for the disinfectant. It sits on one of the higher shelves and you have to get on your tiptoes to reach it. Jason instinctively moves to help you but you shoo him away, managing to grasp it yourself. "Sit down."

"Yes, nurse," he huffs out a quiet laugh and you bite back a smile, opting to roll your eyes at him instead. Setting your supplies down behind Jason, you focus your attentions on unzipping his suit. The way his arms are resting limp in his lap tells you that he's not wanting to move anytime soon. You bring the zipper down yourself and pull off each sleeve cautiously, not wanting to rip the suit further where the torn fabric is clinging to the bloody cuts in his skin.

Once the suit is hanging loosely around his waist, you see from the black tank he's wearing that the cuts are localised to his now bare arms from where he's been defensive, whereas the fabric on his chest and abdomen are intact.

Jason's eyes track your face as you assess the extent of his injuries and when you lift your face to look at him, he's unabashed, continuing to look directly into your eyes. Your cheeks warm and you stutter out a sentence "I-I'll be right back, one sec."

You rush out of the bathroom and into your kitchen to pull open the freezer and scramble around for a bag of frozen anything. Settling on a bag of peas that you have no intention of cooking anytime soon, you hurry straight back to the bathroom.

Jason eyes the peas warily and you raise a brow, daring him to challenge you. When he stays silent, you move forward to shove the peas onto his cheek where the bruise is a darker red mark than before. He hisses when the icy bag makes contact with his face, flinching away from it.

"Ouch," he mumbles belatedly, giving you a sheepish smile when your mouth sets in a line. You should probably be gentler with him considering it's the first time he's allowing someone to physically care for him and it's you he's choosing to cross that boundary with. It's not like you want to scare him off so he never asks you again, but you can't help still being annoyed with him after your fight.

You sigh, trying to relax your face into a non-threatening expression. "Sorry. Keep it on your face to stop the swelling."

Jason grasps the bag slowly as you let go, letting his fingers brush over your own. You clear your throat and focus your attentions on the cotton pads, dousing them with disinfectant. Jason looks at you through one open eye, the other obscured by the bag of peas. "You shouldn't be the one apologising," he says, after a beat.

You purse your lips, bringing a cotton pad up to Jason's shoulder. "I know," you say simply before you press the disinfectant into one of the larger cuts, harder than probably necessary. Jason screws his eyes shut and works his jaw, but stays quiet. "Did that hurt?"

Jason shakes his head immediately, letting out a short breath he was holding. "Nope. Felt good actually. Kinda like a cooling effe- Shit," he hisses, tensing his arm. You think that's enough torture for now, instead continuing to gently wipe away the blood and dirt.

"I won't apologise about that one," you say, shrugging. Jason cracks a smile and you find yourself hiding one of your own as you clean off the other, smaller cuts and scrapes that don't need bandaging. "Are you hurt anywhere else? Promise I'll be nicer about it this time."

Jason shakes his head again, so you dispose of the cotton pads and get the band-aids, the only noise in the bathroom being the sound of you rummaging through your supplies. When you spot the choice of band-aids, you grin. "Pick one."

Surveying the two that you hold in your hand, Jason's gaze lingers on the dinosaur patterned band-aid, before flicking his eyes up to yours and raising an eyebrow. He points to the other one. "I'll take the Hello Kitty."

Your grin widens, knowing he's only choosing the pink Hello Kitty band-aid to appease you. You're certainly not going to challenge him about it as you carefully peel off the backing to stick it over his shoulder. Stepping back, you tilt your head to evaluate him and nod. "You look very pretty."

Jason smirks, but the slight blush creeping across the cheek that isn't covered by the frozen peas doesn't fool you. "Pretty enough for you to forgive me for being such an ass?"

"That depends." You take a tentative step towards him, crossing your arms. "Are you going to stop being stupid?"

Jason lowers his arm holding the bag of peas and places it behind him. With both hands, he reaches over to your arms, uncrossing them to bring you forward until you're standing close. He's so impossibly tall in your tiny bathroom that even standing up, you're only eye level with him as he sits on the closed toilet seat.

"I can't promise that I'll never be stupid in front of you again. You kind of have that effect on me," he says, sighing like it's some curse inflicted on him. You thwack his rock-solid arm and he grins. "I can promise I'll let you take care of me from now on, though. And that I'm going to stop lying to you."

"What?" you ask, eyebrows furrowing. You're even more confused when Jason places his hands around your waist to guide you onto his lap, both your legs hanging off one side of him. You raise both eyebrows expectantly, waiting for his answer, but he merely stares at you, smiling. "Jason. When have you lied to- mmph-"

He cuts you off by pressing your lips together in a kiss, one hand still holding yours, intertwining your fingers while the other tilts your chin up so he can kiss you deeper. You're a little slow on the uptake, frozen from shock for a second, but it isn't long until you're kissing him back just as eagerly. You shift in his lap, lifting one of your legs to swing over to his other side until you're straddling him and Jason takes a sharp inhale, sitting up straighter and pulling your body closer to his.

He pulls away for a millisecond, before his lips reattach to your jaw, travelling down to pepper soft kisses down your neck and you let out a noise halfway between a sigh and an embarrassing whimper. Jason groans at the sound, nipping at your neck and you feel like you can't breathe enough air.

He pulls away again to catch his own breath and you take the opportunity to come to your senses and lean back, gently pushing at Jason's chest. You breathe hard, trying to lift your gaze from Jason's swollen lips and he seems to be having a hard time looking away from your own.

"Jason," you say, voice shaky and uneven.

"Mhm?" he hums distractedly, pressing a soft kiss on your jaw before looking at you again.

"You kissed me," you point out, stupidly. "You really, really kissed me."

"I did," Jason murmurs, both hands cupping your face. He swallows, expression going from dazed to nervous before he speaks. "You asked me what you are to me before you left the other night."

You nod slowly, head still reeling from the kiss. Truthfully, you were willing to pretend the conversation never happened if you could go back to being friends again. You missed Jason.

"You're everything to me." Jason's shoulders are relaxed, his face free of tension as he says this. You're so shocked by the fact that he doesn't seem to be in pain as he opens himself up to you, that it takes a minute to process the actual meaning of his words. Your lips part but he shakes his head, continuing to speak. "You're everything. And sometimes I can't even think about that too much, let alone speak it, because I'm scared it'll consume me. I'm scared you'll consume me. The idea of compromising your safety, the idea of you loving me back, all of it. I'm... I was scared."

You lift your hand to place it over Jason's, still resting on your cheek. "That's okay. I can think and speak enough for the both of us," you tease and Jason laughs quietly, his breath tickling the inside of your wrist and sending a shiver down your spine. "You're everything to me as well, by the way. And sometimes all I can think about is loving you. I was just waiting for you to say it first."

Jason smiles and you think the corners of his lips lifting up and his eyes lighting up is the most beautiful thing you've ever seen, each time blowing you away like it's the first time you've witnessed it. "Does that mean I lose? Kinda feels like I've won," he tilts his head, pretending to think about it.

"Oh, you've so lost," you furrow your brows in a mockingly serious frown. "And I'll be telling Tim as much."

Jason stills. "Please do not tell me that he bet you fifty dollars I'd confess first as well."

Your jaw drops. "That little bastard was playing both of us?"

You start laughing when Jason lets out an irritated groan, dropping his head onto your shoulder to bury his face in your shirt. You thread your hands in his hair and wrap an arm around his neck. He sighs, half content and half resigned. "I say we don't tell him for as long as we can get away with it. Live in peace for a while."

"We're talking about Tim here," you remind Jason, leaning back to lift his head and look at him. "I wouldn't be surprised if he already knew. And he'd literally never talk to you again if he knew we were hiding it after he finds out."

"I don't care," Jason says, lifting your hand to brush his lips over your knuckles. He leans back to run his eyes over your face, drinking you in like looking at you is a rare occurrence that he doesn't get the opportunity to do much. "You're all I need, anyway."

#jason todd x reader #jason todd x you #jason todd x y/n #jason todd scenarios #jason todd smut #jason todd imagine #jason todd fanfiction #jason todd fluff #jason todd fic #red hood imagine #jason todd imagines #red hood x reader #red hood x you

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uhohdad · 8 months ago

Text

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, 183k 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 VICTOR I

You don’t run.

A sharp inhale tightens every muscle in your body. Bloody, wounded hands shoot out in front of you in a brace of pure instinct, chin tilting down and pinning to your chest. You’re hoping he’ll make it quick and as painless as possible. Maybe it’ll be a snap of a neck, just as he did with the boy from District Eleven. Dead before you even know what hit you.

Your brace tightens, teeth clenching when the heavy boot steps are only a few feet away, not breaking their strides. Strong, powerful arms wrap around your core and yank you off your feet with ease. You hold your tense for only a moment before relaxing into his restraint.

You don’t fight it.

You’re giving yourself to him, letting him do what needs to be done to get his win.

He stills, a moment passes, and you must be in shock. The knife he pierced through your gut must be too sharp or maybe your adrenaline is coursing so effectively you can’t yet feel the stab in the back. You’re just waiting to feel the impact, waiting for the unimaginable pain to tear through you, waiting for death.

After a moment you open your eyes, met with his chunky, coarse vest loaded with supplies scraping against your cheek.

You give a frantic brush with trembling hands over your front and back, blindly searching for the embedded blade.

He pulls away, keeping his hands on your upper shoulders as he looks you over with wide eyes brimmed with tears. You take the opportunity to examine your body, smoothing over your core to search for his puncture wound, but you come up empty, only managing to smear blood all over your clothes.

Scratchy gloves take your wrist and gently extends it to examine your flayed arm, soaking his gloves with your blood. You wince as he moves the shredded fabric of your jacket out of the way to get a good look at the evidence of your fight with District One. You watch with pinched eyes as he stares down the inflamed, deep gash she left on you, still oozing steadily.

“What happened?” He says, voice too soft for a man with a harsh voice who’s just killed a boy with his fists.

You look to him, confusion and fear stitched into every feature. When he sees your bewildered expression he quickly retracts his hands.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” He brings his hand to his hooded head and lets out a deep sigh that ends on a breathy croak, “I’m just glad you’re alive. I thought I lost you.”

You blink hard, pushing your jaw forward.

“What?” You say sharply, demanding explanation.

“Every time the cannon went off ich- I thought it was you,” He lets out another heavy, relieved sigh.

“You wanted to be the one to kill me?”

His eyes pinch, “Wh- No! I- I-”

“Spit it out.”

His eyes widen from their confused position, he fumbles his words as he sputters out an answer, “I- I just didn’t want you to die.”

You swallow, and look to your boots. Your forehead wrinkles, your head shaking.

“No,” You say in complete invalidation of his statements. You don’t believe his words, you don’t believe that he hasn’t killed you yet.

“You ran away from me,” He lets out another sigh, “At the beginning.”

You take a step back, throwing out your blood-soaked arms, flicking droplets of blood on the grass, “You tried to kill me!”

He eyes scrunch in a way that suggests you’ve just said the most offensive statement in the world.

“I was trying to get you out of there!” He shoots back.

“You-“

That pulls you up short.

You make a quarter turn, staring to the stained grass as you run over the events of the bloodbath, “You killed that boy, and then-“

“He was going to kill you,” He says with an urgent tone that steals your attention.

“You-“

Your eyes narrow at him, brows pinched and teeth bared, “You said you would only kill if you needed to!”

His eyes crinkle at your spit accusatory words, his muscles tensing for a moment before his shoulders relax, his voice taking on a gentle but insistent tone.

“I did need to.”

You watch him carefully, trying to figure out if he’s telling the truth by staring into the only exposed part of him. His eyes are too soft, too pained to be dismissed.

“You don’t need to trick me. You’ve already won.”

Your voice doesn’t exactly convey confidence.

“I’m not tricking you,” He takes a careful step towards you, palms up, “That boy was going to kill you.”

He finishes on your name, spoken so soft and sweet it makes you want to believe his words.

You mull over it for a moment, chewing on his words, the look in his eye, and still you are convinced he’s hiding something, manipulating you. His actions don’t make sense.

The questions come out rapid fire, finding yourself as frustrated as you normally do when the answer doesn't come easy to you, “Why? Why did you kill Eleven? Why didn’t you kill me with Titan? Why aren’t you killing me now?!” Your urgent questions are pointed, offensive more than curious.

His hand pulls up to his chest, and he freezes.

You throw out your arms again, “Why, Konig?!”

“This is what you wanted,” He whispers after another pause, his voice unsteady.

“It’s what everyone wants! What is this?!” You gesture aggressively in the space between you both, splattering his shirt with your own blood, “What was Two talking about?!”

His horrified eyes flick between either of yours, stammering through various unintelligible syllables before cutting himself off with a close of his eyes and a deep breath.

He finds your face again and lands on a response. When he speaks, he sounds like a child, even through that scratchy, intense voice.

“You’re the only friend I’ve ever had.”

The muscles in your face relax as you process his sentence.

You swallow and stare down at the lush grass, ashamed, because the first thought that comes to mind is -

‘We’re friends?’

Friends.

That -

You hadn’t considered.

This entire time you’ve been so caught up in trying to decipher Konig’s strategy, the intentions and manipulations motivating his actions, but you never stopped to consider that the two of you actually had something. Well, no - you knew there was something, but all of the actions could have been explained away simply because you were two tributes who were terrified in their final days of life - a bond formed in mutual trauma, or perhaps a strategy to lure you in with his comfort.

Friends.

When did this happen?

Had he thought of you as one this whole time?

How stupid can you be?

The glass of water, the coffee, the handholding, the token, the pleas for allyship, keeping each other warm, and making each other feel better after a hard day.

How stupid can he be?

Making friends with someone only for it to end a week later in this arena, becoming attached to someone destined to die.

You look up to him again, brows pinched and forehead wrinkled as you reframe everything. When you speak, your voice is a broken wisp of air in his direction.

“How did we let this happen?”

You know he understands, the way he looks at you without words, nothing but pain and uncertainty in his sloped eyes. He understands that making friends with someone who is destined to die was a recipe for heartbreak, and he understands that the bittersweet final meal has been served.

As slim as the odds, you two ending up face-to-face at the end was always a possibility.

You were sure you were going to die before you’d have to face him.

Now here you both are, two tributes, two friends, and only one of you can leave this arena alive.

Maybe this wasn’t the way. Maybe it would have been best if he’d gutted you as soon as he was finished with Two.

The laugh starts small, just a scoff. It turns to a snicker, then a chuckle, which snowballs into a fit of hysterical cackling.

It’s not the poison gas this time.

This is raw, genuine laughter. Billowing from deep inside you and echoing boisterously through the four quadrants.

It’s not funny.

But you have to laugh - because of course.

Of course you would do this. Let your emotions bleed where they shouldn’t.

It’s your signature move.

Of course you both were going to make it to the finale.

Of course you now have to be killed by Konig, by a friend.

Wasn’t this the ending all along?

Konig looks alarmed, and then his eyes relax, and he gives a soft, three-note laugh, and shortly after he succumbs fully to the contagion. A song you’ve never heard, it’s hearty and warm, intertwining with yours to make a chorus of snorts and guffaws.

Your core doubles over your crossed arms, still generously bleeding and painting the blades of grass by your feet a deep crimson.

Tears well in your eyes and quickly trail down your cheeks as you gasp for air.

This is a full detox.

An expelling of every pent up, overwhelming emotion you’ve felt the past two weeks. The mistrust, the jealousy, the anger, the fear, the pain. Subjected to the heinous, brutal slaughters of children. It’s all flowing from you, and soon you’re not sure if you’re laughing or sobbing. Konig’s laughter dies down before yours, worried when he notices the hysterical tears streaming down your cheeks.

A hand extends in your direction, but he quickly withdraws it, helplessly staring on as you break down.

You can’t stop it, the dam has bursted. The whirlpool of thoughts that have been steadily rising since the reaping have spilled over and is pouring from you uncontrollably.

You have reached your absolute limit.

A genuine, broken wail leaves you, fully transitioned from a laughing fit to cries of pain.

When you pinch off your vision, heavy tears thrusted from your waterline, you’re met with the bounce of Eleven off his platform, narrowing in on his lifeless eyes.

His neck is already broken but the echoes of bones snapping against metal still rattle in your ears.

It’s followed immediately by the horrific image of the girl from District Eight. Her maimed wails and flooded eyes and exposed, moving muscle. The squelch of One’s eye, the haunting rip of her optic nerve, the feeling of her plunging herself on the spear - reverberating through the staff of the spear and up your slashed arms. The sound of Titan’s face being caved in, repeated blows that crack bones, countless razors tearing through his flesh on his dissent.

It’s on replay, the crunching of bone deafening you with its escalating grinds, the moans of the maimed, the rip of an eye from its socket, the sound of a thousands razors ripping through a faceless, limp body.

Your fists race to cover your ears, to stave off Eight’s moans of unimaginable pain, your eyes pinched tighter to rid the sight of Eleven’s brutal death, digging your nails into flayed palms to rid the feeling of an eye being gouged by your hand.

All of them cycle, ripping through you one after another.

You drop to your knees in the grass, core doubling over. Konig follows you down on one knee, one of his gentle hands finding your uninjured shoulder. When you raise your face again, it’s streaked with tears.

“I keep hearing it! I can’t stop hearing it!” You yell through a sob, followed by broken gasps as you curl toward your lap again.

“I know, I know,” He whispers.

“It won’t stop!” The tears are flowing relentlessly now, and you don’t even have the mind to wipe them away.

“Mein sieger, look at me,” His other hand lets a finger under your chin, gently guiding your jaw up.

Through the blur of welled tears you find him, those eyes peeking through the holes in his hood.

“It’s okay, it’s- it’s going to be okay,” He doesn’t seem too sure of this himself, his eyes darting around for a solution that doesn’t exist, but he pushes on, “I’m going to fix your cuts.”

You sniff, arms too soaked in blood to wipe away your snot.

“Just listen to me. Don’t listen to it. Just listen to my voice.”

He swallows, searching frantically on the spot for his next words.

His eyes widen in the presence of an idea, “Do you remember that day? In District Nine?”

You groan at the memory, an involuntary hiccup following.

“That boy,” He takes a breath while he pulls out a water bottle and a cloth from his pack, setting them on the grass,

“Spewing names at me. Blocking my path.”

His eyes find yours again, brows pinched as if he’s worried that he’s somehow making it worse, “And you, you just came out of nowhere. You let out the,” He looks to the grass again, and gives a quick, breathy laugh, “You let out the angriest noise I’ve ever heard.”

Konig helps you peel off your jacket as gently as he can, patiently sliding it off as he works around your wincing. He pulls the sleeves away from your gash so the fabric doesn’t swipe against it.

“You couldn’t see it, I’m sure, but the look on his face when you grabbed him by the back of the shirt-“ He cuts himself off, “I had never seen anything like it.”

He uses the water bottle to wash the blood away, letting you squeeze his hand with your good palm as you endure the pain brought forward by the water.

“For a second it looked like you were trying to dance with him, spinning him around.”

You remember it clearly, using your weight and pivoting on your heels to jerk him in a near complete circle, grip tight on the back of his shirt before you let go to slam him into the wall of the dingy hall.

“You got him against the wall - I thought for sure you broke his collar bones.”

The boy had looked genuinely afraid, entirely taken by surprise. Your forearm had dug into him, pinning him to the wall with enough force to portray threat. He had the look of a boy who had never expected any consequences to his behavior.

Konig moves down your arm, washing away the blood from shoulder to hand.

“I still remember what you said, word for word. You said,” He lifts his voice in a faint imitation of your spitting words, “‘I am so sick of you all picking on him. It’s more than obvious you do it because you’re ashamed of yourselves. If I catch you doing it again I’m going to show you what it’s like to pick on someone your own size!’”

He shakes his head and looks to the sky, “He had six inches and at least 40 pounds on you.”

You laugh with him this time, yours nasal from crying, following with a sniffle.

“And then you threw him away,” His hand lifts to briefly imitate the movement, “Shoved his back. He almost tripped flat on his face.”

He retrieves a second water bottle from his pack and a small tin canister he sits in the grass before he uses his teeth to remove his glove.

He continues, “He never did mess with me again. I think a few of his friends stopped too.”

“He’s scurried off at the sight of me ever since,” You sniff and your lips warp, “I always felt bad about that. Like I went too hard on the poor guy.”

When the boy had ran off, you met Konig’s eyes, your chest heaving as huffs left your parted lips, fists tight at your side. Pointed features softened when you saw his face, his wide eyes, sprung brows, and a slack jaw. You sucked in a sharp inhale and froze for just a moment before you got out of there, running from the shame that had begun to burn your skin as soon as you saw his expression.

He uses his gloveless fingertips to scoop up some sort of clear gel from the tin.

“He certainly got the message.”

He uses his free hand and a bit more water to wash out the wounds on your shoulder, gently pats the mutilated flesh with a washcloth, and then smears the gel on your skin.

Immediately you feel relief. The burning pain of the hedge’s slices completely dissipates, and you can’t help but sigh in content.

He gently rubs the medicine across your wounds, turning pink as the clear gel mixes with the blood rushing to replace what Konig wiped away.

“Sorry I freaked out,” You say quietly, a little embarrassed of your breakdown.

His brows lower, “It’s okay. I hear it too.”

“Why are you helping me?” You ask softly, “Why go through the trouble of nursing my wounds if you’re just going to kill me anyway?”

You wince as another stream of water splashes against the deep gash One left behind.

“Sorry,” he whispers, ignoring your question and dabbing the cloth against the deep wound. He quickly scoops up more medicine and slides it over the surface of the inflamed skin before too much more blood can flow out.

“Ever since that day I wanted to thank you. To talk to you. I just,” He cuts himself off, eyes darting around for a moment, “I didn’t know how.”

He gently wraps his gloved hand around your good forearm, bringing forward the slashes on your palm.

“I thought I scared you off.”

He laughs, “I just wasn’t expecting it.”

He pours water over your palm, another dab of the cloth, and a generous smearing of medicine.

All of your pain is gone. The medicine has completely numbed your wounds, cooling the unrelenting burn of the slashes and almost immediately staunches the flow of blood.

“It feels so much better,” you say with a sigh.

“Good,” he says.

Your voice drops softer, a curious hint to it, “Why didn’t you ever, y’know,” You pause, shoulders pulling up, “Defend yourself? You could have scared them off easy.”

He swallows, a gentle hand reaching for the bandages. He’s quiet for a moment, avoiding your eyes.

When he speaks his words are strained, “I’ve misjudged my strength before.”

Your brows shoot up at the implication. You so desperately want to probe further, but it’s clear from his tone this is a sore spot for him. You stay quiet instead, waiting for him to continue.

“I’ve never gotten physical since, until,” He trails off again, abandoning his sentence.

“Yeah,” You say on a breathy exhale, letting him know he didn’t need to say it.

Lifeless eyes, crunching bones.

He unrolls the bandage and begins to loop it around the gash on your arm. He makes sure the bandages are firm on your wounds, slices it from the roll, and tucks the end into itself.

You get out a sheepish, “Thank you,”

He nods, his voice low, “Of course.”

He guides your arm out again, starting a new loop around with the bandage around your palm.

When he’s done, he packs the supplies into his backpack as you look down to your wrapped hand, rubbing over the nude-colored bandage with your thumb.

Konig grabs a clean cloth and pours a little water on it, extending it carefully towards your face.

“Here,” He says, his gloved fingertip just barely grazing you as he tilts your chin up. You obediently close your eyes, letting him run small circles with the wet cloth to wash away a mixture of dirt, One’s blood, and your own.

“Why are you doing this?” You whisper, low and gentle, but he doesn’t respond. When you open your eyes to meet his stare, his masked face reveals nothing to you, other than his unwavering focus on cleaning your face. Carefully massaging the damp cloth in circles over your skin, taking care not to apply too much pressure. He even wipes away your snot.

“Thank you,” You whisper, “For saving my life.”

There’s a pause before you add, “And for letting me come to terms with my death.”

He nods, looking down, “I guess we’re even now.”

You laugh, your voice regaining some of its strength, “I think yours might blow mine out of the water.”

He shrugs, “Well, I have to repay with interest. Took me long enough.”

He pauses for a beat, “Are you hungry?”

“Starving.”

He starts to dig in his pack, but stops when the ground begins to shake. His arms dart out of the pack to wrap around you and in return your hands claw at the collar of his vest to pull him close. You cling to each other to keep steady on your knees, sharing a wide-eyed, worried look through the vibration that shakes your bodies and blurs your vision.

The gamemakers must be angry at you both, not giving them the showdown they were owed. You can see the hedge walls parting, its previous entrances reappearing in their normal spot.

When the ground stops shaking, neither of you let go, clinging to each other as you stare frozen at the entrance. Shallow breaths leave parted lips as you tighten your grip on each other, waiting for the threat that’s soon to be released.

It doesn’t come.

Minutes pass before you turn to him.

“They might just want us to leave so they can take the bodies,” you whisper.

He gives a shaky nod, but you still stay frozen in your spot, holding onto each other and staring deeply at the entrance.

When both of your hearts slow, when fearful breaths ease, you decide to do what the gamemakers want you to do.

What choice do you have?

He stands first, his hand extended to help you up. When you get to your feet, though, you linger on his gloved hand and give him a squeeze before you let go.

He leads as you both creep towards the exit, still wary of the possibility of a cruel trap.

Konig wordlessly insists you wait for him to make sure the coast is clear using the same gesture he did when the careers approached you both in training, an arm shooting out in front of you as if to hold you back. He pokes his head out, careful not to make contact with the walls as he swivels his head to scan for threat.

“It looks safe,” He says, but you both stand for a bit longer before inching outside of the maze.

You’re surprised to find the arena entirely restored. The fall quadrant has reappeared, its trees as brilliant and colorful as ever. There’s no evidence of the avalanche, the snow returned to its original height and perfect pine trees retain their snow-dusted caps. The desert’s sandstorm has settled, the dunes not disturbed in the slightest.

Nothing attacks you as you leave the maze, careful steps in the direction of the cornucopia.

The gamemakers must have simply wanted to collect the bodies, because you both standby as the hovercraft appears.

When the claw descends, you turn away together. You can’t bear to watch the corpses of the girl from one and the boy from two be lifted into the air.

Without thinking, your hand reaches up to take a hand that sits much higher than yours. He accepts immediately, intertwining his large, calloused hand with yours. He gives you a gentle squeeze, and you know what it means. That he shares the pain you feel, that he is just as unsure, and just as lost as you.

You keep your fingers laced with his until you near the spot where the four quadrants meet, stopping about twenty feet away.

He sets his bag down, and you follow his lead when he sits in the plush grass.

The food just keeps coming.

Bread, cheese, apples, dried meat, stew, an orange, a weird, large brown nut of some kind?

With wide eyes and mouth already watering you ask, “Where did you get all this?”

He hesitates for a moment, “Some came with the backpack - the apples, the bread and the meat. The rest I got from sponsors.”

Your brows furrow, “You got sponsors?”

Of course he did. If you were a sponsor you’d pick him too.

“Yeah, what did you get?” He asks, picking up the apple and handing it to you.

“Well-“

Guttural moans, exposed muscle.

“District Eight sent me some things,” You say with a wince.

His head tilts, “They did?”

“Uh, yeah, I-” You clear your throat, the echoes of her pain on your ears, “I helped them- with something.”

He tilts his head again, and looks at you expectantly.

“The girl,” You start, “She- I helped her.”

He’s quiet for a moment, and his voice is soft when he speaks, “You allied with her?”

You shake your head and pull your knees to your chest. You touch your ribbon bracelet, soaked with blood.

“It was mercy. I - I - didn’t-“

“Sorry,” He says, “I shouldn’t have asked.”

“Price didn’t, though,” You say after a moment, almost embarrassed, “Send me anything, I mean.”

It hurts to know Price showered Konig with gifts while you got nothing.

You look to the sky and make a vague gesture that reads as annoyed. As if you were saying to the sponsors, to Price, ‘What, I wasn’t good enough? Well look, I made it this far!’

You don’t show it, but it stings. Logically you knew Konig was the smart bet. That if you were District Nine’s mentor, that if you were a Capitol better, you would have prioritized Konig’s survival over yours any day.

It still hurts having it confirmed, knowing that you were not good enough for Price’s attention.

Konig laughs as you raise the apple to your lips, “They just knew you were smart enough to make it without their help.”

You roll your eyes as your teeth pierce through the apple’s skin, sucking out its tart insides.

“I don’t know about that,” You say under your breath, but you appreciate him trying to ease the blow.

“It’s true,” He insists with an accompanying point, “Look, you’re here. You did it without anyone’s help. I surely would have died without it.”

“Plucky got lucky,” You say definitively, “And everyone knows it.”

Underneath it, though, you wonder if he’s right. The truth is, you really didn’t need help in the arena. You didn’t have to put that girl out of her misery - well, you did, but if your plea had gone unanswered you would have made it work regardless. Other than that, you haven’t really needed anything.

He shrugs, his voice a bit gruff as he puts his attention to spreading cheese on bread with his knife, “I don’t.”

You roll your eyes again, “You sound like Price. Even you were surprised to see me at the end.”

He shrugs, “I was just worried about you, is all.”

“Because you knew that I was probably going to die.”

“Because the arena is dangerous.”

“Exactly! It’s all,” You huff, “There’s a big luck element.”

He cuts you off with a nudge, offering a handful of cheese smothered bread, “Even your arguments are too smart for me.”

Your laugh makes your fingers brush against his when you take the bread from him.

You’re eager to sink your teeth into its crust, creamy cheese over soft perfect Capitol bread, you can’t help but groan into it.

“So good,” You say with a mouthful, not bothering to swallow, “Thank you.”

“Of course.”

When you finish your slice of bread, he starts on another for you at once.

“Where have you been?” He asks, smearing the soft cheese over the golden brown crust, “I tried to look for you.”

You stare into the brightly colored leaves of the fall landscape before gesturing in the direction of the red maple and yellow ginkgo trees, “Over there.”

Konig nods, “That’s where I thought you went at the beginning. I tried to follow but I lost you, and when I went searching you were too clever for me to find.”

Your eyes are starting to ache from rolling at his compliments.

Just then, a silver parachute floats down to the sky.

You both look to each other with raised brows. When it lands on the grass a few feet from you, he stands to retrieve the canister before handing it over to you.

You struggle to pop it open, and inside you reveal a bundle of blackberries, a tin of juice, and a cookie.

“There’s a lot.”

“Price is making it up to you,” Judging solely by the crinkle in his eye, he grins as he sits in the soft grass, “With interest.”

You look to the sky again, squinting from the sun and giving a wave of thanks. You share the smile before you spread the food out with the others.

“Where have you been?” You ask, popping a berry into your mouth.

“The desert.”

“The desert?” You ask with an almost disgusted inflection, snapping your head in his direction, “How did you survive in the heat?”

Konig lifts his chin, pulling up his hood as he swipes along his neck, nails catching on a clear, razor thin mesh fabric that appears out of nowhere.

He stands to strip it from the outside of his clothes, handing you a long crumbled fabric of transparent mesh.

“Woah,” You get out, thinking back to his embrace, pushed right up to the snake-skin like fabric but never feeling it or noticing it. You roll the fabric between your fingers, “I didn’t even see it before. What is it?”

You stick a hand in one of the sleeves as he answers, and immediately your arm is hit with a cool breeze that chills your skin and raises goosebumps.

“I couldn’t even feel the heat,” he says, “And I figured it would be safest, since no one else should have been able to survive there without a pair.”

“What’s out there?” You ask with a tilt of your head, letting the body suit rest in your lap.

“Mostly sand and spiky plants,” He starts to peel the orange. “You probably would have figured out there was water in them long before I did.”

He flicks away part of the peel.

You find the fabric of the suit again. “Can I try it?”

He nods, and you stand, slipping into the mesh suit. It melds instantly to your clothes, disappearing into the fabric as you pull it over your body.

“This is so weird,” You say with a laugh at the breeze that hits your skin, “I’m gonna try the desert.”

He stands to follow in your wake, and you practically run to test it out, ignoring your sore ankles.

When your boots hobble unsteadily on sand, Konig stops close to the border, arms crossed as he watches you run around, “You’re right! I can’t even feel it.”

You stop and even do a few weak jumping jacks to work up a sweat, but your feet can’t make it far off the ground with the sand swallowing your feet.

“Try these,” He says, popping off a thin, undetectable shoe attachment from his boots and leaning forward to hand the pair to you.

You lift up one foot, brushing off grains of sand from the soles before you snap on the attachment. It shrinks from Konig’s incredibly large shoe size to yours, and when you put your foot down, instead of sinking into the sand, your boots conform to the uneven dips and grooves.

“Feels like I’m on solid ground,” You say before snapping the other attachment on. You test them out by jogging in circles.

You come to a stop once you’ve had enough, walking with ease back into the spring quadrant.

“No wonder you did well in the desert,” You pop off the attachments to return them to him, but he waves like he doesn’t need them, and you just toss them to the side.

You peel off the skin tight suit as well, the cool breeze now chilling you beyond comfort in the spring air.

“Oh!” Your face lights up, “There was another thing I wanted to try.”

You move to the spot where the four quadrants meet, in the mouth of the cornucopia, and look for just a moment before stepping on it.

You can feel all four temperatures at once, the heat of the desert, the freeze of the snow, a light spring and chill fall air. Overstimulating and causing your body to fire contradicting temperature responses.

You step back into the grass, “Weird.”

You turn to Konig, just steps behind, and he gives it a try too.

He gives a soft laugh once he’s had his turn.

“Very,” He says.

You return and settle on the grass near his pack, already eyeing up the food waiting for you.

You take a sip of juice and pass it to Konig, and he takes your offer and sets it down on the grass before continuing to peel the orange. You actually close your eyes to breathe in the scent of fresh citrus, sighing on your exhale.

“I missed food. I’ve been living on corn and seeds.”

“I’m sorry,” He says, voice soft and full of regret as he looks up from the half-peeled orange, “I wish I could have been there for you. I would have shared it all.”

“It’s my own fault,” You say, shifting as you settle on the grass, “I didn’t want to hold you back.”

“You wouldn’t have.”

You stare off into the fall forest until Konig extends some orange slices to you. When you bite down, it bursts in your mouth and coats your tongue in its delicious insides. It actually sends a shudder down your spine at the overwhelming refreshment.

You both eat silently for a while, and your eyes eventually find the weird large brown seed he had set to the side.

You stick a hand out to feel it, its outside coated in thick coarse hairs, “What is this?”

Konig shrugs, “Not sure, it’s good though. Found it on a tree in the desert. He takes a spoonful of stew and speaks around a mouthful, “There’s this place I found. I think you’d like it.”

“You ate it without knowing what it was?”

He shrugs again, “I’m still alive.”

You snort, and he asks, “Do you want to see it? It’s very pretty.”

“The nut?” You ask.

“No,” he says with a breathy laugh, “The desert.”

“I thought it was just sand?”

“Mostly,” He picks up the large nut and holds it out, “There’s a place out there, though. There’s this big pool of water with a waterfall, you can see all the way to the bottom. It wasn’t hot there. Ach, and there’s these tall trees out there too.”

You give him a look like he’s speaking gibberish, your voice taught with disbelief to match, “In the desert?”

“Yes!” He says, ending on a laugh, “I’m not lying. It’s perfect there. We can wash off, too.”

He digs into his pack, pulling out a second temperature controlled suit, “I kept this just in case,” he trails off for a moment, abandoning the rest of his sentence, “It didn’t take up much room, anyway.”

He extends the wrinkled fabric out to you and gives it a little shake when you don’t take it, “Trust me.”

You look into those eyes that have shared so many unsure glances with you, and you can’t help but fold at how sure they look now.

“Okay,” you say, taking the suit from him. He grabs the discarded suit before tucking the food away in his pack.

At the border you both put them on, watching with fascination as they melt into your clothes and skin. He leads you through the sand, and while he doesn’t have an extra pair of shoe attachments, he insists you be the one who wears them.

“To help you keep balance,” You say, offering your unbandaged hand.

He graciously takes it in yours, and you both move through the sand side by side. He doesn’t seem to take your offer to support himself with you, but he keeps your hand in his. The mesh of the suit doesn’t interfere with the feeling of his hand pressed against yours, you can still feel the softness of his palm, the callouses just below the start of his fingers, the gentle squeezes as he navigates the dips in the sand.

“Are you sure you don’t want to switch for a little bit?”

“You have shorter strides anyway,” He says.

You walk in silence for a bit more, locked by the hands and aside from tired ankles, perfectly comfortable in the desert conditions.

“What do you think everyone thinks of this?”

“What do you mean?” He asks.

“The final two not,” You pause for a moment, “Fighting.”

“I don’t know.” He says, “Probably a little disappointed.”

“You think? I thought maybe it’s interesting, at the very least. It’s never happened before as far as I know of.”

He shrugs, “Not sure they need help making it interesting.”

“I guess you’re right.”

A few more paces and another silver parachute floats down from the sky.

You both still as it comes to a graceful stop in the sand just in front of your shoes.

You look at Konig, and he gestures to it, suggesting it’s yours. You carefully pick it up and pop open the canister to unsheathe a second pair of shoe attachments.

You give him a sly smile and hand them over, “Maybe they don’t mind after all.”

He waves a thanks into the sky and lets you steady him as he snaps them onto his shoes. You travel much quicker as you both glide over the sand that’s eager to swallow your feet.

“There’s those plants,” He says as he points to tall, cylindrical looking plants, some of them stretching ten feet in the air. It almost looks like they have arms, thick dusty green branches of itself splitting at the middles and reaching for the sky.

“Don’t touch them,” He warns.

“No?” You ask.

“Covered in spikes,” He says.

“Learn that the hard way?” You ask.

He huffs air out of his nose, rolling his eyes slightly, “It’s possible.”

You give a laugh, and he gives a glare at you from the corner of his half-lidded eyes. He follows it up with a soft squeeze of your hand, just to make sure you know he’s teasing.

There’s a roar in the distance, the sound of a steady, consistent rumble.

“What is that noise?” You ask, a bit frantic.

“No, no,” He reassures, “It’s okay. It’s the waterfall.”

You raise a brow, still skeptical.

As you approach, your face falls as you take in the oasis before you, “You weren’t kidding.”

“I told you,” He says with a squeeze.

Wedged in the height of a large sand dune are large, slick slabs of rock that water spews over, a cascade of thousands of gallons pouring down into a crystal blue lake of water. The pool is ringed by tall, slender trees that shoot straight up into the sky, leaves only in a puff at the very top, those large brown seeds clustered together under the leaves. It doesn’t look like any tree you’ve ever seen in District Nine.

The roar of the waterfall is so loud, you have to raise your voices to talk to each other.

“Is it safe?” You ask. You don’t trust something that’s this pretty in the arena, the same way you didn’t trust the trees or the vegetables in the fall quadrant.

He nods, “I spent a lot of time here. It’s safe.”

You near the edge of the lake, where you break your hold on each other so he can kneel in the sand and dig in his pack. He pulls out both of your jackets, heavily stained with a tapestry of various tributes’ blood.

He begins to wash them in the pool as you scrutinize the water, hesitantly poking your finger in.

It’s clear all the way down, easily seeing the sea plants at the bottom that dance under the warp of the water. There’s a few fish swimming in the pool, enjoying a spot of splotchy shade the leaves of a tall tree casts. They don’t look like any fish you’ve ever seen, brilliant colors and striped designs.

“Thank you,” You say, shaking away your wet hand, “For bringing me here.”

“Of course,” He doesn’t look up from his scrubbing.

You sit back from your squat, and you try to unlace your boots before you’re stopped.

“Oh, right,” You say, remembering the mesh bodysuit.

“You can take it off now,” He says, “It’s comfortable here.”

You hesitate before stripping off your suit, tucking it into Konig’s backpack to avoid sand. You unlace your shoes, peel off your socks and stash them neatly in the mouths of your boots. After, you roll your pant legs up and dip a foot in carefully.

“What happened to your ankles?” Konig says, horrified when he sees the deep pink bruises you’ve revealed.

“Ugh,” You groan as you step both your feet in the water, “So embarrassing. I got caught in someone’s snare.”

“A snare?”

“Yeah,” You nod, watching your toes wiggle into the sand, “I figured it out though. They had me strung up by my feet upside down.

“How did you get out?” He says, amazed.

“Used my belt to hoist me up to my boots. It hurt so bad.”

“Did they find you?”

You shake your head, “Well, I don’t know if it was his trap but the boy from District Eight heard me.”

He goes silent, staring at you with wide eyes.

You shrug, “He didn’t hurt me, he just kept asking about the girl from his district.”

You swallow hard, and look down to the wrist dawning your bracelet.

Your voice is strained when you speak, “Did you see it?”

“See what?”

“What he did to her?”

His expression drops, taking on a sudden serious tone at the haunted look on your face.

“What?”

He studies your face intensely, and your eyes pinch in a hard blink.

“What happened?” He asks.

“I think he volunteered just so he could be the one to,” you hesitate, “Kill her.”

You were way off. About the boy from District Eight and his companion.

About Konig.

You hate being wrong.

“It doesn’t make any sense,” You say, “I don’t understand why he would risk his life just to end someone’s else’s, when she was probably going to die anyway?”

“Hate can’t be reasoned with,” He says without much thought, and you pause your wading, digesting his words.

He’s right. It reminds you of what Price said, about spite getting the best of you.

You couldn’t imagine hating someone so much you’d volunteer just to get the chance to be the one who gets to end someone’s life.

One of your feet wiggles into the sand, the other swirling in the water.

You watch as Konig wrings out the jackets, walking over to a nearby tree to tie the sleeves around its trunk to dry.

When he returns, sitting himself down at the edge of the water, he starts to scrub the mixture of yours and Titan’s blood from his thick gloves.

“Your bandages should be good now,” He says.

“What do you mean?”

“Your cuts. They should be good now.”

You wade back out of the shallow pool, brows furrowed as you unwrap the bandages on your palm.

In just a short time, the medicine has reduced the inflamed jagged slashes on your palm to thin, faint pink lines.

You mutter under your breath, your awe drowned out by the waterfall.

You peel the other bandages off, finding all of your cuts to be in the last stages of the healing process. You hadn’t been able to feel their sting since Konig applied the medicine. Even the deep gash on your forearm has sealed, only a baby pink, decently sized scar in its place.

“Okay?” He asks, looking up at you with a squint.

“Perfect,” You say, rubbing over the cuts on your shoulder that has reduced to scars the size of papercuts, “Did you get that from a sponsor? It must have been expensive.”

“No, actually,” He hangs onto an ‘äh,’ for a moment, hesitating before he responds, “Found it with some other supplies.”

You give a slow nod, not quite believing his answer.

He’s a bad liar.

He rests his gloves on his pack, and fills both of your water containers. While he does this, you tuck Konig’s token into a pocket of his pack, strip off your shirt and kick off your pants, careful not to get sand caught in the wrinkles of the cloth. Now down to your sports bra and underwear, you drape your clothes over his pack.

You stare at the bloody ribbon bracelet, giving it a touch.

You gently untie your sloppy knot, and kneel in the sand to gently rinse out the ribbon.

“What’s that?” Konig asks gently, but curiously.

“Uh,” You pull it from the water, smoothing your thumb over the wet fabric, “It came with the bread. From District Eight.”

He nods slow, and doesn’t say anything else.

You lay the wet ribbon carefully over your clothes to dry.

As you wade deeper into the water, you take slow, careful steps through the sand until you’re submerged to your shoulders.

You let out a pleased sigh, shutting your eyes to block out the bright sun as you soak in the soothing pool.

You use your hands to work a week's worth of blood, dirt, and grime from your skin.

When you’re satisfied, you rinse your hair, giving it a wash in the still part of the pool, combing your fingers through wet strands and rinsing out the collection of dirt and dried blood.

You hum yourself a little tune as you do, only loud enough for you to hear.

The waterfall, while noisy, is relaxing. It reminds you of the sound a cool room makes, or a really strong steady wind. The steady rumble gives your ears something to focus on and keeps the obsessive, intrusive even, thoughts at bay.

When you check on Konig, he’s working stains off your shirt & pants, his attention locked on to the soiled fabric.

You flip to your front and swim back to the edge of the pool. When the bank gets shallow, you keep your body submerged, using your hands in the sand to pull yourself closer to his disturbance in the water. Only the top half of your head peeks out, much like an alligator does as he waits for prey to come along.

“Hello, little fish,” He says, not taking his eyes off the clothes.

You can’t help but giggle before you take in a small gulp of water, lift your head, and squirt a stream in his direction.

“Huch!” He pulls your shirt and pants closer to him in reflex, as if somehow the water was going to soil them more than the blood and dirt. He only looks in your direction a brief moment before he smiles at the sand and returns to his scrubbing.

You give a pleased, mischievous giggle.

“Not very nice, little fish,” He scolds, but you can tell he’s not really annoyed, just amused.

It feels good to be silly. It’s been a long time since you’ve felt this relaxed.

Surprisingly, the impending death is not weighing on you. The thought that you will have nothing to worry about tomorrow actually makes it incredibly easy to not care about today. You have been prey these last few days, craning your neck at every noise, fleeing at trouble, and always wondering when and where and how you’ll be slain.

Now you know.

It will happen tonight, at a location of your choosing, and at the hands of a friend.

Even with every eye in Panem on you, from here, there’s no one but Konig, and there is no longer a reason to distrust him. Before you had suspected that every move he made was somehow a strategy for his survival. Now that he has his win, and you are to be laid to rest today, there is no need for you to have your guard up.

Only Konig has to worry about holding up appearances now.

On your final day, you are free to be silly, to be weak, to be scared, to be human.

“Come swim,” You coax.

“Almost done,” He says, standing to tuck the rest of your clothes into the taught sleeves of the jackets, letting them dangle to dry in the warm air against the tree. He begins to shed his gear and washes them as well.

You make your way back out to the deep, and when the water is up to your shoulders you idle to watch the waterfall. Gallons and gallons of never ending water cascade over the shelf of rock, free falling forty feet into the pool, and creates white, foam-like bubbles under its downpour.

Hesitantly you swim closer, the roar drowning out more of the world as you approach. The sand disappears from underneath you, kicking your feet and paddling your arms to keep your head above the surface. You have to fight the ripples and current the waterfall creates as you near.

There’s a large, smooth rock just to the left and behind the steady pour. You pull yourself up to perch on it, resting your heels against its curve into the water.

You carefully stick your hand into the stream, and quickly pull it back when you feel the water’s intense pressure.

You find your hand is unscathed by the powerful stream, and stick your hand in again.

Once deciding it’s safe, you slip back into the pool and let yourself be engulfed in the waterfall.

It’s a really, really intense shower.

It feels good, a massage almost. The water is a perfect, comfortable temperature, not too cold or too warm.

When you’re done with the waterfall, muscles noticeably untensed, you emerge from the heavy rain and catch Konig on the other end of the pool. He’s completely shed of his gear and now shirtless, all the clothes washed and drying off.

With just the top of your heading poking above the water, you find you can’t help the way your eyes linger, even from across the pool.

It’s the first time you’ve seen him without his gear obscuring him since the bloodbath, and the first time you’ve ever seen him without a shirt on.

When you remember you’re on screen, you quickly flick your gaze away, pretending to inspect some fish and hope the water conceals the flush of your cheeks.

You’d never had the opportunity to be with a boy back in District Nine. It’s frustrating, in every sense of the word. It also tends to make you feel fuzzy around just about any boy your age. That dizzy, electric heat you felt when he grazed your arm in training, when you snuggled up to him that night before the games.

And this? A shirtless boy who happens to be particularly large and sculpted?

It’s making your throat go tight and your mouth dry.

It’s unfortunate that you’ll never get the chance to be with someone.

You actually have to look up at the cloudless, orange desert sky to avoid lingering on him for an uncomfortable amount of time.

You wade back to where your toes can touch, keeping yourself fully submerged. You deem it appropriate to look at him when you hear him make a half dive into the water.

You can see his body through the warped filter of the water, and you can’t help but let out a laugh when he pops his head up, making a splash as he shakes the drips from his hair.

He catches your eyes for a moment before he looks away, turning slightly so he’s not facing you.

There’s an awkward pause before you clear your throat, extending a finger under the water, “Have you ever seen fish like this before?”

You point to a cluster of pink, purple, and bright orange fish hanging in the shade.

“No,” He answers, “They’re very pretty, though.”

“I’m gonna’ say hi,” You say, creeping up to the shade, before fully submerging yourself. You open your eyes under the water to get a good look at their designs. Almost none of them are mono-colored, and none of them dull. The striped patterns are all different, some of them that go up and down uniformly, some that have wiggled stripes, others zig-zagged.

You reach a hand out in their direction and watch them flee, their fins waving elegantly through the water as they zip away.

You pop your head out of the water with heavy breath.

“Did they say hi back?” Konig asks from behind you.

“I think so,” You take another breath and turn to him, “It was all, ‘blub blub blub.’”

“My fish speak is rusty,” He rubs his chin, looking curiously into the water, “But I’m pretty sure they slighted you.”

You giggle again, not necessarily at his joke, but because he’s playing along with you. You’re thankful he’s being silly too, that he’s humoring you on your final day.

You take another deep inhale and go back under, swimming to the bottom to retrieve a shell you noticed while fish spotting.

It’s a scallop shaped shell, the size of your palm. Mostly a deep pink dotted with splotches of white. You bring it over to Konig, who takes your offer without looking.

He marvels at it for a moment, running his thumb over the ridges in the shell. He blindly hands it back to you, and you frown.

You drop the shell as you plant your feet firmly on the sand, letting the water lap at your shoulders. Your body is still except for the gentle wave of your hands as they glide through the soothing weight of the pool.

“Are you okay?” You ask.

“Yes,” He says, still slightly turned away from you. His cupped hands bring water just above the surface, watching it as it drains through his fingers and trickles to the pool, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.”

You’re worried he might be upset with you, the way he’s been avoiding you since you got to the oasis.

You squint your eyes, lowering yourself in the water until it’s just your eyes and nose peeking out. You take another mouthful of water, and arch it in his direction.

“Oh?”

He does it again, those bright eyes finding you and flicking away as soon as he realizes he’s looking at you. It reminds you of how you had tried to avoid looking at him so many times before, fighting the urge to lean on him.

“That,” You say, pointing at him, “Did I do something?”

“No!” He says quickly, looking to the sky, “I just - you’re, y’know,”

“What?” You ask, more laugh than question.

“Y’know,” He drags the word out a bit, hoping you’ll understand what he’s alluding to without having to say it, but you make him.

His face turns pink, his words mumbled and forced, “In your underwear.”

“So are you!” You say, face warped in a smile and a finger pointing at him.

“Well, yeah, but,” He doesn’t have a defense.

“Should I put my clothes back on?” You ask.

“No!” He says too quickly. He clears his throat, “I want you to be comfortable, I mean. It feels wrong to look at you. I don’t want to, äh, stare.”

“So respectful,” You say with a roll of your eyes.

And then you squirt him with another arch of water.

His nerves shed as he laughs, finally turning towards you and meeting your eyes, “You asked for this, little fish.”

You let out a squeak as he takes his flat palm and slams it down on the surface of the water, sending a splash in all directions. You sneak away with a dive, kicking your feet to make distance before resurfacing.

You’re already laughing before you’re back in the air, having to take deep inhales to catch your breath.

It’s a no-holds-barred-all-out splash war after that.

“Truce! Truce!” You yell, breathless from giggles and squeals, hands up in defense and head turned away from the line of fire.

He stops mid-splash with a big grin, “I accept your surrender.”

“That is not what a truce means!”

He makes a movement with his hand, threatening to skim the surface again.

“Okay, okay! I surrender,” you squeak out.

He hums in approval and gently lowers his hand back into the water.

There’s another pause, and squint eyes flit around the oasis, and land on the top of the waterfall.

“Have you been up there?”

“Not really,” He says, “I think it’s just sand.”

“Where’s the water coming from?” You ask, and he just shrugs.

You wade to the side of the pool, pulling yourself up to the sandy shore.

You’re dripping, hair clinging to your skin, kicking up sand that sticks to your wet feet and calves while you struggle to climb the dune.

At the top of the waterfall, you can see it’s clearly man-made. The water flows from the thin space between the shelf of rock and the sand dune it sticks out from.

With careful feet, you climb onto the slick shelf and scoot towards the edge, peering down at the pool below while the water parts for your feet and rinses the sand from your soles.

Konig’s waving his hands and yelling something at you, but you can’t hear his words over the roar of the waterfall.

There’s no rocks directly below the waterfall, and you know it’s deep enough there.

Even if you did hurt yourself, you were going to die anyway, right?

After working up some courage, you close your eyes, clamp your nose, and jump, kicking off the edge of the rock to push yourself out from the waterfall.

For two or three seconds you are falling with a shriek, limbs flailing before they break the surface of the water and send you plunging deep below.

Before you can surface, Konig has met you underwater, a firm grip on your arm as he yanks you up. When you both break into the air, he grabs your shoulders, letting go once he meets your eyes.

You both speak at the same time, frantic and worried.

“What?! What’s wrong!?” You say, swiveling your head to look for the threat.

“Are you okay?!”

“Oh,” you meet his eyes again when you realize there’s no danger, releasing the hold on the dip of his shoulders you didn’t realize you had.

“It’s fine. You should try it,” You say as you rearrange your wet, messy hair.

He shakes his head, “You could have hurt yourself.”

“Oh no,” You say with a roll of your eyes, “What do I have to lose, a couple hours?”

Konig studies your face, eyes flicking around your features with a frown.

“Okay, sorry,” You give a wave of dismissal, “Didn’t mean to make it uncomfortable by bringing up my imminent death.”

You wag your eyebrows at him, “I’m gonna’ do it again.”

“No,” He says firmly.

“Mm, guess you’ll have to stop me,” You shrug, starting in a swim to the edge of the pool.

A gentle but firm hand wraps around your calf and pulls you back in, “You should stay here, little fish.”

“Hey!” You protest, flipping over in the water and kicking your feet away from him, “You got water up my nose.”

He lets go of your leg and holds his hands up in mock apology, “Sorry, but I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

“Sorry,” you mock nasally as you rub out the burn from your nose, “But I want you to jump with me.”

“No way,” He says.

“You’re really going to deny a dead girl’s last request?” You narrow your eyes with a playful grin, “I didn’t realize you were so cold.”

He lets out a defeated huff.

No one can say no to the dead girl card.

He looks around the oasis with a low hum before revelation projects on his features, “What if we played a game instead?”

Your eyebrows perk up, “Like what?”

You can’t remember the last time you played a game. Once you’re old enough to work the fields in District Nine, between work, school, and trying to stay fed, there isn’t much time for games.

“What if,” He says, rubbing a finger along his jaw, clearly making up the rules on the spot. His face flashes with another idea before he takes a deep inhale and goes under, resurfacing with your pink and white shell, “One of us throws it, and the other tries to catch it before it sinks to the bottom?”

“Okay,” You say, with an almost childish eagerness to your voice.

He gives a pleased smile, having successfully redirected you to a less dangerous time-passer.

In your final moments, you want to be carefree, you want to have fun.

You’re grateful Konig is willing to let you have this before your death, because you know he doesn’t have to. He’s entitled to his win whenever he wants. He could have killed you in the finale, and he could have been back in the Capitol by now, indulging in his victory.

“I’ll throw first?” He asks.

You nod, blowing bubbles under the surface of the water while you wait for him to wade to the side of the pool. You can’t help but stare at the strong arms that leave the warp of the water, the glistening muscles of his back tensing as he pulls himself up to the shore. You can see the definition from here. They cast shadows, for fucks sake.

Your bubbles peter out, and you can feel the eyes again.

All of Panem.

You sink further into the water, hair dancing and curling like the sea plants below as you stare at your wrinkled fingertips. It’s the best you can do to hide yourself. To fall through the floor, just as you so often wish to do.

“Ready?” He calls.

You nod with an expectant smile, priming yourself.

It’s ridiculous, the shape of him. But not for the reason the people back home make fun of him for.

He looks like he was chiseled from marble, crafted with millions of flawless strikes to reveal what can only be a higher being’s idea of human excellence. It’s mesmerizing, watching his muscles push and pull against each other with each of his movements. Each moment a unique mosaic made of strong flesh interlocked in perfect puzzle pieces that support his being. The bright sun reflects off water droplets and makes his entire body throw light.

He’s radiant.

You’ve been around shirtless boys in the fields of District Nine, and it’s always been noticed by you, but this, this feels downright erotic. It feels wrong to -

It feels wrong to even look at him.

“Did you forget how to play?” He calls.

“What?”

“You didn’t catch it.”

There’s a beat.

“Oh, oh! Yes,” You have to laugh, because what you really want to do is drown yourself.

You retrieve the shell, staying underwater as long as you can manage. Your cheeks are burning when you surface, holding the shell in the air with a wave.

You toss it back to him, and immediately look away.

Maybe it would be best if he just killed you now, actually.

You keep your gaze to the water, waiting for the splash of the shell before you dive, feet kicking and arms rowing as you aim for the shell.

You catch it just inches from the pool’s sandy floor, displaying it proudly as you surface.

“Your turn!”

Without missing a beat you launch the shell straight up into the air, watching it arc before it makes its dissent from the sky.

There’s a moment of alarm that spreads on his features before he springs into action, an impressive head first dive from the bank into the water, quickly retrieving the shell and resurfacing with a laugh.

“Hey!” He says.

You give him an innocent shrug, a telling smile on your face.

You take turns diving for the shell for a while, he shoots down your idea of trying to catch it after jumping from the falls, and eventually you end up trying to see how long you can hold handstands under the water.

Once you both wind down, you float for what feels like hours, resting your eyes from the desert sun, listening to the crash of water on the surface of the pool. Soft, gentle waves lap at your skin, and at some point you and Konig link the crook of your elbows together to keep from floating away. You try really hard to ignore the feeling of his hard, pronounced, bare bicep wrapped around yours.

“We should make our way back soon,” He says as the sun sinks lower in the sky, “Weird animals in the desert at night.”

You nod in agreement, worn out by the swimming and sunbathing, ankles sore from exertion.

You wade back out to the shore, wringing out your hair and shaking off drops of water as you coat your feet in a generous layer of sand.

He retrieves your now dry clothes, nice and toasty from the sun. Konig offers to rinse your calves off, using the water from the bottles as you teeter on one foot. He gives you a cloth to dry off and lets you use his forearm to steady yourself while you slip your sock and boot back on. You repeat the process for your other foot, and return the favor for him.

You both dress in your clean clothes, Konig’s gear and the haunting mask making a reappearance while you return your token to its temporary home and carefully refasten the ribbon around your wrist.

As you’re both slipping the body suits back on, Konig gestures to your bruised ankles, “Does it hurt? To walk on them?”

“They’re sore, but I’ll manage.”

“I can carry you,” He offers.

“What?” You ask with a puffy exhale, as if he told you a bad taste joke.

“I could carry you back,” He repeats, as casually as one would offer a glass of water.

“Oh, no,” You say with a wave of your hand, averting your gaze, “That’s okay.”

“Are you sure? You probably shouldn’t be walking on it, you might make it worse.”

“Oh no,” you say in the same cadence to his objection to the waterfall, generous sarcasm paired with a roll of your eyes, “Won’t be my problem for long.”

There’s a pause, his eyes twitching before they relax, “Well if the dead girl’s wish to have sore ankles, who am I to deny her?”

You blow air out your nose, another roll of your eyes.

No one can say no to the dead girl card.

“C’mere,” you say with a raise of your arms.

He leans down, letting you wrap your arms tightly around his hooded neck. He cradles your back with one forearm, his other reaching down to scoop you up by your knees, literally sweeping you off your feet.

He hoists you up like you weigh nothing. He keeps your side close to his core, holding you just under his vest. You keep one arm slung around the back of his neck, resting your forearm on his backpack as he carries you along. Your other arm drapes over your torso, fingers threading into a pocket on his vest. There’s a warmth blossoming on your cheeks that you hope the cameras can’t see as you bury yourself into his shoulder, your cheek pressed up against the drape of his hood.

“Thank you,” you whisper into the crook of his neck.

“Of course, little fish,” He says, the low vibration of his words tickling your side. You give him a soft hum in return.

You don’t seem to be holding him back at all, not fazed by the extra weight. You both share a comfortable silence for the rest of the trip, him lulling you as each step rocks you in his arms, your feet swaying and eyes fluttering shut.

When he gives you a gentle squeeze, you open your eyes and find he’s carried you all the way to the border in the spring quadrant.

He lets you down slowly, and you take your time stretching out your limbs.

Konig spreads out your clean jackets side-by-side, a makeshift blanket to separate you both from the grass. After you both strip off the temperature suits, you lay your upper half on your jacket, threading your fingers together and resting them under your ribcage.

“Are you hungry?” He asks, unpacking the food from his backpack.

You hum affirmative.

He removes his hood, and both eat in a comfortable silence, sleepy from the long trek and the day in the sun.

“Is there anything you’ve ever wanted to do, but never got the chance?” You ask after a long silence, having spent it pondering your approaching death.

He nods, finishing a swallow of orange before he speaks.

“Yeah,” He says without clarifying.

“Like what?” You ask.

He gives you a long, drawn-out stare before he shifts his attention to his bread, “I don’t know, there’s a lot of things.”

You let the silence play out, looking at him expectantly.

“Like, äh. I’ve always wanted to have,” He trails off for a moment, flicking his gaze to the snow behind you, “A close friend.”

“You really didn’t have any friends in District Nine?”

You knew he was an outcast, you didn’t realize he was completely isolated.

“No,” He says, ripping a chunk of bread from what remains of the loaf, “Is there anything you wanted to do?”

“I don’t know,” You shrug, ripping a cookie in half and taking a bite. You take a moment to savor it with a hum, “I always thought I’d’ve found love by now, y’know?”

“What do you mean?” He asks.

“I’ve never had anything romantic, I guess. No boys, or anything.”

“Really?” He asks, genuinely surprised.

“Nope.”

“Did you like anyone?” He asks carefully, a slight squint in his eyes.

“Eh,” You say with a shrug. You quirk a brow at him, a devilish grin spreading on your face as you pop a blackberry between your teeth, “Did you?”

His eyes go wide, tensing in his spot. A faint glow creeps onto his cheeks.

You laugh, “It’s okay, you don’t have to say. Wouldn’t want you to go home and have to face her.”

He swallows, looking down to a chunk of bread he rolls between his fingers.

“Yeah,” He says evenly, with a bit of a strain, “I don’t think I’ll ever have the chance.”

You give a high hum and another shrug, “Well, you never know. You know how they are with the victors. She’ll probably be throwing herself at you with everyone else.”

He gives a slow nod, using his knife to spread cheese over his now smushed bread.

There’s another silence, both of you sharing the cold stew, dipping chunks of bread into it.

“What’d’ya think Price makes of this?” You work your bread to pick up a piece of carrot, “You think he’s proud of us?”

He scoffs, “I’m not sure what else we could do.”

Something comes to mind, and he laughs before continuing, “Do you think you should confess…” He trails off, raising his brow and tilting his head. It takes you a moment to realize he’s alluding to the whiskey incident on the train.

“Oh, absolutely not,” You say, “He can’t know. And you have been sworn to secrecy, and I expect that to be honored in my death.”

He gives a small laugh and holds up a palm as if giving an oath, “Alright, your secret is safe with me.”

You smile in approval, taking another bite of the cookie and savoring the dessert before offering it to Konig, who shakes his head.

“Did you know about his plan?”

He tilts his head, “What plan?”

“About-“ You cut yourself off, trying to word this without giving away you had absolutely no idea you were friends until a couple hours ago, “About tricking the other tributes into thinking we were allies.”

He squints, and shakes his head.

“He-“ You take another pause to carefully select your words, “He paired us up in training, matched our outfits, and the interview?”

Konig looks to the side, still not understanding.

“The other tributes - they thought we were allies. So instead of everyone wanting to hunt you down, they had their focus split on both of us. So,-“ You pause for a moment, “They had incentive to keep me alive. It’s like - You know how Titan didn’t kill me when he had the chance? Because he wanted to use me against you?”

He nods slow.

“Did Price tell you about this?” He asks, playing with his fingers.

“No,” you say with a shake of your head.

“How do you know?”

“Titan- ah, I had a run in with Titan before.”

He stares at you, eyes snapping open, “What? Is that what happened to your arm?”

“No, no. That was District One.”

“The boy?”

“The girl.”

“What happened with Titan?” He asks.

You scoff, “I told him to eat sand. And then he did.”

“You fought him?”

You touch the healed nick Titan made on your neck.

“Sort of,” You shrug, “He pinned me down, and he wanted me to call for you - that’s how I knew. He didn’t kill me right away, so I had a chance to escape.”

“How?”

A smug, sly grin blooms on your face, “I made him eat sand.”

Konig laughs, leaning back, “What?”

“He pinned me to the ground in the desert, so I blinded him with sand,” Your smile widens, eyes squinting mischievously, “I bet it hurt.”

He gives a weak laugh. There’s a pause, and his smile falls, “Did he hurt you?”

You shake your head, “No, well he choked me, and gave me a paper cut.”

You touch your cut again.

“But that’s a small price to pay for the satisfaction.”

He nods, not finding it as funny as you. There’s another beat, and he speaks toward the ground.

“I’m sorry.”

You wave your hand and swallow hard, your voice a bit more broken than you would have liked, “I’ve been through worse.”

There’s another pause.

His eyes find yours again, you can feel the burn of his stare, but you don’t meet his stare.

“You want to talk about it?” He asks.

You gnaw on your lower lip, considering it.

You shake your head slowly.

He nods, and whispers, “I get it.”

You both get lost in another silence. A good chunk of time passes, and your mind has drifted back to your impending death. More curious than anxious.

“What’ll you think it’ll be like?” You ask.

“What?”

“Death.”

“Oh,” He looks to the dirt, his hand coming to his chin, “I think it’ll be peaceful. Like,” He thinks for a moment, “Sleeping, or coming home maybe.”

You give a nod.

“I hope so,” You say with wist.

There’s another pause, and then you ask, “How do you want to do it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Y’know,” You say, flicking your gaze awkwardly to the side.

“Oh,” He says, as if he hadn’t considered it yet, “I think it should be how you want it to be. We don’t have to do it yet, though.”

“I know,” you say, “But it’s hard not to think about it. Part of coming to terms with it, I guess. I just want to know.”

“What do you want to do?”

You peer out, staring at the yellow and red leaves of the fall forest, taking a sip of juice.

“I don’t know. As long as it’s quick.”

He just nods, looking down to the food spread between you.

“Sunset,” You say.

”Huh?” He asks.

“Sunset, I want to do it at sunset.”

He gives a swallow, his eyes darting around.

“Okay,” He says, low and soft.

You close your eyes and take a few deep breaths, lowering your back flush in the dirt. One hand cushions your head, the other sliding blades of grass between the gaps of your fingers.

“I think I’m okay with it,” You let out a long, soothing exhale, “With dying. I just hope it’s nice.”

“Me too,” He mumbles.

You hum, nestling further into the jacket and the soft grass.

“Want anymore food?” He asks.

“No, I’m okay,” You say, keeping your eyes closed.

You can hear him shuffling the containers over the whistle of a light spring breeze, setting them in the grass above your head.

He cleans off the knife he used to spread the cheese, lays down beside you on his jacket, and for a while you both lay. Soaking in the sun hung over the desert quadrant, but no more searing than the warmth of a gentle spring sun.

“What would you do different?” You ask with your eyes closed, “If you could do your life over again.”

He thinks on it for a moment, “I’d probably talk to you sooner.”

A smile spreads on your face, “That’s it?”

“Yeah I think that’s the big one,” he says with a smile.

You respond by giving him a light tap on his side, as if telling him to be serious.

“It’s true,” He says, “There are other things. But that one sticks out the most. I would have really liked having a friend in District Nine.”

“What about you?” He asks after another pause.

You intertwine your own fingers together and lay them just below your chest with a hum.

“Lots of things,” You huff, “Probably wouldn’t have chugged that whiskey.”

He laughs, hearty and genuine enough to make your chest flood with warmth.

“I thought we were keeping it a secret.”

“Eh, what do I have to lose?” You throw a defeated hand in the air and talk to Price, “Couldn’t handle my liquor.”

He laughs again, “You’ve always been too brave for your own good.”

You scoff, “I’m not brave.”

“Sure you are,” He says, and begins to rattle off a list as if he had it ready to go, “That boy, the whiskey, the balcony, Titan, the waterfall. Too brave.”

“I’m not brave, I’m just angry.”

“And you don’t think everyone else gets angry too? The only difference between being angry and being brave is doing something about it.”

You open your eyes and tilt your head at him, squinting at the sunlight.

“There’s a lot of things I get angry about that I don’t do something about.”

“Things out of your control?”

“Well,” You trail off, understanding you’re in dangerous territory, bordering along blasphemous criticism of the Capitol, “Yeah but, the things I do get spiteful about is self-destructive. It’s reckless. I don’t think, I just act - and I always regret it.”

“Do you regret what you did to that boy?”

You take a deep breath, eyes darting away momentarily.

“I- I was ashamed of my behavior, yeah. I probably should have went about it a different way but I’m glad they stopped picking on you. Something good that came of it.”

He gives you a ghost of a smile and nods.

Any fear you’ve had about the gamemakers cutting your pact short has dissipated, convinced that the drama and the heartbreak and the tragic nature of it all was certainly some of the best television ever seen. You’re sure they’re eating this up in the Capitol.

Another peaceful silence falls over you, and Konig is the one to break it this time.

“You’ve really never had a boyfriend?”

You let out a snort, “No, really.”

“Kissed a boy?”

“No,” You say through a laugh, “Why?”

He shrugs, “Just hard to believe.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” He looks up to the sky, “Just thought boys would throw themselves at you.”

You scoff, “Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

He goes stiff as he stumbles through his words, “Äh, well, you’re - y’know.”

“I don’t,” You say.

“Pretty,” He says, just loud enough to carry.

Another smile creeps on your face.

“You think I’m pretty?” You ask in a smug tone with suspended disbelief, elbows and forearms propping yourself up as your top half twists to face him.

His cheeks flush as he stares at the lush grass. His words come out mumbled and broken, fingers fidgeting, “Well, I- sure, I do.”

You laugh, “Well, thank you.”

Your eyes give him a quick full over scan, “You’re not so bad yourself.”

You settle back into your jacket.

“You’re smart too,” He blurts out after a pause.

You look to him again, meeting his eyes before he looks away, landing on his own fidgeting fingers.

“You think so?” You ask with a raise of a brow.

“Oh, yeah,” He says assuredly, with a nod that’s just a bit too fast, “Quick.”

Your hold each other’s stare for a moment.

There’s really no reason for him to lie to you at this point. What he’s sharing with you seems genuine, unless he’s playing an angle with the audience you don’t understand. Brownie points for being nice to the dead girl, maybe?

His eyes are indecipherable, pupils mapping your face as he soaks in the features that furrow as they try to understand his intentions.

He nods again, slight but quick movements.

You both hold each other’s stare - another moment of charged tension - there’s something happening that’s difficult for you to place. It’s as if there’s some big orchestrated plan you’re being left out from, but it’s just you and Konig here.

You and Konig and all of Panem.

Your eyes slightly narrow as you try to figure out what he would stand to gain from lying, why he feels the need to say these things now, and why you are struggling to come up with a retort, an answer, or to even break his stare.

You’re both stuck, caught in this moment weird moment of uncertainty as you have so many times before, but instead of sharing in the unease, it’s directed at each other.

The corner of your lip perks up, your eyebrows lowering in genuine yet hesitant acceptance, “Thanks.”

He nods, breaking the stare. He plays with his fingers and continues, his voice low and soft, “You always say what’s on your mind. I’ve always- I wish I could do that.”

You continue to bore into him as he watches his own fingers lace and unlace.

“Never done me any favors,” You say, combing through every incident your big mouth has gotten you into trouble.

“Worked on me,” he says quietly with a shrug.

You look at him again, confused on where this is coming from.

“Worked on you?” You repeat.

He starts, fumbling for his words, “Wha- äh, I mean, I meant that I just, I admire that, is all.”

He’s tearing fistfuls of grass from the dirt.

“What about you?” You ask.

“Huh?”

“You’ve never had a girlfriend?”

He shakes his head.

“You ever fooled around with anyone?”

His cheeks flush, his eyes darting around, “No. Never had the chance.”

“I think that’s one of the things I’m bummed about the most to be honest. Always wanted to try that before I died,” You laugh, running your fingers over what’s left of your chipped nail polish as you stare out into the distance.

He’s still tearing up handfuls of grass, averting your stare. His next words are whispered, just a wisp of a sentence, “Me too.”

There’s a long pause, filled by the sound of grass uprooting and the light spring breeze.

This pause is charged, awkward, but electric.

You don’t think before you ask what you’re both thinking.

“Should we?” A mischievous smile spreads on your face.

“Wha- What?”

“Fool around,” You say, lips still curled in a devilish grin.

Normally you’d never be so forward. But here, while you have only a few hours left, why not? You’re not going to be shy enough to miss out on your only opportunity to check a few things off the bucket list before you die. You could certainly do a lot worse in terms of losing your virginity. If he rejected your offer, it’s not like you’ll have to deal with the embarrassment for long.

“What?” He says again, almost horrified, his whole face turning red.

“Here?” He asks before you can repeat the question, his head swiveling as he looks around the arena. His palm touches his chest, “With me?”

“Yeah, why not?” You shrug.

“Because everyone’s watching,” He gets out with a stutter. He thinks for a moment and repeats, “With me?”

You laugh and offer a shrug, “If you want. Might as well.”

The pads of his fingers rub together furiously, “But you’ll have to go home and face everyone, and - and they’ll know.”

Maybe you are as quick as Konig thinks you are, because you catch it immediately.

Konig doesn’t.

It rolled off his tongue so casually, as if he’d said it a million times before. You can tell he doesn’t recognize his screw up by the way he responds to your face dropping, your head cocking to the side, your eyes narrowing.

He looks puzzled, flushed, a little scared - but not busted.

“What?” He asks.

Konig leans back instinctively when you prime yourself, hands already bracing the grass for movement.

Your voice is dangerous and taught, each word spoken independently and brought to an icy point.

“I’ll go home.”

Now he’s realized it. His face sinks, his eyes are wide and desperate, lips gaped as he searches for a recovery but his mind is clearly failing him. If it had just been a slip of the tongue, or maybe if he was a better liar, he would have just corrected himself - but the fear in his eyes gives it away.

It was no mistake.

You give a slow, dangerous nod, your tongue running along the front of your teeth as you look away to stare into the distance.

It all makes sense now.

Why he didn’t let Eleven or Titan kill you. Why he didn’t kill you. Why he went through the trouble of nursing your wounds. Why he’s letting you come to terms with your death. Why he’s insistent on you not acting dangerously even though you have no time left.

A jacket on a cold night, pleas to ally, cuddling, handholding, carrying, compliments, blushing.

Murders on your behalf.

These are not the actions of a friend.

This is what Titan meant.

This is what he wanted Konig to confess to you.

The other tributes didn’t think you were allies - they had known of Konig’s affection all along, and they wanted to use you as leverage, bait to take down their toughest opponent.

You were Konig’s weakness all along.

Everyone must have known.

Of course they did.

Holding hands at the opening ceremony, attached at the hip in training, protecting you from confrontation. Price’s knowing stares, stating confidently that you could convince Konig to rebel against the Capitol, forcing Konig to blush at the mention of your name. The careers keeping a careful eye on the boy who cares far too much about the girl, using her against him, and rubbing it in at every opportunity.

It must be obvious to the audience, too.

All of Panem must know, Konig’s intentions were clear from the start, and you were too dense to see what was right in front of your fucking face.

You scoff, voice tightening with betrayal and every word slicing through the tensed air.

Your head slowly turns to face him, jaw cocked and a tented brow.

“You’re planning on sacrificing yourself for me, aren’t you?”

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