FIC: ST RPS -- Tribute (1/2)
Title: Tribute (1/2)
Author: the_deep_magic
Artist: temporalranger (see all art here)
Pairing: Pinto
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 17,247
Warnings: angst, morbid (nonsexual) themes, slightly exaggerated age difference (though everyone’s legal), virginity
Disclaimer: The Hunger Games universe belongs to Suzanne Collins. Risa, Agathena, and Spengler are mine. Chris and Zach belong to each other themselves.
Summary: Hunger Games AU - He should have been safe.
A/N: My contribution to this year's rpf_big_bang. Thank/blame therumjournals for this - she Twitter-prompted (Twompted?) an HG prequel AU, and then beta’d for me like an awesome enabler ;o). No spoilers for The Hunger Games, and you don’t need to be familiar with the books to read this.
It shouldn’t have happened.
Chris was pretty sure everyone whose name had ever been called had had that very same thought, but his odds were so slim. Yes, he’d put his name in twice each year for an extra grain ration, but there were others who were desperate and unlucky enough to have their names in 24, 36, even 48 times to claim more rations for their families.
At the age of 18, he’d been passed over for six years - this was his last reaping. He should have been safe.
As he stumbled towards the platform, he struggled to wrap his head around it. He hadn’t even been properly nervous this year, had barely thought a thing of it, because he was supposed to be safe. Why him? He knew nothing but the life of a crab fisherman on his father’s boat, the small but sturdy Gwynne’s Pride. Chris had been slinging traps and mending nets since he could walk. He’d had his life all planned out - maybe not a glamorous or particularly prosperous one, but a long one, waking up each morning to breathe the fresh sea air, hopefully with someone else growing old at his side.
Instead, he’d be fighting to be the last one alive out of 23 other teenagers, offered as “tributes” for the amusement of the Capitol in the 72nd Hunger Games.
There were Career tributes in District 4 - not as many as in One or Two, but Chris knew several boys who had boasted of training themselves for the Games. For months, they talked of nothing but getting their chance to prove themselves and proudly represent their district against the 11 others that made up Panem. Now, faced with the reality of the reaping, of stepping on to the train that would almost certainly take them to their deaths, they were silent. As Chris glanced around, they wouldn’t even meet his eyes. No one was going to volunteer to take his place.
Chris suddenly stopped feeling sorry for himself when he got a good look at the girl who had been called up just before him. He hadn’t even been paying attention at the time, but he knew who she was. Her name was Risa Hanley. She was 13 years old. It was her second reaping. Jesus.
Chris looked out at the crowd, every face drenched with pity. Even though he’d been one of those faces for the past six years, a shiver of disgust ran down his spine. He might have had a moment of shitty luck, but he wasn’t pitiful. He’d be older and bigger than most of the other tributes, and he was strong from years of throwing and hauling crab pots, his hands rough from the coarse rope. If there was water in the arena - and there was almost always water - he’d know what to do.
It wasn’t a death sentence. He couldn’t look at it that way. He’d nearly been washed overboard in a dozen storms, narrowly avoided limb-threatening injuries from the heavy equipment on his father’s boat, worked through the night countless times to pull in the traps before bad weather hit. He was tough enough to survive this. And he could remember at least one tribute from Four winning in his lifetime. If he could get a few wealthy sponsors, he might stand a chance.
So when District 4’s escort, an odious, self-important little man named Spengler, lifted Chris’ hand high in the air, Chris smiled. That smile and his sea-blue eyes would go a long way towards getting sponsors. He could charm those fuckers into giving him everything he needed.
It wasn’t until the Peacekeepers were leading them off the platform that the nausea hit him, worse than any seasickness, and he barely managed to keep his smile.
Risa had tripped over her own feet and Chris had, without thinking, caught her and righted her. She smiled wanly up at him.
In order to survive, he would, at best, have to see her die. At worst, he’d have to kill her himself.
&&&
Mags reminded Chris so much of his grandmother - not so much her looks, but the baffled smile on her face when she completely lost the thread of conversation but didn’t want him to know it.
It was poignant in his grandmother; it was terrifying in his mentor.
Mags wasn’t useless as a mentor - far from it. Since Chris’ expertise was in crab fishing, he had only a rudimentary understanding of how to catch individual fish, something he’d probably have to do to feed himself while in the arena. Mags could make a fishhook out of anything; she demonstrated this with a fork in the train’s dining car. She also promised to show Chris how to weave a completely watertight basket - essential for carrying bait and, if it came down to it, water.
But though she was obviously capable with her hands, she seemed to have trouble getting her thoughts into words. Every third sentence or so would wander into incoherency. Not, Chris thought with a sinking sensation in his chest, who you’d want persuading the wealthy men and women of the Capitol to sponsor you. No, Chris was going to have to win the people over the best he could from the stage before setting foot in the arena.
As the train rattled on towards the Capitol, he realized the confidence he’d felt on the platform earlier had waned almost completely. He’d been told he could be charming, but working on a crab boat didn’t offer many opportunities to hone one’s social skills. He was going to have to rely on… Fuck, he was going to have to rely on his looks.
He scrubbed his hand over the poor excuse for stubble beginning to grow on his chin. He was handsome enough for District 4, where tanned skin and scars were marks of pride and success, but he’d seen the citizens of the Capitol: skin buffed to an unnatural sheen, dyed every color of the rainbow. Hair puffed up like cotton candy or slicked back like a helmet. Chris ran a hand through his own light brown hair, too long now and sticking out at every angle. He usually just tucked it under a knit cap and forgot about it.
But that’s what the stylists were for, right? Chris could only hope they gave him someone decent. Last year’s tributes from District 4 had been paraded through the City Circle in fishnets. And almost nothing else.
&&&
It was a good thing Chris was used to water - he’d just been damn near bathed to death by what passed for a “shower” in the Remake Center. But he was definitely not used to so many bubbles. At the end of every crab season, their boat had to be hauled into drydock, flushed of saltwater, and the barnacles carefully scraped from her hull. Chris was beginning to sympathize with the boat.
Chris sat on the padded table, which was just tall enough that his feet didn’t touch the floor - and he was by no means short. In his thin robe, surrounded by tubes and vials and metal instruments whose purposes he couldn’t even begin to guess, he’d never felt so young or helpless. Not even when his name had been called at the reaping.
Just as he was really starting to work himself into a state of panic, in walked a small, slender woman with flawless dark skin and lustrous silver streaks in her black hair. So this was his stylist? Fine, but why was she looking at him with such wide-eyed… glee?
“Oh. My. God,” she said. “Zach is just going to eat you up.”
Not helpful, under the circumstances. So not helpful.
The woman turned to call over her shoulder. “John, Rachel, get in here. You’ve got to see this.”
Chris glanced around the room to see what the “this” was, but disconcertingly, it appeared to be him. Was he really that hideous?
When the other two got there, John gave Chris an appraising look and said, “Yep, just Zach’s type,” while Rachel clamped a hand over her mouth and turned… well, since her skin appeared to be dyed green, her cheeks flushed a deep olive.
Chris was just about to ask Zach’s type of what? when the man himself walked in. This was unmistakably Chris’ stylist. He was clad in form-fitting black trousers that appeared to be made of denim, but gave off some type of holographic sheen that Chris had never seen before. They wouldn’t be flattering on anyone who didn’t have those long, long legs and tight little ass that Chris couldn’t help but notice - though he was pretty sure the pants were designed to draw attention to it. Zach’s shirt was such a dark purple it was nearly black itself, and it did nothing to hide the breadth of his shoulders. But it was Zach’s eyes that got and held Chris’ attention - even if they hadn’t been rimmed with artfully-smudged kohl, Chris had a feeling that penetrating gaze would have sucked the breath right out of his lungs. As it was, Chris felt a sudden twinge of desire deep in his gut.
Chris tried to keep his face - and other parts of his body - neutral; the robe wasn’t going to hide anything. He took in a deep breath and drew his spine up straight, trying to meet those piercing, dark eyes without flinching away. After the other three, Chris had expected some type of exaggerated reaction from Zach, positive or negative, but Zach just looked him up and down once, his nostrils flaring slightly, and… smiled. It was a surprisingly warm smile, but it gave nothing away.
His presence was so ethereal that it startled Chris a little when the other man extended his hand. “Hi, I’m Zach. As I’m sure you’ve figured out, I’ll be your stylist. We’ll be spending quite a bit of time together in the next week.”
His eyes still glued to Zach’s, Chris could only manage to grasp Zach’s hand and croak, “Chris,” by way of greeting.
Zach squeezed his hand instead of shaking it, and Chris was suddenly aware of all the calluses on his palms and the pads of his fingers, how rough they must feel against Zach’s smooth skin, and he felt a flush start to creep up his neck.
Luckily, if Zach noticed, he didn’t show it. “I see you’ve already met my team. This is Zoe, who will be doing your hair.” The dark-skinned woman stepped forward, and along with her delighted grin, Chris could see small jewels set into the skin just above her eyebrows.
“Rachel, nails and makeup.” The other woman gave a little curtsy, and though Chris couldn’t see anything different about her face (apart from the green skin, of course), her dress was made of some cottony pink material that seemed to shift and change shape like clouds as she moved. It looked oddly familiar.
“And John, skin and waxing.” John looked refreshingly normal to Chris, except…
“Waxing?” Chris said, with only a little bit of a squeak.
Zach stepped forward, examining Chris’ face closely, and it was all Chris could do not to squirm. Zach frowned a little, but said, “Not too much waxing, I shouldn’t think.”
John stepped up alongside him. “Beauty base zero?”
Zach nodded, not looking away from Chris’ face. “Except,” he said softly, lifting a finger to stroke Chris’ cheeks, “leave these as they are. Too pretty and he’ll look like plastic on camera.”
No longer worried about blushing, Chris was sure all the color had drained from his face by this point, and Zach hooked a finger under Chris’ chin, favoring him with yet another enigmatic smile. “Trust us, Chris. You’ll have every eye in Panem unable to look away from you.”
&&&
Of all the scars on Chris’ body - and there were many, particularly on his forearms - the only ones he truly hated were the ones that pitted his cheeks. He’d only just outgrown the acne that left them, and yet they were the only marks Zach insisted he keep.
Chris tried to bring this up with John, but the other man just shrugged. “I’m trusting Zach on this one. I’ve never known him to be wrong.”
“But last year,” Chris said, not wanting to insult the man John so obviously admired, particularly while John was stirring a pot of hot wax. “District 4, um…”
John rolled his eyes. “That was not Zach’s doing. Zach was in Eight last year.”
“Textiles? That was Zach?” Chris thought back to last year’s Games - the costumes from Eight were the only ones he remembered. That was where he’d seen Rachel’s cloud dress before, only it had been thunderstorm-gray on the girl from Eight. In the arena, during a real storm, she’d been gifted a weatherproof blanket from what surely must have been a wealthy sponsor. Two days later, she was scaling a cliff face when she lost her grip and fell to the pack of feral mutts she’d been desperately scrambling to get away from.
Chris must have shuddered, but fortunately John was facing away, getting small strips of cloth from one of the drawers. “That was all Zach,” John said. “He takes pride in his work.”
Chris had hardly seen Zach over the past two days - it had mostly been Zoe and Rachel and now John, getting him to “beauty base zero,” whatever that was.
“Lay back,” John said, turning back to face Chris. “I swear, I’m on orders from Zach not to take off too much. I’m just going to neaten up the edges of your eyebrows a little.”
Chris didn’t even bother to ask if it would hurt; even if he hadn’t grown up with the constant threat of crushed fingers and cracked skulls, he was days away from almost certain death. If he couldn’t handle an eyebrow wax, he was fucked six ways to Sunday.
But it didn’t turn out to be bad at all, particularly compared to the fishhook he’d once gotten stuck in his foot. And John was telling the truth - he left Chris with his eyebrows intact.
“Zach said the hands are up to you,” John said, reaching for a mirror to hand to Chris. “We can remove the calluses, but…”
“…I might need them,” Chris finished, trying to push away an image of himself scaling that cliff, fingers grasping for whatever purchase he could find. “No, thanks, I’d rather leave them.”
He took the mirror from John, getting a good look at himself for the first time since Zoe and John had worked their magic. Chris stroked his cheeks - Zach had been absolutely right. Without the scars, he would have looked much younger, but the imperfect face he saw in the mirror looked surprisingly tough. Zoe had cut his hair, and the small bit of makeup Rachel assured him was necessary for the cameras seemed to bring attention to the strength of his jaw, the height of his cheekbones. It might look downright intimidating, if Chris could only manage to erase the unmistakable hint of fear in his eyes.
&&&
He didn’t see Zach again until the day of the opening ceremonies. Chris supposed he should have been upstairs with Mags and Risa and that awful escort who wouldn’t seem to go away, but Mags was beginning to unnerve him. And Risa, well… He couldn’t be pleasant and attentive while in a room with a child he might have to kill.
So he asked to have his dinner sent down to the prep room, where he’d have some peace. His team wasn’t due to arrive for hours, but when Chris walked in, he found Zach already there, sitting at a table set for two.
“I hope you don’t mind,” Zach said, standing as Chris entered the room. “It was a bit presumptuous of me, but I thought you might like some company.”
Chris’ first impulse was a flicker of annoyance, but one look in Zach’s eyes and he found he was glad to have this particular company. “No, that’s fine. To be honest, I thought I’d be seeing more of you.”
Zach’s smile was a little sheepish as he sat back down. “I could say I like to let John, Zoe, and Rachel do their thing without having me looking over their shoulders, but the truth is, I let time get away from me working on your costume. It needs to be something special to match that magnificent body.”
It was said entirely without innuendo, but the compliment shot a heady rush of lust through Chris’ veins. He was saved from having to reply by the servants bringing in the food - what looked like a bowl of stew for Zach and softshell crab for Chris. He’d had the fleeting thought that perhaps he ought to sample some of Panem’s other delicacies while he still had the chance, but the truth was he was homesick.
Zach picked up on it right away. “Missing home?”
Chris nodded, cutting into his meal as though it might get up and scamper away. “But we rarely get the high-quality stuff. The best of the catch goes straight to the Capitol.”
“Crab fisherman, huh?” Zach asked, stirring his stew. “Explains the scars. And the arms. I promise no fishnets, but those arms are definitely going to be on display tonight.”
Chris felt himself blush again, but tried to focus on his food. “It’s nearly the end of the season. Next year, my dad was going to retire and turn his boat over to me. I guess it’ll have to be Karl; he’s got a lot more experience than me, anyway. Or maybe my dad will stay on for another few seasons, I don’t-”
“Hey.” Zach’s hand was suddenly covering Chris’, and when Chris looked up, he was immediately drawn in by the fierceness in Zach’s eyes. “No talking like that. You’ve got a shot at winning this thing. Especially when the crowd out there gets a look at your fine ass. Emphasized by my masterful tailoring, of course.”
Chris couldn’t stop a nervous giggle rising in his chest. “Uh, are you supposed to be talking about my ass?”
Zach’s face broke into a wide grin. “Absolutely not. Terribly unprofessional for a stylist.” But his hand didn’t leave Chris’. In fact, he stroked his thumb over Chris’ knuckles, and Chris had never been so glad for a touch in all his life.
But all too soon, Zach drew his hand away. “Okay, so crabs and asses are verboten. What else? You have a girl back home?”
“Well, my sister told me if I didn’t come back, she’d kick me in the, uh, verboten. But, well… girls were never really my thing.” As soon as it was out of his mouth, Chris couldn’t believe he’d said it. He was pretty certain he’d never said those words aloud to anyone, not even Anton, the only other teenager on the Gwynne’s Pride. They’d spent more than a few night watches wrapped together against the cold, which, the past few times, had almost inevitably led to kissing, chilled lips meeting each other in the dark, the work of their mouths keeping the rest of their bodies warm.
But it had never gone farther than that; he knew such things were readily accepted in the Capitol, and it wasn’t entirely unheard of in District 4, either, but god knew how his father would react if he found out. There would be no more shared night shifts with Anton at the very least.
But odds were good that there weren’t going to be any more night shifts anyway.
When Chris came back to himself, he found he had completely forgotten about Zach’s presence across the table. What had his face given away just then? But Zach smiled sympathetically. “Girls aren’t my thing, either. So… a boy back home?”
No, Anton would move on. He was sweet, but he was flighty, and he had to know that Chris was already lost to him. “No,” Chris said. “Not really.”
“That surprises me,” Zach said softly. “Guy like you? I mean, setting aside the eyes and the lips and the arms - have I mentioned the arms? - Zoe tells me you’re one charming son of a bitch when you let your guard down.”
“Well, she did have scissors pointed at my head.”
Zach laughed and took a big bite of stew, licking the spoon clean before he went back for more. Chris couldn’t help but stare at the broad, flat tongue and ache. There was so much more to life that he would never have. Fuck - it suddenly hit him: he was going to die a virgin.
Once again, his face had betrayed him - Zach was looking at him with wide eyes. “Hey, you alright? You look like someone just told you you’re a tribute in the Hunger Games.”
It was a morbidly awful joke, but for some reason, it made Chris laugh. “Well, thank fuck that’s not happening.”
Zach smiled and shook his head. “And he swears like a sailor, too. Don’t get me wrong, I love it, but you may want to watch your mouth during the interviews. Get it all out now.”
Chris was still chuckling as he stuffed another bite of crab in his mouth. He didn’t even bother to finish chewing before saying, “Holy shit, this is some fucking awesome crab. Goddamn.”
Zach threw back his head and laughed. “On second thought, it might be rustically charming. Have you given any thought to an anchor tattoo? I can give you one that sparkles.”
&&&
Chris’ costume for the opening ceremonies was every bit as lavish as promised - and yes, it showed off his arms quite nicely. He wore a sleeveless tunic made of tiny overlapping bits of shimmering gold fabric, presumably meant to evoke the scales of a fish, but Rachel assured him it would look more like chain mail on the huge vid screens. And Zach seemed to have contained himself when it came to showcasing Chris’ ass, since the tunic hung past his waist and the pants he wore with it were loose enough to keep from drawing attention.
Even little Risa looked regal in her dress, made completely of the gold, but with the “scales” growing larger toward the bottom of the skirt. Though Chris had made up his mind to have as little contact with her as possible, she looked so terrified stepping into the chariot that he leaned over and whispered in her ear how beautiful she looked. Possibly it was the wrong thing to do - she immediately flushed bright red and made a squeaking noise.
But Chris had to give her credit; she pulled herself together by the time their chariot began its journey out of the bottom floor of the Remake Center, through the crowds lining the streets of the Capitol, and into the City Circle. Luckily, he didn’t have to speak tonight, just look confident. He didn’t know if he should try to smile and be charming or scowl and be intimidating. It was something he probably should have asked Mags as part of their strategy, but only the stylists were with them as they dressed.
Zach had thought it over and said, “Don’t scowl, but… keep your chin up, look confident, look people in the eye. And every now and then, if you see someone who looks intrigued - or ridiculously wealthy - flash them just a little smile, like you can’t help it. That smile is going to win you some serious admirers, so dole it out carefully.”
It was as good a strategy as any, and it seemed to work. When Chris’ eyes happened to light on someone, man or woman, who was leaning in to get a better look, he let the corner of his mouth curl up a touch before quickly smoothing his expression back out. He almost inevitably got blushes or giggles, and he was pretty sure he even made one woman swoon. Honest-to-god swoon. It helped that he was able to forget, until the chariots were stowed safely away in the Training Center, how many of these same people would be cheering for his death in just a few days.
His entire prep team was ready to greet them as they stepped off the chariot, and he got giggly hugs from Zoe and Rachel and a manly backslap from John. Chris expected Zach to remain somewhat aloof in front of everyone present, but he grinned mischievously and squeezed Chris hard on the shoulder, leaning into whisper, “Fucking brilliant. Had no idea you were such an incredible actor.”
Chris could still feel that hand on his shoulder as he was led to the District 4 suite, as he sat with Mags and talked training strategy as long as she could keep the thread of conversation. He could feel the phantom grip of Zach’s fingers as he showered, and by the time Chris slid into bed, he was aching to feel that same grip elsewhere on his body.
Fuck it all, Zach was hot. He couldn’t be that much older than Chris - 25, 26? It was hard to tell; his face looked so young, but those wickedly clever eyes seemed to hint at experiences beyond anything Chris could dream of.
Well. That wasn’t quite true. He was sure he could dream up a few things.
Chris tried to imagine meeting Zach under different circumstances, in District 4 maybe. It was all Chris knew, but he couldn’t quite imagine Zach on the docks, even in the misty morning haze that made everything seem unreal. And certainly not in the fish markets, where even the wealthiest buyers would seem vulgar next to someone with Zach’s bearing.
It wouldn’t matter - even if Chris had met Zach in Four, he’d never have had the courage to approach him. But Chris felt like he’d aged years in the few days since the reaping, now on his own and feeling like the young adult he actually was. He wasn’t Zach’s equal in any way, but as he lay in bed, sleep eluding him as it had for days, it didn’t seem quite so foreign a thought, him and Zach.
He felt Zach’s hand on him again, long fingers squeezing into his shoulder, and imagined those clever hands trailing down his body. They’d be smooth as glass, not rough like his own, but by then he was so committed to the fantasy that the feeling of his own callused fingers didn’t break the illusion. Would Zach know to rub Chris’ nipples, know how a few solid tugs would set Chris’ blood on fire? Of course he would.
Chris tried to wait as long as possible before taking his cock in his hand. Zach seemed like the type to tease. No, not tease - linger. He had such an appreciation for detail. Though perhaps he’d kindly overlook Chris’ sad excuse for chest hair and keep traveling lower, hands fitting around Chris’ hipbones, thumbs pressing into the hollows there.
Did he dare imagine Zach’s mouth around his cock? Apparently he did. Chris could only guess what it would feel like, the heat of Zach’s lips around him. Spit and his own hand were a poor substitute, but just enough, oh god, just enough for right now. His hand sped up of its own volition - he hadn’t so much as thought about sex for days, but now his body was already on edge after only a few minutes.
He tried to slow down, but his brain kept flashing images at him - Zach’s eyes boring into him as Chris wrapped his own mouth around the other man’s cock. Zach groaning softly in Chris’ ear as they rutted against each other. Zach’s fingers trailing down Chris’ back, all the way down… Back home, Chris had occasionally played with himself a little, using oil he’d stolen from the kitchen to rub at his hole, press a finger or two in if he was feeling daring.
Now he had nothing to ease the way, but he wouldn’t have had time to try anyway - he was too close. He hadn’t even gotten to imagining Zach’s cock, hard and slick, splitting him open. He was still imagining Zach’s long fingers pressing slowly into him when his own cock pulsed suddenly in his hand and he was coming, curling in on himself and gasping into the pillow. He milked himself hard, knowing somehow that Zach would want to squeeze every last drop from him and, fuck, maybe even taste it. His body shuddered at that thought, gave one final jerk, and went limp against the sweaty sheets.
Totally spent, Chris began to drowse even as he wiped his hands clean on the sheets. He was asleep before he could worry about how he would face Zach the next day.
&&&
As fate would have it, Chris didn’t see Zach again for a while - he had three days of training to get through first. The common strategy, unless you were one of those meathead Career tributes from One or Two, was to hide your best skills until your private audience with the Gamemakers on the last day, but as Chris looked around at all the different training stations, he had no idea what his best skill was.
He was strong, but that much was impossible to hide. Just how strong, he supposed he’d try to play down for now. Mags had taught him plenty about fishhooks that he wasn’t keen to reveal, but it wasn’t as though they had a fishhook-making station anyway.
So Chris focused on shoring up his weaker areas. First was the fire-making station, because his only experience with fire was putting it out as fast as possible - a fire at sea was deadly. He wasn’t certain he’d be able to start one, even with a pile of dry tinder and a flamethrower. But with a lot of work, he managed to use string and twigs to create the tiniest of sparks on a patch of moss, and he nearly whooped with joy when he managed to get the kindling to go up.
But then he glanced around - how much time had he spent there? Sure, making a fire was important for survival, but he should probably get some actual weapons training in. The archery station was a disaster. Chris kept accidentally snapping his forearm with the bowstring, and he managed to hit the unnervingly-human-shaped target all of once. In the foot. That got quite a laugh out of the other tributes who were watching, but Chris just turned on them and growled, “Gonna be real fucking funny when you try to run away with an arrow in your foot.”
That actually made some of them laugh harder, but Chris forced himself to walk away and try something else. Surely there was something he wouldn’t be terrible at. His older sister had taken up spear fishing off the docks as a hobby since she wasn’t allowed on the crab boat - a combination of a superstitious crew and an overprotective father - and she’d grudgingly taught Chris some of what she knew.
The spears in the training center didn’t much resemble the handheld harpoon that Katie used - they were heavier and without barbs - but Chris still felt a pang of homesickness as he picked one up. He realized as he began to practice that correcting for the visual distortion of the water had trained him to aim low, but after he speared three dummies in a row straight through the crotch, no one was laughing at him anymore.
Katie was never a patient teacher, but he imagined even she would be proud of him. It occurred to him that, had she been selected as a tribute when she was a teenager, she’d probably stand a better shot of winning than he did. Chris just wanted to survive; Katie wouldn’t be afraid to hunt.
That night, he fell into bed too fatigued and disgusted with himself to even think about jerking off. Sure, most of his competitors would probably be taken out by someone (or something) else, but Chris couldn’t remember a Hunger Games in which the winner got through without having to purposefully kill someone. What if he did win - how would he live with himself? What would his family think of what he’d done? What would Zach think of him? And why did Zach’s opinion matter so much to him?
Exhausted as his body was, it still took him hours to fall asleep.
&&&
The second day of training, he abandoned the spear and tried his hand at knife and axe throwing. He wasn’t as good with the smaller, precision weapons as he was with a spear, but it went a hell of a lot better than the archery. He bypassed the hand-to-hand combat station to go back to survival skills - he’d never learned much about edible plants or making shelter while working on a boat.
When the time came to show his skills to the Gamemakers, he started by making a fire - a bit of a gamble, as he still wasn’t completely confident in that area, but it paid off, and he got a decent fire going in under five minutes. He lifted some weights and worked a punching bag, leaving the spear throwing for last. He had gotten good enough to be able to regularly hit the dummy square in the chest, but he purposefully aimed his last spear low and was rewarded with a collective gasp from the on-looking male judges. Perhaps he should have felt smug, but in reality it did little to dispel his simmering disgust for those decadent bastards.
As he passed Risa on the way out, he realized he had no idea what, if any, fighting skills she possessed. He decided he didn’t want to know. He’d find out enough when they both got their scores later that evening, watching - as the rest of Panem would be - on the vid screen back in their quarters.
When Chris emerged from the showers for dinner, he wasn’t expecting to see Zach at the table. Risa’s stylist, Agathena, was there too. She was an imperious and intimidating older woman, and she seemed to be getting along with Spengler quite well. Chris disliked her immediately. He looked over at Zach, who shot him a surreptitious eye roll, and Chris’ heart did a small flip in his chest.
After dinner had been cleared away, they all gathered around the vid screen for the score presentations, and at least Chris didn’t have to wait long to find out his scores. The Career tributes from Districts 1 and 2 got the expected nines and tens - twelve was the highest, but Chris couldn’t remember anyone ever scoring above a ten. When his own score flashed up - a pretty surprising nine - he expected to feel something. Spengler was certainly vocal in his pride, and Mags, though she seemed to be unable to form the right words, squeezed Chris’ hand.
But Chris felt nothing. Excellent, so he’d scored a nine. Maybe it would get him a few sponsors, but how much did that really change the odds? He still had a one in 24 chance of making it out of there alive, and what was a nine? Just a number. He could survive until the final nine. He could be the ninth one killed. It meant nothing.
Then Risa’s picture flashed on the screen, accompanied by a score of five, and the girl beside him burst into tears. That was when his animal hindbrain decided to come online and dump a shot of useless adrenaline in his system - he couldn’t handle sitting next to a thirteen-year-old, sobbing because she was almost certainly about to die.
Chris jumped up and ran. Without a word, he dashed out the front door of their suite, only to find that he had nowhere to go. Of course the elevator was key-operated - couldn’t have tributes running for their lives just yet, now could they? He stood there staring at the closed doors, full of hopeless rage, ready to beat his fists against the walls or the doors or something when the suite door opened behind him, and there was Zach.
The look Zach gave him was all business. “C’mon,” he said, indicating a small door tucked into a corner that Chris hadn’t even noticed. Zach pushed it open to reveal a stairwell.
“They secure the elevator but leave the stairs open?” Chris asked in bafflement.
“You can’t get out on the ground floor unless a fire or other emergency overrides the system. And as much as I would love to commit a little arson on your behalf, the Peacekeepers would be all over us before we could get very far. But there’s somewhere else we can go.”
Being on the fourth of twelve floors meant eight flights of stairs up to the roof, and both Chris and Zach were breathing hard by the time they got there. But the breeze felt heavenly on Chris’ skin, and as he closed his eyes, he felt some of his anger and panic begin to ebb.
After a minute, he opened them and looked up. But the lights from the Capitol were too bright - no stars here. All the same, Chris felt like he’d rather stare up into the darkness than peer over the side to see the Capitol citizens going about their pointless, vapid little lives, so he lay down on the rough concrete, folding his arms back under his head.
He heard, rather than saw, Zach join him. He assumed the other man had spent his whole life in the Capitol - no stylist he knew of ever came from one of the Districts. “You ever seen stars, Zach?”
“Yeah. You can’t ask me when or where, though.”
“Or what, you’ll have to kill me?”
They both chuckled flatly at that. After a long moment of silence, Chris turned his head to the side to see Zach’s shoes - apparently the he was laying in the other direction. So he addressed his concerns to Zach’s black sneakers. “This fucking sucks.”
“No argument here.”
“And you. What do you do for a living? You swab the deck on a sinking ship.”
“I like to think of it more as trying to patch the hull. With a little more glitter, though.”
Instead of finding it amusing, Chris just felt irritated. “But you don’t really risk anything, do you?”
“I suppose not,” Zach replied quietly after a moment.
“You fuck up and maybe it puts a dent in your career. Maybe. I fuck up, I die. Hell, even if I don’t fuck up, I’ll probably die anyway. Nice job you’ve got, getting the corpses all nice and pretty for the camera.”
No response from down beside Chris’ feet. As the seconds ticked by, Chris kicked himself for lashing out. It wasn’t Zach’s fault - hell, Zach was doing the best he could to make Chris attractive to the sponsors. It was the best thing any Capitol citizen - apart from the insanely wealthy ones that did the actual sponsoring - could do for any of the tributes. “Shit, I’m sorry. I’m just… pissed off.”
“No, I get it. You’ve got every right to be pissed off, even at me. Maybe especially at me.”
“It’s not your fault. You’re doing more for me than… well, just about anyone else. I mean, Mags tries, but, well, you saw how she is. She was born in the Dark Days, before the first Hunger Games, did you know that? I think she’s the only living victor who was. And Spengler is-”
“A shithead.”
“Pretty much, yeah. I think he’s just glad to be out of Four. I overheard him tell one of the other escorts that he can’t stand the stink of fish.”
Zach snorted. “I know a guy in the kitchens. The whole time you’re in the arena, I’ll make sure Spengler eats nothing but seafood.”
It was such a stupid thing to get sentimental over, but Chris felt his heart twist in his chest. “Thanks. But don’t go getting yourself in trouble because of me.”
“I’d put up with a lot more trouble if I thought it could help you.”
Chris propped himself up on his elbows to look Zach in the face. Well, the best he could from that angle. “You mean that.” It wasn’t a question.
“Yeah.”
“How long have you been doing this?”
“This is my fourth Hunger Games.”
“How many of your tributes have lived?” Zach’s silence was his answer. “Man, you’re never going to make it if you keep getting attached to your clients.”
“I don’t,” Zach said softly. “Just you.”
It was only then that Chris remembered feverishly jerking off to the thought of Zach touching him, and he laid back down - he was sure Zach would see his cheeks flush, even in the dark. Staring back up into the black, Chris took a few long moments getting up the courage to ask “Why me?”
“I don’t know. You’re smart. You’re tough as hell. You’re practically doing this all on your own. You’re really fucking gorgeous.”
Chris couldn’t help but smile and bend his leg to knee Zach gently in the side. “Pretty sure you’re not supposed to be saying that to a kid.”
“You’re not a kid, though. I get the feeling you haven’t been for a long time.”
Chris’ smile faded. “You grow up pretty fast when your crew mates’ lives depend on you. The last time I fucked up, I didn’t tie down the crab pots tight enough during a storm and a man got his hand crushed. He had to have it amputated.”
“How old were you?”
“Fifteen.”
“So you haven’t fucked up in three years. Why start now?”
“Well, when you put it that way…” Chris started sarcastically, but he ended with a sigh. “I’m just… I’m not ready to die.”
“If you were, I’d be a hell of a lot more worried about you going into that arena. The stylists have a pool going - it’s illegal, but no one’s going to talk - and you’re one of the favorites.”
Chris sat up. “What, seriously?”
“Yes, seriously,” Zach said, also sitting up. “You’re a fuck of a lot smarter than everyone else and physically stronger than ninety percent of them. Mentally stronger than probably all of them. If I were to bet in a pool that doesn’t officially exist, I would theoretically bet half my salary on you.”
“Half your salary?” Chris said with a genuine laugh. “You’re an idiot.”
“Well, okay, I exaggerated on that part. But not by much. Let’s just say I would be out of my personal eyeliner budget for the next decade.”
“Still an idiot,” Chris said, punching Zach lightly on the shoulder.
“And have I mentioned your arms? Because I can’t remember if I have.” Zach gestured for Chris to flex, which he did with a sigh and a roll of his eyes. Zach grinned shamelessly and made a show of measuring Chris’ bicep with his fingers. “See?”
Zach’s fingers lingered lightly around Chris’ arm even as he relaxed it, too long to have been unintentional. “Zach…” Chris said, biting his lip when he wasn’t sure what to say.
“I’m sorry,” Zach said, pulling away.
“No, please,” Chris said, taking Zach’s hand and placing it back on his arm. “This is one of the last chances I’ll ever have for… for someone to touch me. Without, you know, trying to strangle me.”
Chris tried for a half-hearted smile, but Zach didn’t laugh. What he did was lift his hand to brush his knuckles down Chris’ cheek. “You said you didn’t ‘really’ have a guy back home. Have you ever…”
Chris’ heart started pounding in his chest and he had to look down - but he didn’t pull away from Zach’s touch. “I’ve done a few things. Not… that.” He felt tears well up in his eyes and couldn’t stop them from spilling over. He tried to wipe them away before Zach felt them. “Jesus, what a stupid fucking thing to cry over.”
Zach laughed humorlessly and pulled Chris into a gentle hug. “Actually, I think that’s the perfect thing to cry over. I’d be bawling like a baby. But I guess there’s not much privacy on a crab boat, huh.”
“Is it, um.” Chris had no idea where the appropriate boundaries were, not here on the deserted rooftop, days before his death, with the only man within a hundred miles who cared whether he lived or died. “Is it… good?”
Zach’s tone was neutral, but his arms remained tight and warm around Chris. “Can be. Can be spectacular. Can also be boring or even painful. Depends on who you’re with.”
Chris buried his face against Zach’s shoulder to keep himself from asking the one question he really wanted to ask. His chest ached with it, but Zach said nothing more and Chris figured it would be wrong. Hell, what they were doing already was probably wrong.
But when Chris finally sat back, eyes dry, and licked his lips out of habit, Zach didn’t hesitate to lean back in and press his mouth to Chris’. Chris hardly dared move, and Zach kept his lips closed, but they both shifted into each other a little and something dark and cold inside Chris flared back to life and burned all the way down his spine. He kissed back the best he knew how, which he knew must seem clumsy and juvenile to Zach, but Zach didn’t pull away for at least a dozen heartbeats.
Zach did eventually end the kiss, pressing another to Chris forehead and squeezing him on the shoulder before getting to his feet. He offered a hand down to Chris. “C’mon,” he said softly. “We need to get back.”
Chris took Zach’s hand and stood, and to Chris’ surprise, Zach didn’t let go until they were back on the fourth floor.
&&&
To make up for running off, Chris apologized and endured a toast in his honor, but it was pure torture. He tried not to meet Zach’s eyes, but he couldn’t help it, and every time it happened, he felt a jolt of heat in his gut that he couldn’t even begin to control. Luckily, his pants were loose enough to prevent him from seriously embarrassing himself, but he still had to surreptitiously adjust himself a few times.
When he shook Zach’s hand as he left, Chris felt as though he were burning up from the inside. He barely managed a cursory “good night” to Mags and Risa, ignoring Spengler completely, before racing to his room. He shucked his pants and underwear before he even made it to bed, where he curled up, stroking himself feverishly. All he had to think about was sliding into the wet heat of Zach’s mouth, Zach’s mouth, Zach’s mouth, and he was coming with a cry so loud he could only pray that the walls were thick enough to contain it.
Afterwards, after he had cleaned up and gotten properly in bed, Chris found himself utterly surprised to be fighting back tears. He had just discovered something new and exciting and terrifying, and he was about to lose it before it even began. It seemed to open the floodgates, because then he was thinking of home, of his mom and dad and Katie. What would they think of Zach? Katie would love him, and he would easily charm Chris’ mom. Chris’ dad might not be so fond of him at first, but he’d be glad that Chris had had someone to comfort him.
But even if the impossible happened and he won, how could he and Zach have anything together? For the first time, Chris dared to imagine emerging alive from the arena, giving a few interviews… then being shipped back to District 4. Sure, he and his family would be given a new home in the Victor’s Village and their district would be showered with extra rations for a year, but he might never see Zach again. Chris had no idea what the stylists did between Games, but he was pretty sure it didn’t involve slumming it in the Districts. No, Zach would stay in the Capitol, and Chris would go back to the life he knew - even if he didn’t need the money, he doubted he could live near the sea yet stay forever on the land.
So Chris stopped fighting and let himself weep, for all the things he’d had and taken for granted, and all the things he’d never have. He’d never been in love before, but he was pretty sure that it had only taken him five days to fall hopelessly and pointlessly in love with Zach. Win or die, he was fucked either way.
&&&
When Chris awoke the next morning, he felt… empty. He’d let it all out last night, and he had nothing left. Which, he began to think, might actually make things easier. The last event before the Games was his televised interview with Caesar Flickerman tomorrow night, for which Mags was supposed to spend the day coaching him. Zach would be preparing his outfit.
Apparently, Mags was having a particularly lucid day. As soon as Chris walked in for breakfast, she looked him up and down and pronounced, “You look like hell.” It made Chris laugh.
After the meal, she sat him down and actually coached him. Sometimes it took her a few minutes to put her sentences together, and the pauses nearly made Chris go out of his skin, but he figured it would be good practice for maintaining calm during the actual interview.
“You’re a charming one, yes?” Mags asked.
“I… I guess so.”
“Don’t give me that,” Mags said shrewdly, and Chris felt like he finally got a glimpse of the woman who had won the Games so long ago. “I watched your face during the parade. You doled out those dimples like candy to the good little girls and boys. Excellent work.”
“That was Zach’s suggestion.”
“It was a good one. But be careful. Too much of that and you’ll come off as a used boat salesman. Remember, you’re exotic to them, these Capitol types. Most of them will go their whole lives without ever seeing the ocean. So play it rustic, but…”
Mags seemed to be fighting for the right word, and Chris tried to let her do it. “But?”
“You know the word. The one where you speak well.”
“Articulate? Eloquent?”
“Eloquent. But no spouting poetry about the sea.”
Chris’ jaw dropped. “Did somebody actually do that?”
Mags nodded. “About… five years before you were born. Poor bastard made Flickerman look like the sane one. Even with the foot-high pink hair.”
Chris laughed again, and Mags managed a crooked smile. Chris wished he could have known her in her prime. He could call up the vids of her time in the arena on the screen in his room, but that wasn’t the Mags he wanted to know.
But soon she began to lose her train of thought more often, and she still had to talk to Risa, so Mags suggested Chris watch interviews from the past few years to get an idea of the questions he might be asked. As he did, he found some paper and actually took notes, because it kept him from thinking dead, these kids are all dead.
The day was painfully long with nothing to do but think about what lay ahead of him. He used the extra paper and wrote a letter for Mags to take back to his family. At first, he questioned the wisdom of dredging up all that emotion again, but it turned out to be cathartic. He didn’t write any tearful goodbyes, but described the Capitol, the people he’d met, the days of training. He had no idea if it would be censored or if Mags would even be allowed to take it back, but he told the truth - he imagined that would give his family the most comfort, that he was still himself.
He even wrote about Zach, how he was the closest thing Chris had to a friend here, though of course he left out the rooftop kiss. More than anything, he wanted his family to know Zach’s name, to remember his unexpected kindness if Chris wasn’t there to tell them about it.
Continue to part two