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threeletterslife · 5 months

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In honor of The Ballad of Songbirds & Snakes releasing today in the theaters, here is a reblog of my all-time favorite story I've ever written. I wrote Things We Owe to Each Other for myself—when I was unhappy and in need of solace. In a minute way, I relate to the female protagonist and her desire to find security, though obviously not in the same magnitude

The HG series is a dystopian-action franchise, but I wanted to imagine a story in that universe where the dust had settled and the characters were dealing with the consequences of a failed revolution. This is a story about finding the beauty in life again and appreciating the small, seemingly trivial moments of our everyday lives. It's about learning to trust again and learning how to love yourself and others despite what you believe you deserve. This story makes me miss writing very much, and I hope it touches the hearts of others as much as it did for me <3

Things We Owe to Each Other

⨰ summary: The Capitol promised you riches and fame after you won the games, but you should've known they were lying. After years of wasting away and feeling pity for yourself, when you meet the local fragrance shop owner who's as similar to you as one can get, you realize you need his help. Except, everything comes with a price.

⨰ pairing/rating: yoongi x reader | PG-15

⨰ genre: 100% angst | hunger games!au & hurt/comfort!au

⨰ warnings: profanity, death, gore, blood, mentions of prostitution and suicide

⨰ wordcount: 26.8k

cr.

ONE.

You were never going to die.

You were meant to volunteer, to survive. Meant to win. And most of all, you were meant to be the face of the new rebellion.

You’ve done most of these things. You volunteered obediently—without hesitation. You survived as your life depended on it, which it did. And you won. You really won. But then you betrayed the people who built you up when they needed you most.

All those years of training, of intermittent starvations, of freezing cold nights and scorching hot summers in the name of preparation… You just wanted to rest. You wanted a break. You were only looking out for yourself. Because not once in your life were you ever given a choice. If you died in the Arena, you were only going to be a martyr—but there are 23 martyrs every year, anyways. If you lived, you were going to be puppeteered again, and the rebellion would begin, just like it did 24 years ago. Except this time, it was expected to succeed.

TWO.

You didn’t think you would betray the rebels. They were all that you’ve ever known. They fed you, dressed you, gave you so many rules to follow, punished you if you broke them.

They chose you. Because your mother was strong and your father was handsome. They plucked you from your crib and handed you a silver dagger and told you to fight. So you did. You were dazzling. They told you that you had to look pretty all the time—even while you fought. You needed sponsors to survive the Arena, and sponsors only loved beautiful things. So you had to be the most beautiful, lethal thing they’ve ever laid their eyes upon.

You learned how to move faster than lightning, how to aim so precisely that you could throw bullseyes with your eyes closed, how to survive off of the land with only nuts and berries, how to put your body through hell yet not beg for death just yet.

But that wasn’t all.

You learned how to be charming, coy. You learned how to manipulate and get your way. You learned how to lie. You learned it so well that sometimes, you couldn’t even remember what the truth was anymore.

They strategized every minute of the game for you—from the moment you’d step forth to volunteer at age 18 to your last kill in the Arena. They paved your path to victory. All you had to do was follow it. Then, you were supposed to kill President Snow at the victor crowning. You were supposed to kill all of them at the victor crowning. That would’ve set off a chain reaction, wherein District 8—your district—would lead the new wave of the rebellion. The Capitol would be destroyed once and for all.

But when the time came, you sat on your throne, exhausted, relishing in the feeling of victory, and you pretended to forget all about the rebels back home. In fact, you might’ve tipped off a couple of Peacekeepers about the secret rebel headquarters you’d frequented in your district. In days, they’d all be dead. Another rebellion, squashed.

You tried not to look back.

The people at the Capitol made you feel good. They made you feel desirable. And for once in your life, you felt free.

THREE.

You regret it.

You regret the betrayal.

You wish you could turn back time to three years ago during the victor crowning. You should’ve done it. You should’ve killed everyone in that room—maybe even yourself. Because this, whatever this is, is considerably worse than what you’d expected.

You slip on your silk robe. It billows out, trailing the clean, marble floor of the suite. When you look behind you, you see the Capitol dog still sleeping. In fact, he’s snoring. It’s loud enough to shake the jewel-studded nightstand. He’d bragged about that nightstand yesterday. Said it was made from every naturally occurring and man-made gem in the world. That it was a one-of-a-kind. That he won it at an auction to impress his wife. And for some reason, he thought it would impress you too. But maybe that nightstand is impressive.

It’s most definitely worth more than your own life.

Your brow twitches at the sight of the Capitol dog. He hasn’t even bothered to throw some clothes on after last night. Hasn’t even bothered to take a shower in his bathroom that’s so big that it could shelter at least fifty people. Told you last night to “Get out” as soon as you woke up the next morning. Threw the money on the floor and made you pick it up—bill by bill. Sometimes, you wonder if they’re the animals, not you. So why do they treat you like one? Why are you always used and tossed out like a rag doll?

You thought after you won the games that they’d accept you into their highly civilized society. You thought that you wouldn’t have to work another day in your life. You thought you’d be happy. Freedom never felt so real. But the monthly income you receive from the Capitol for winning the Hunger Games is barely enough to buy a single bathtub, much less an entire suite, and you don’t dare to go home to live in the Victor’s Village. Your district would burn you alive for the betrayal—what’s left of them, anyway.

So you stay in the Capitol, spending night after night in strangers’ beds, using their generous tips to buy food, some nice clothes for yourself. Everyone wants to spend the night with the alluring District 8 Victor who killed her supposed ‘lovers’ in the games with nothing but a delicate smile on her face. You’ve always been popular amongst the Capitol. You used to think it was because they admired you, respected you. But now you know you’re just a toy to them.

You’ve thought about killing them. You trained thirteen years to become a vicious killer—couldn’t you go for a couple more kills? But the prospect of getting caught is terrifying. President Snow would have your head. No. Even worse. He’d torture you to death and then broadcast it for everyone to see. And you refuse to die in such a humiliating way.

With a final look, you check to see if you’ve left anything in the suite; it’d be embarrassing to come crawling back to find it—not that you’ve done it before. But this time around, you’ve been meticulous. Satisfied, you make one final movement and spit on the jeweled nightstand. Then, you leave, your pink silk nightgown billowing in the air behind you.

FOUR.

You step into the fragrance shop. You’ve been saving up for this moment for the past three years. They sell products such as lotions and perfumes here, but not just any lotions and perfumes—ones infused with your own, personal scent. It’s supposed to drive other people crazy, make them hungry with desire. You’ll use it to fish even more tips out of your clients.

A silver bell rings as the heavy door closes behind you. Instantly, a man comes out from the purple drapes behind the counter. “Hello,” he says, rustling about and straightening a row of bottles filled with a mysterious, golden elixir. “Welcome to—” When he meets your eyes, he stops talking.

Oh no. For a moment, you forget how to breathe.

Then, his sharp, cat-like eyes narrow, and he spits out an even sharper: “Get out.”

You hear the phrase too often to care—even if he says it so menacingly. And you know what this man is capable of. He could slice your head straight off your body in a matter of seconds. You’d be dead before you blinked. District 2 trash. A Capitol lapdog. Of course he’s working in the Capitol after he’d won the games.

You remember watching him win on the screens back home. They made you study every televised game, take notes on the Victor’s strategies and learn from their mistakes, copy their triumphs. His was the 95th Hunger Games. It feels so long ago—seven years, to be exact. He was sixteen, then. So young. So naïve. He’d volunteered for his younger brother.

But his sacrifice never ends up mattering.

Because four years later, you end up killing his brother during the 99th Hunger Games.

“I’m only looking to buy some perfume,” you say innocently. “You’re not going to turn down a customer, are you?”

In a second, he’s standing before you, hot breath in your face, hands reaching to clasp around your neck. But his eyes widen when he realizes you’re holding onto his wrist, effectively stopping his hands from closing in around your throat.

“Did you forget?” you whisper. He’s so close to you that you can carefully delineate his every feature—his downturned lips, his squinted eyes, his soft, delicate nose. But you manage to maintain eye contact. “I’m a Victor, too.”

He scowls, wrenching his hand out of your grip. “I’ll call the Peacekeepers,” he threatens. “I’ll tell them that their little throw toy is out of her cage.”

“Ouch,” you say, placing your hand on your chest in mock hurt. “But what makes you think that they’ll take your side?”

He gives you a disgusted look. “I’m not going to tell you again.”

“What? Tell me to get out?” you say. “How are you even here, anyway? You’d think someone like you would live in the Victor’s Village.”

“Someone like me?” he scoffs.

“A Capitol lapdog,” you say as a matter of factly. “Did District 2 run out of housing for the Victors?”

“Watch your mouth,” he says. He looks like he’s ready to lunge at you again, but you’ve studied his fighting style. You’ve integrated it into your own, too. So you know he will lean right before he throws a punch.

“You haven’t answered my question.”

“I don’t owe you an answer,” is his simple reply.

He’s also not wrong. You suppose that you’re the one who owes him. And you hate owing things to anyone—why should you? Your entire life has been a give-and-take. They told you that they only fed you so you could be strong. You had to be strong to win the games for them. They wanted you to do blood loss training. You did it because they let you rest an hour longer than usual. Your clients use you for self gratification; and you let them because they give you generous tips in return. Things have always come out even in your life. No one owes each other anything.

So why do you feel the need to owe this particular shrimp of a person? He’s short, barely taller than you, and has twigs for his limbs. Looks can deceive, of course, because this twig-legged man can outrun a particularly fast dog muttation. But his lacking physique doesn’t change the fact that you’ll owe him.

Yet where there is an odd favor, there’s always a way to make it even.

“Ask me two questions, then,” you say. It’s an offer that almost comes out of nowhere. The thought of anyone prodding around, demanding that you indulge them in your private business—it’s sickening. It makes you vulnerable. But this is what will make you and him even. “One for Jungkook,” you say. “And an extra one so I can ask my own question. We’ll be even then.”

His expression darkens when he hears Jungkook’s name fall from your lips. He spits out a harsh: “I don’t want to know anything about you.”

“But aren’t you just the least bit curious?” you press him.

He hesitates. It’s only for a split second, but it still counts in your eyes. “Your answers to my questions won’t undo what you did to him.”

“I suppose it won’t,” you say. “But you admit it, then. You have questions.”

He glares at you.

You just grin innocently. “You watched my games.”

“You watched mine,” he accuses.

“I did,” you say. “I enjoyed it. It was fine entertainment.”

Out of all the words you’ve spoken, these are the ones that set him off.

His eyes flash. Then, all too soon, he’s leaning right, ready to take a swing at you. But you’re too quick for him, side-stepping out of the way. He almost crashes into a shelf full of glass bottles, but he stops himself just in time. Victor’s instincts. They never disappear.

He’s shaking in anger as he slowly turns around to face you.

“What’s wrong?” you say. “Am I too fast for you?”

He’s lunging at you again.

But his patterns are so easy to detect. You’ve watched his games over and over and over again. You know how he fights. You know how he pins his victims down and saws through their throats. You know that if you’re not careful, you could meet the same fate.

But you’re always careful. And you were born to kill.

You grab his wrist and flip him down to the ground. He grunts in pain.

“Are you going to stop now?” you ask him.

He’s panting. Clearly, he hasn’t been exercising much after his games.

“I won in three days,” you tell him. “Or did you forget?”

It’s quiet. You think he might lunge at you again, but then he speaks without bothering to face you. “That’s because you cheated.”

You raise your eyebrows. “I did?”

Of course you did. You had hundreds of people on the sidelines, strategizing for you, helping you take notes on your opponents. You needed to win. For the rebellion that never happened. But did he know?

“Everyone knows you started playing the game the moment you stepped into the Capitol,” he says. “You were so charming that no one could take their eyes off of you. Even the other tributes.”

“That wasn’t my fault.”

Yes it was. You were trained to do that. To trick them into falling in love with you, then kill them off when they were blinded by their own starry eyes.

“Just get out,” he says, standing back up, though with a wobbly leg.

Huh. You hadn’t noticed that before. He walks with a slight limp. Was that because of the District 1 girl he battled to win his Victor title? Does it still hurt after all of these years?

“I can’t.” The words slip out before you can even stop them.

He raises his eyebrows. “And why would the Capitol’s Princess desperately need her personal scent?” It’s a stupid question and he knows it, too. There are only certain types of people who come here, frantic to smell desirable, to smell addicting. Because how good they smell will likely dictate how much they might make in a night. He looks away.

You hate being vulnerable. You hate being weak. You’ve been weak and vulnerable nearly every night for three years. So what’s one more time going to do?

“How did you do it?” you whisper. “How did you get out?”

He looks stricken with panic. His eyes dart around the shop, though there’s no one there except the two of you. Then, he lunges forward—not to punch you, not to pin you to the ground—but to tug you behind the counter, behind the purple curtains. There’s a tiny corridor there, one with a door at the end. He must be living here. You wonder what it took for him to gain this much freedom.

“You’ve got a lot of fucking nerve,” he says quietly, still tightly holding onto your wrist.

But you’re persistent. “You were prostituted too, weren’t you?” you say, urgently. “So how are you here? Teach me,” you say. “I know I’ll owe you twice as much but I’ll make it up to you.” That’s a lie. You could never make that up to him, but sometimes, well, most times, people believe the words you say. Something tells you though, that he won’t be so easily deceivable.

“How?” he seethes. “How would you make it up to me when I know how much you’re making a night? You couldn’t ever pay me back during your entire lifetime, and I have no desire of letting you off easy, either.”

His sharp words boil your blood. You inhale deeply in an attempt to calm yourself down. But that’s when you notice how nice he smells. It’s such a strange instance to focus on his scent, but you can’t help it. He’s too close to you. And your nose is simply doing what it’s supposed to do.

“Mint,” you whisper.

He frowns.

“Fresh mint, a hint of lemon and…” you struggle to find the last note.

“Linen,” he says impatiently. “It’s clean linen.”

“I see you made yourself a personal scent of your own,” you say. “It fits you. Except I’m not sure it works. You were much more charming on-screen.”

He glowers. “Is this your way of attempting to persuade me into helping you?”

You shake your head. “Just making an observation.”

“Well, I’m not going to risk getting in trouble,” he says, his grip around your wrist tightening so hard that it’s beginning to hurt. If he grips any tighter, you think it might crack. “I already got away with it, so I’m not going to let you ruin things.”

You jerk your wrist away from him, rubbing it tenderly. “Careful! That’s my working wrist,” you exclaim, glaring at him. “It’s my money-maker, you hear?”

There’s something that flashes in his eyes. Is it anger? Pity?

But who knew such a stone-cold killer could feel pity?

“You’ve become so pathetic.”

Oh. He wasn’t feeling pity, all right. It had been anger. His downturned lips, the crease on his forehead, his darkened eyes—he hates you. But no one ever hates you—at least, not to your fucking face. You’re sure the survivors back home despise you, but you’ll never visit them to find out, anyway.

You open your mouth to defend yourself, but he speaks before you can even get your words out.

“What happened to the coquettish girl who kissed and seduced the other tributes before stabbing them to death?” he says. “How fucking dare you ask me for help years later? After you killed him? You’re a pathetic person. And you’re weak.”

Weak? Weak?! After everything you’ve been through, you’re the weak one??

That sets you off.

“I didn’t have a choice!” you yell, your voice booming so loud in the tight quarters that he visibly flinches. “I won for the same reason that you did! Because I couldn’t die!”

His eyebrows raise at your outburst. “Well, would you look at that? I made the Capitol’s Princess finally lose her cool.”

“This isn’t a joke!” you cry. “This is my life, okay? If you won’t help me leave, then at least find me my personal scent!”

He finally steps away from you, giving you your much-needed space—well, as much space as the narrow hall can provide. “Your life?” He nods, scoffing. “Of course. And what makes you think your life is so much better than everyone else’s?”

You snap.

Screaming obscenities, you lash out at him, slapping him straight across the face. He could’ve stopped you, but he didn’t. Your hand stings. You’ve never slapped anyone in your life—mostly because you always resort to doing worse. Now there’s an angry red welt on his face, and you know it’ll blossom into a purple bruise by tomorrow.

He touches his cheek. Doesn’t even wince. “You won because the Capitol let you win,” he tells you, slowly, as if he’s talking to a child. “You’re alive because of them, their money, their sponsors. So you owe them your life.”

“And what about you?” you pant angrily, ready to deliver another slap when the time comes. “You’re just like me.”

“I know,” he says. “I’m just like you said.”

“And what did I fucking say?”

“I’m a Capitol lapdog. But the difference between you and me? I know it, and you don’t.”

You want to slap him across the face again. It’s so tempting. Your hand twitches. But he’s right. He’s so right.

“You don’t regret it at all,” he says.

“Regret what?”

“Killing everyone,” he replies. “You don’t feel the guilt.”

“Why should I?” you say. “If I didn’t kill them first, they would’ve killed me.” And you had a mission. Those 23 other tributes were supposed to be pawns, martyrs, for the real cause. For the rebellion that never happened. You swallow. Can he see right through you? Does he know how many people you’ve killed both directly and indirectly? Does he know? That you’re only really loyal to yourself?

“On second thought, we’re not alike at all,” he says. “You misspoke.”

You hate being told that you’re wrong. “And what?” you scoff. “You feel guilty for winning? Is that it?”

“Haven’t you heard of survivor’s guilt?”

“No, and I don’t want to hear about it.”

He stares at you a long while after that. “Sometimes, you don’t seem human to me.”

“I wasn’t meant to be.”

He frowns at your words. “You weren’t?”

How do you tell him that you were a carefully crafted weapon? That you were never meant to have measly human feelings and emotions because you were just the rebels’ tool? How do you tell him that you have never cared for someone other than yourself? Because if you didn’t, no one would?

You don’t tell him, that’s what.

“God,” you say, messing up your perfect hair by running your hand through it. “This was supposed to take ten minutes.”

“I was never really asking for much,” he tells you, voice quiet.

“You weren’t the one who was asking! I was.”

“If you were even a little bit regretful about killing him, I would’ve helped you right away.”

This shocks you. You nearly stumble back. “What?” you say. It would’ve only taken that?

“But you’re exactly as how everyone back in the districts saw you as,” he says.

“And what was that?” you challenge him.

“A monster.”

The word seems to pierce through your chest. You’ve heard of tool, weapon, martyr, killer, murderer, coquette, slut, whore… But monster? You’re not sure why that stings so much.

Yet… he doesn’t understand what you’ve gone through. He doesn’t understand that all your life, you’ve lived for everybody but yourself—even now, as a Victor, you can’t seem to escape.

“I’m not a monster,” you whisper, voice shaking slightly. “I can’t be.”

“Did I hit a sore spot?” he asks.

You can’t even answer.

“Maybe you do have some emotion in you after all.”

You’re still silent.

There’s a long pause.

“You’re really desperate, aren’t you?”

Of course you’re fucking desperate. You were promised fame and riches. People were supposed to kneel and bow in your presence. They were supposed to please you. Instead, it’s the other way around. You, a vicious Victor, forced to kneel down before your clients and please them in ways that you’ve never been pleased yourself. You’ve killed so many things in your life—starting off small with insects, working your way up to cats, dogs, foxes, wild boar to desensitize your mind from blood and gore—so when you finally killed a human, you wouldn’t feel anything at all.

So how is it that you, a trained killer, is working so subserviently for others?

It makes your skin crawl just thinking about it.

You only betrayed the rebels because you wanted freedom. The blood loss training, the blunt force trauma training, the intermittent starvations were better than this. Because you felt like you had actual purpose then—an important purpose. They chose you to be the face of the rebellion. You were to be better than Katniss Everdeen ever was.

But this is where you end up?

Pleasing Capitol dogs by night, feeling sorry for yourself in the mornings?

Doing everything you can to seek revenge in the littlest ways? Spitting on their jeweled nightstands? Leaving a hairpin in the bathroom so the wives will find out? Stealing a few extra bills from their wallets?

It’s so pathetic.

You can’t even kill them without facing dire consequences.

Sometimes, on your worst days, you wish you were back in the Arena. At least there, you could kill without being persecuted.

So yes, he’s right. You are desperate. The truth hurts—you’ve been trying to hide it for three years now—and for this Capitol lapdog to debunk your inner turmoils within minutes of first meeting you? You don’t feel angry, you feel…

There’s a lump that grows in your throat. It’s expanding and expanding until you think you’re choking. Is this how your victims felt in the Arena? Is this what they call karma?

It’s hard to breathe. Is there something in your nose? Did he poison the air? Will you drop dead in a few seconds now? Will he pull out a gas mask and watch you struggle to breathe until you’re no longer a nuisance to him? Were you stupid to follow him into his own territory—where he could pull all the strings he wanted to, and you’d be too ignorant to notice them?

But your thoughts come to a screeching halt when something wet rolls down your face.

At first, you think it’s sweat. Then, you suspect it’s the condesation from the poison. Only after the fourth tear rolls down your face do you realize what is actually happening to you.

You look up to see the Capitol lapdog’s shocked expression. At least, you think he’s shocked—you can’t tell. Your tears have blurred your vision. It’s been a long time since you’ve cried. Probably more than a decade. You hate this feeling. It’s too foreign, too vulnerable. What did you do to warrant this? How can you stop it? Why are you doing it in front of him?

With your blurred visions and disoriented state, he can kill you right now if he wishes to do so—even with his bad leg. But you can’t seem to stop the tears. These are the same bodily instincts that the rebels told you to be wary of. You should be able to control them; for god’s sake you’ve dealt with dehydration, starvation, hypothermia, hyperthermia—all the likes. Can you really not stop weeping?

“Look at that,” the Capitol lapdog breathes. “I made her highness cry.”

It makes you want to slit his throat. But that would make you even more of a monster than you already are. Why do you always feel like killing someone? Even when they don’t entirely deserve it?

“Maybe you are still human,” he says absentmindedly. He sighs, staring at your pathetic state, yet he doesn’t leave. He just watches you.

Is he waiting to kill you? Biding his time, having a little fun with watching you squirm? Will he swoop in and pin you to the ground and put you out of your misery soon?

“Well?” he says. “Are you going to tell me I’m wrong? That you’re not desperate? I have a shop to tend to, you know.”

Silence.

He stares at you for longer. When he realizes that you may never talk again, he makes a move to leave. But it’s only then when a depressing croak leaves your lips: “W-Wait.”

He stops.

“I’m desperate,” you say.

It feels horrible to do this. To tell him that he’s right. To show him that you’re weak. But do you have another choice? You’ve been backed up against a wall. You’re not giving up—you’ll never give up. You just need help. A little bit of help from a Capitol lapdog. It takes all of your strength to keep from breaking down, from lashing out and killing him.

His eyebrows raise slowly. “And how do I know you’re not lying?”

Why the hell would you lie about this? Even before being tossed into the Arena, you never pretended that you were weak; even with all that deception, all that trickery, you never ever bargained away your strength. Your training score was a whopping 11, though you’d secretly hoped for a 12. The other tributes always knew you were strong—everyone did. Does he really think that you were feigning weakness? Does he think you’ve been sent to detain him by President Snow? Or is he only saying this to rile you up?

“And even if you weren’t lying,” he says, “what makes you think that you deserve my help?”

The lump in your throat pops open. “You don’t know what I’ve been through!” you yell, fists clenched. This doesn’t seem like you. You’re usually so calm, so collected. Even if someone angers you, you’re able to stay smiling, though you might be positively seething inside. But why do his words garner such a reaction out of you?

“What? That you had to kill people to be here? I’ve done it myself,” he says. “You’re not that special.” He pauses. “Or maybe you are. You didn’t have to give them hope,” he says. “You didn’t have to play with your food.”

You know exactly what he’s talking about. But you had to do it. You had to pretend to like them, to enjoy their company, to become their lover if you ever survived the games together. It would make it easier for you to kill them later. It wasn’t your plan but the rebels’.

You feel limp. Like his words had sucked the anger right out of you. Do you wish to go on? Should you abort? But you don’t think you have the strength.

“I…” the words get stuck in your throat. The lump is back. “I’d… rather it had been Jungkook.”

For the first time in your life, you feel like prey.

“What?”

“I think I wanted to die in the Arena,” you say. The words just come out. You can’t comprehend what you’re saying. But they also don’t feel like a lie. “But I couldn’t die,” you say, slowly as if you’re recalling memories from the past. “They… They were counting on me.”

“Oh sure, the Capitol was rooting for you the entire time.”

“No, not… not the Capitol,” you say. “I thought I was going to do it, then. I thought I’d follow through with their plan because that was my purpose. I went through hell for it. But… But I couldn’t do it.” You look down at your feet, knowing that if he wanted to kill you now, he could. “I couldn’t do it, Yoongi. I didn’t want to work for someone again. I thought if I became a Victor, things would be different. I didn’t know that they’d…” You can’t even bring yourself to finish.

Everything you’d been suppressing for the past three years pours out of you. And the aftermath?

You feel tired.

Who knew it took more strength to be weak than resilient? If you were in the Arena, even the youngest tribute could’ve killed you at this state. Your legs suddenly give out, but you never fall to the ground. Because he’s caught you by the arm.

Will he finish you now? Kill you after you confessed your sorrows? Has he heard enough? Is this the right time to give up? Is this how you’ll die?

But one look at his face and the bad thoughts dissipate.

He looks sorry.

And his hold is gentle. Something you wouldn’t expect from a man who once beat a tribute dead with a log.

“You said I have two questions,” he says, quietly.

You look up at him, relief washing over your body. It feels so good, but your cheeks burn with humiliation. You can barely look him in the eyes, but you force yourself to. You don’t want him to think you’re completely broken. “Yes,” you say, using your other arm to wipe your face. “Two questions to make us even.”

He scoffs as if what you did to his younger brother will never be made up for by a couple of answered questions. But he’s silent, probably thinking of questions to ask you, if not ready to change his mind and make you leave. His long pause allows you to regain your composure.

The emotions slink away, behind a veil in the back of your mind. You calm down your wildly beating heart with a breathing technique that the rebels taught you when you were only ten. All traces of your tears are gone. The lump in your throat is gone. You no longer feel weak in the knees, so you shake his hand off of your arm. It’s almost as if you’ve never had your outburst.

“Too many questions to ask me?” you ask, the tremor that had been in your voice, gone.

His eyes scan warily over your figure. He must be shocked at how easily you can regain your composure. Even you have to admit it’s scary how easy it is to pretend you don’t feel anything at all. He scowls. “I liked it better when you were crying.”

“Not a question,” you quip. But if he mentions your weakness again, you swear you’ll kill him.

He only glares. Finally, he sighs, parting the purple curtains and walking out. You follow him, only to find him leaning on the counter, staring out at the tinted windows of his shop. “I’ll find you your personal scent,” he tells you.

Your eyebrows raise. “Without asking any questions?”

“You already told me everything I wanted to know in your little soliloquy,” he says. He ignores your grimace. “Apple blossoms,” he tells you. “I’ve thought about it ever since I saw you on the screen.”

FIVE.

They’ve started to pay you more in tips—ever since you began smelling exactly the way they wanted you to. Apple blossoms, notes of mellow wine and pink pepper. Yoongi said it was all undeniably you. So you’d purchased lotions, hair and skin care products, perfumes all laced with the same scent. You watched him make them, silently, slowly, studying him, his stance, his hands, his concentrated expressions and the red welt on his cheek that you had given him.

Then, you’d paid him. He refused to give you a discount.

Your personal scent was supposed to be your big break. You were supposed to feel happy again after this. You’re making much more than you usually do, and having this money gives you a sense of power. But…

Now you know what freedom actually looks like.

You want what Yoongi has.

But he had been so reluctant to help you; how could he ever do more for you—more than he already has?

Can you manipulate him? Sweet talk your way into his heart? Just like you did to his brother? He seemed to soften up slightly when you showed him some emotion, which you didn’t really do willingly; it had just come out. But maybe you could use that to your advantage. Maybe if you act more human, he’ll be more likely to help you.

But no, if he caught you, he’d kill you. Even with his bad leg he’d figure out a way. Because not only is Yoongi extremely adept with his weaponry, he’s also scarily intelligent.

“Back again?” he scoffs when you burst into the store, letting the silver bell ring violently behind you.

You slam your palms on the wooden counter. “How did you do it?” you ask him. This was not what you planned to do—to scare the information out of him—but you always seem to go rogue, anyway.

“I thought you were the one who owed me two questions, not the other way around,” he says, cocking his head. He’s unfazed.

“Why do you think I’m a monster and you’re human?” you say. “Why am I some—some fucking creature and why do you get to be okay? We both killed the same number of people. So why? Why do you think you’re better than me?”

“I never said I was better than you,” is his answer. His left cheek has a giant purple bruise plastered on it, and even to you, it looks painful. Why didn’t he get medical help for that? The Capitol medicine could have him looking brand new in a matter of seconds.

“You’re sure as hell thinking it,” you accuse him.

“Am I?” he asks. “Are you what, a mind reader now?” But when he sees the dangerous look on your face, he seems to remember what you’re capable of. “I killed because I had to,” he says. “But you? You enjoyed it.”

“I did not!” you scream, his accusation curdling your blood. You did it because you had to, too! You didn’t have a choice! You couldn’t die—there were thousands of people counting on you to start the rebellion. The rebellion that you’d conveniently squashed.

“Careful, or you might cry again.”

All of a sudden, you see red.

“How fucking dare y—”

But the silver bell sounds and you whirl around to see a Capitol dog, all dressed up in a flouncy skirt with odd feathers attached to it. Feathers are appended to her lashes as well, and you wonder how hard it is for her to blink like that. She giggles when she sees Yoongi, and it instantly makes you narrow your eyes. She just unknowingly saved his life.

“I see you have a new worker here, Yoongi,” she tells him with a kind smile. “I’ve been telling you to hire some help since forever. Ever since old woman Hennenger died, you’ve been running this shop all by yourself. Glad that you adhered to my advice.”

“That’s Y/N,” Yoongi grunts, awkwardly reaching out to polish some empty glass bottles on the counter. “She works here part-time.”

The words shock you, but you don’t show it. Is he lying because she’s a Capitol dog? Or is he telling the truth? Do you really work here part-time now? Did your scare-him-until-he-agrees tactic work this easily?

“Y/N?” the Capitol dog gasps. “You mean…?”

It’s your cue. You immediately turn around, facing the dog fully, curtsying dramatically. A radiant smile plasters on your lips. “Yes, madam,” you say. “At your service.”

She seems satisfied with your formal greeting, and it helps her forget all about how deadly you had been on-screen. “Well, it looks like Yoongi’s trained you well!”

Your eyebrow slightly twitches at her words, but you let it go.

“Go clean the bottles behind the curtains,” Yoongi orders you. “I’ll attend to Miss Bijou myself.”

How can he have the nerve to boss you around? It stings. He always speaks in a way to show off that he’s better than you. How could he have thought that you enjoyed killing those people? You’ve never found enjoyment in a single thing in your life. Just because you smiled prettily for the cameras didn’t mean you enjoyed watching the life leave your victim’s eyes. Killing the others was a chore, an obstacle. It was never for your own self gratification.

You push aside the curtains into that small space again, only to find that there are no bottles at all. How can there be? There are no shelves here—only the door that most likely leads straight to his living quarters. Your heart seems to sink. So was he lying? Did he only say that to get you off his back while he dealt with his customer? God, you’re such a fool for believing him for a split second. Is this how desperate you’ve become? That you’re able to listen to a goddamn stranger because he has all the power to help you?

You hear his quiet voice from outside the curtains and scowl. He’s so fucking polite to her, it’s irritating. Would it be worth it to barge out here and twist his neck? But no, the Capitol dog would report you for violating whatever stupid laws there are around here. So what else can you do other than to sit here and sulk?

“Oh,” he says after who knows how long. He parts the curtains and gives you a strange look. “You’re still here.”

The Capitol dog must’ve left.

You’re immediately in his face. The smell of fresh mint and linen reaches your nose. “Of course I’m still fucking here! You promised me a job!”

He raises his eyebrows. Your heart drops. “So what, you think I’d really let you work here?”

The hurt on your face is hard to conceal. You hate it. Hate being weak, hate being vulnerable. So you do the only thing you know how to do: you fight back. “Maybe you should,” you tell him, voice icy. “What was it that the Capitol dog said? About old woman Hennenger? You killed her, didn’t you?”

You think he might lunge at you again. To your surprise, however, he just slumps against the wall. “And what if I did? You seemed to have betrayed a larger sum of people.”

Is that all that he gained from your sob story? That you’re a betrayer? That your deception probably killed hundreds?

“You’re a monster,” is all you can muster up.

“I never said I wasn’t,” is his emotionless reply.

“You killed her and then you took over her shop and now, you can’t even face the Capitol because they let you get away with it once, but they’re not gonna be so forgiving after that. So even if you’re hurt,” your finger grazes his cheek, “you can’t seek medical attention.” You glance down at his left leg too, for good measure. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

“For someone who’s been begging me for help, you don’t sound too desperate anymore,” he says. But the way he evades answering your question… You must be correct.

“If I kill you, will I be able to take over the shop?” you say. “Does that sound desperate enough for you?”

“You’d think they’d leave you alone?” he says. “You’re the Capitol’s Princess. If you left, they’d know.”

“I’m not their fucking princess!” you yell. “How can I be? They treat me like an animal!”

“Am I supposed to feel bad for you?” he asks.

You sputter. “N-No! Why the hell would I want your pity? I just want to work here. Let me work for you!”

“No,” he says, sternly. “You can’t.”

You have never wanted to strangle someone to death so badly. There are glass bottles everywhere in this shop. One tiny accident, one little wrong move and they should shatter into a million sharp pieces. If you were to take one of these shards and stab him in the jugular… No. No! You can’t kill the only person who could be the key to your escape, to your freedom.

You have to play this smart. You have to manipulate him. Sweet talk won’t work on this man; he hates you too much for any of your coy tactics to work. But maybe, maybe persistence will.

SIX.

Despite Yoongi’s protests, you come to the store every single day. You arrive in the early morning, ignoring his violent threats, and leave swiftly in the late afternoon—after you’ve helped him clean up the shop.

Though he scowls every time the silver bell rings and you step in, he can’t do much to force you to leave. He knows that if he were to challenge you to a fight, he’d lose—with his bad leg and all. You and he both know that while you took only three days to kill off 23 people, he took nearly twenty.

“I swear to fucking god I’m going to call the Peacekeepers,” he mumbles under his breath whenever the two of you fall into a minor disagreement—which occurs as naturally as one might breathe—but he never follows through. Probably because you and he both know the Peacekeepers would never come.

It’s also not like he can stop you from interacting with the customers, either. If anyone asks who you are, you immediately give them your brilliant smile, push Yoongi out of the way and announce that you are a part-time worker. He can’t even argue with you—not without raising suspicion. And you quickly come to realize that the man has a paralyzing fear of the Peacekeepers.

So, he always lets you stay. He doesn’t have much of a choice.

And besides, you’re a diligent assistant.

“Good day, Miss Bijou!” you say as you rush out to greet the regular customer. “What can I do for you today?”

“I’d like a refill, Y/N,” she says, holding up two empty glasses bottles.

You recognize the shapes instantly. “Two conditioners, Yoongi!”

He grunts in reply, rustling around in the back as he gets started with Miss Bijou’s refills. Soon, the modest shop begins to smell of sweet honeycomb, amber and sugary vanilla. They’re smells that encompass the entirety of Miss Bijou, and you have to give Yoongi some credit for being so accurate in his judgments all the time.

“How are the cats?” you ask the Capitol dog. “I hope Glimmer’s surgery went well last week. Oh, and did Shimmer finally learn that new trick you’ve been getting him to do?”

Miss Bijou brightens up when you give her attention. She is a peculiar lady—not at all rude or condescending like some of the other Capitol dogs. Instead, she is… sweet.

“Oh,” she giggles, hand placed politely on her lips. “Glimmer’s in the process of recovering,” she says. “And Shimmer, oh goodness! He can’t seem to catch on, unlike his sister! She’ll have to teach him after she’s all healed.” She smiles at you kindly, and her feathered skirt bounces as she moves, holding up a basket full of Capitol pastries. They smell absolutely delicious, even complementing her personal scent. “I picked these up for you,” she says. “For working so hard! They’re for you too, Yoongi!” she calls to him behind the counter, where he’s got his sleeves rolled up, goggles on, mixing whatever chemicals and fragrances for Miss Bijou’s refills.

“Thanks,” he replies.

But you’re a bit more animated than that. You gasp, taking the basket from her hands. “Oh, Miss Bijou, these look wonderful; thank you so much! We’ll eat them down to the last crumb! Are these from Mr. Bauble’s bakery down the street?”

She nods, blushing. “Yes, of course! The best bakery in town!”

You laugh, putting a hand on her shoulder. “You go there pretty often, don’t you?”

She stutters, “T-The pastries are too good!”

“I’m sure Mr. Bauble enjoys your company,” you smile. “You should ask him how Trinket is,” you tell her. “He loves his cat as much as you love yours.”

Miss Bijou flushes a deeper shade of pink. “Maybe I will next time.”

As if just on cue, Yoongi interrupts the conversation and hands Miss Bijou her two refilled bottles of conditioner. She squeals with joy. “Thank you!” She quickly digs through her tiny purse and pulls out a wad of bills. “Here,” she says, shoving the money into your unoccupied hand.

“Oh!” you say, eyes widening almost comically. “That’s so much—”

“Take it,” she sings, enclosing her hand around yours. “It’s thanks to you that I’ve been talking to Mr. Bauble more often these days.” She tucks her bright pink hair behind her ear. “I’ll see you next week?” she asks.

“Of course,” you answer, beginning to walk her out of the store. Her feathered skirt bounces behind her as she moves.

“You too, Yoongi!” she calls out from behind. “I’ll see the both of you soon!”

He only waves.

Then, she’s gone, the silver bell on the door jingling, and the only trace of her presence is the lingering intoxicatingly sweet smell of her personal scent.

You immediately turn around from the door, a murderous look on your face. “God, if I have to squeal and giggle again one more time today, I’m going to kill someone.” You set the basket full of pastries down on the counter and toss Yoongi the money. He catches the bills and counts them meticulously—right in front of you. He always does that. You think he thinks you’ll steal from him. The thought is tempting, of course, especially after seeing him being so annoyingly careful with the money. But that would ruin the little trust that he has for you. And then all these early mornings walking to his shop and squealing your goddamn ass off with the Capitol dogs would’ve been for nothing.

“Your squealing and giggling is helping the business,” Yoongi answers. He looks at you, black eyes seemingly staring into your soul. “You’re disgustingly charming.”

“I know,” you say. “People can’t get enough of me.”

It’s true. You can shift your personality to be whoever the other person wants you to be. For kind, insecure people like Miss Bijou, you’re bubbly and supportive. For men who are rough around the edges, you flirt a little to find your way into their hearts. For mean, uptight women, you act subservient, act as if you couldn’t ever possibly upstage them—it helps boost their egos, and in turn, they open up to you.

You spend most of your time in Yoongi’s shop listening to the Capitol dogs. You’re used to it, however. After your nightly sessions, most of the men want to talk to you too—about their ugly wives, their disobedient children, their unsatisfying jobs. You usually massage their shoulders, coo something suggestive in their ear, and they tend to shut up right away. But the shop customers aren’t as easy to take care of.

You have to play along. You have to pretend that you care.

There are women who come in, begging for Yoongi’s expertise so that they feel lovable. There are men who come in, wanting to feel more confident. There are young girls who frequent the shop, swearing that no one else makes the whipped lotions as soft and smooth as Yoongi does. Their stories blend in together.

Too many women want to impress other men.

Too many men want to impress other women.

Too many children are caring about how tantalizing, how alluring they smell. When you were their age, you were lucky if you even got to take a bath once a month.

But then there are the outliers.

There’s a man who comes in one morning—and not just any man—a Peacekeeper. Yoongi immediately steps out, a terrifying look on his face. It reminds you of the version of him you’ve seen on the big screen: menacing, unafraid to kill. He motions you to hide behind the curtains and scowls when you don’t listen to him.

“Hello, sir,” you tell the Peacekeeper, though cautious enough to not overbear him with too much charm. You’re polite but nothing more than that. “What are you looking for today?”

You can see Yoongi behind you, gripping a glass bottle particularly hard in his hands. You’re not sure if it’s because of distrust or genuine fear.

But the Peacekeeper only takes off his helmet, which might as well have signed a peace treaty. “Is this the shop that sells personal scents?”

He’s on the older side, eye bags sagging, hair completely white and wrinkles on his forehead. Even with the Capitol’s anti-aging cosmetics, he looks eternally tired.

“Yes,” you say. “This is the place.”

Yoongi’s still on his guard, glaring at the Peacekeeper through the slits of his eyes.

“And… And this personal scent… can it be made for other people?”

You cock your head. “Other people, sir?”

“What are you planning?” Yoongi asks. He steps closer to the Peacekeeper, eyes still narrowed.

“He’s just our customer, Yoongi,” you tell him, and though your voice is light and teasing, the glare you throw his way screams bloody murder. You turn back to the Peacekeeper, a polite smile on your face. “If you can describe the essence of this person, we can try to make it happen,” you say.

“Will these do?” the Peacekeeper asks, pulling out a photograph from his uniform, along with a small teddy bear. His hands shake as he shows them to you.

Inside the photograph is a young girl; she couldn’t be more than six years old.

“Your daughter, sir?”

“Yes,” he says. “My daughter. I wanted something… To remember her by.”

You force your eyes to soften. “Oh, sir…” You try to think of something a sympathetic person would say. “She looks like such a bright child.”

He nods in agreement. “She was… So… can you…? Can you do it? I know she’s not here right now, but I can tell you everything I know about her. I even brought her favorite teddy bear… It’s a little old… Think it’s been twenty years since she’s last held it.”

You turn to glance at Yoongi. He looks stoic as ever, but he moves forward to take the teddy bear and photograph from the Peacekeeper’s hands. “I recommend infusing her personal scent into an essential oil,” he says. “It’s useful for air diffusers, candles and incense. Good for keeping around your home.”

The Peacekeeper looks forever grateful. “Thank you, thank you so much.”

And to try to gauge an accurate personal scent on the young girl without ever meeting her, Yoongi asks the Peacekeeper to talk about his daughter. The man goes on and on for hours. Other customers come and go, and you tend to these regulars, simply filling up their refills as Yoongi had taught you.

You hear just fragments of the Peacekeeper’s monologue, “...was always so bright and adventurous… didn’t like to share her adventures until you tickled them out of her… hated dead animals… afraid of the dark… loved ice cream for breakfast… Died when they bombed the Capitol… identified her body three weeks later… never had a funeral. There were just too many casualties.” He says something about wanting to kill the rebels, the ones who had bombed the Capitol nearly 30 years ago. You fight the urge to tell him that it’s too late; they’re already dead. The Capitol was sure to take care of that.

And you were the one who killed the new batch of rebels. Did you unknowingly avenge the Peacekeeper’s daughter’s death?

By the time you’re done helping the others, the Peacekeeper is done talking. The first thing you notice is that Yoongi looks annoyed. You would be too, if you had to listen to someone jabber about another person for more than one sentence. You cannot fathom it. How can you care about someone so much that you can talk about them like that for hours? How can someone be fond of you so much that they find comfort in your scent? The annoyance is replaced with confusion.

And soon, with Yoongi working his magic, the entire shop begins to smell of lilac and magnolia with softer notes of rose and jasmine. It’s so undeniably the little girl in the photograph that you have to admire Yoongi’s expertise.

The smell makes the Peacekeeper emotional, and you have to hand him a few tissues to help him compose himself.

“I-I’m sorry,” he sniffles. “It just… It makes me feel like she’s by my side again.”

You don’t understand.

Why would anyone want someone else by their side?

“Good for you,” Yoongi says, curtly.

You push him out of the way. “The smell is lovely,” you tell the Peacekeeper. “I’m sorry about your daughter, sir. She sounded like such a wonderful young girl. I would’ve loved to have met her.” You hand him back the teddy bear and the photograph, and he takes them, staring at the items in his hands.

He smiles sadly. “Thank you…” he says. “I feel… I feel better.” He looks up at you, worn eyes filled with tears. “She would’ve loved an older sister like you.”

Something horrible spawns in your gut. It twists around, fighting to escape, and you have to secure your hand on your stomach to ignore the searing pain.

“What was her name?” you ask, though you know you would forget by tomorrow.

“Haeun,” he says. “Her mother… she wanted to name her Glitter—it was a popular name in the Capitol back then. But I insisted on Haeun. It’s a name from the districts. From District 2.”

You turn to Yoongi. There are no fluctuations in his expression.

“Are you from District 2?” you ask.

The Peacekeeper nods. “It was either become a Peacekeeper or become a trainer in the academy. And…” he glances at Yoongi, “I didn’t want Haeun to grow up in a place like that… I didn’t want her to become a killer.”

Yoongi scoffs, though it’s a very quiet one. The Peacekeeper is too busy drowning in his emotions to even notice.

“And you chose right,” you say. You press harder against your stomach, wincing a little when it retaliates with a sharp pang. “She never became a killer.”

He blots his eyes with the tissue you gave him and smiles at you. “But when I look at you, I think, ‘Maybe she would’ve turned out fine if I had trained her to win the games.’ You’re a Victor from District 8, aren’t you? Your parents must be so proud… all their hard work raising their kid… It paid off. You haven’t lost your humanity.”

Have you, really? Is this the impression that you give off to strangers? That you’re perfectly normal and polite after the complete nightmare you’ve been in the games? That the you in the games was a fake? That the current you is the real you?

It’s all wrong. Right now, solacing this crying man is the fakest that you’ve ever been. And you liked yourself more in the Arena. Besides, how could your parents be proud of you? You barely remember what they looked like after they sold you off to the rebels. And the rebels? You’ve betrayed them, and they’re all probably dead—or worse, working for the Capitol. Does he really think you turned out “fine?”

Yoongi steps in. He pushes you back and faces the Peacekeeper himself. You notice that his hands are shaking.

“You made the right choice,” he tells the Peacekeeper. “Not everyone can survive the academy in District 2.”

The Peacekeeper nods, but he’s silent, lost in his thoughts.

“We have another customer scheduled to come in a few minutes,” Yoongi continues on. “I apologize for rushing you, but we’ll have to prep to help them.” Lies. All lies. He does it so easily.

“O-Oh! Of course,” the Peacekeeper says. He wipes the last of his tears away and positions his helmet back on his head. “I… I don’t know how I could ever repay you,” he says. “I don’t think any sum of money would be enough.”

“No,” Yoongi says. “Money’s fine.”

He gets a large wad of bills from the Peacekeeper—much more than what the price was originally asking for.

The Peacekeeper won’t stop mumbling his gratitude, even after Yoongi has to push him towards the exit. He leaves eventually, but not before turning around and giving the two of you one last gesture of gratitude.

“Thank you,” he says, voice shaking. It doesn’t take a genius to know that he’s crying under his helmet. “Thank you so much.”

Your stomach stings. “I’m glad we could be helpful,” you say with a feigned smile.

And just like that, he’s finally gone.

Yoongi collapses against the counter, hands still shaking, and you? You’re lost in your thoughts, stomach twisting uncomfortably.

After a while, Yoongi’s the first to speak.

“Damn fucking Peacekeepers,” he grunts, rummaging around the used tools and beginning the arduous clean-up process. “They think they’re so fucking high and mighty. What the fuck was that he said to you? That you turned out fine? That you haven’t lost your humanity? Is he out of his goddamn mind?” His face is so eerily dark that even you’re a little shocked. “He didn’t want his daughter to become a fucking killer? Like we ever had a fucking choice! Fuck!” he curses, hurling a glass beaker into the sink. It breaks cleanly in half with an ear-splitting crack!

You stare at him, still massaging your upset stomach.

“Calm down,” you say. “He’s just an ignorant Capitol dog. Don’t waste your energy getting upset about it.”

“You should be more upset,” Yoongi says. “I can stand normal Capitol citizens spewing out bullshit, but Peacekeepers? They’re the fucking instigators! They’re the guiltiest of them all—right after fucking President Snow and the Gamemakers themselves!”

“You’re so worked up,” you tell him, cocking your head. “Do you really think that I didn’t turn out that fine?”

This time, he’s the one who stares at you. “You’re joking.”

At least you tried.

“Whatever,” you say. “What fucking ever. It doesn’t matter. If you hate him that much, then he got what he deserved, anyway. His fucking daughter died. He’s depressed. He’s the one who emptied out half of his wallet to buy shit from your shop. It doesn’t matter. Everyone lost.”

Yoongi doesn’t respond. Only carefully picks up the two broken pieces of the beaker. For a second, you think he might throw them at you. But when he carefully tosses them in the trash bin, you blink—as if you can’t believe your eyes.

Maybe he’s right. Would a normal person be afraid that everything everyone else does is an attack against them?

“My stomach hurts,” you say. “I’m going on a lunch break.”

“You’re not allowed lunch breaks,” he says.

“Are you going to stop me?” you ask.

He pauses. “No,” he says, after he seemingly realizes that he can’t really do anything about it.

So you take a longer lunch break than usual, de-stressing yourself and erasing the words that the Peacekeeper had spoken to you until all that is left in your memory is his love for his daughter—you already forgot her name. The horrible feeling in your stomach goes away after a while. You forget that it was even there in the first place.

Another time, there’s an Avox.

You are kind, chirpy when greeting her; it’s your default persona when you see someone who looks older than a teenager but younger than a middle-aged woman. But all too soon, you realize that she can’t speak back—that she’s the Capitol’s slave. They must’ve cut off her entire tongue because the only sound she can make is this faint, guttural noise. But you hide your initial shock in a matter of milliseconds. “You must have orders from your master,” you tell her with a smile. “Could they not make it to pick up their orders?”

The Avox shakes her head. She’s on the younger side, a little shy, too. She stares at her hands the whole time.

“Stop talking to it,” Yoongi says, swiftly collecting bottles of lotions and perfumes and placing them in a thick, purple bag. He must know who the master is. “You’re gonna get us all in trouble.” He hands the filled bag to the Avox, who takes it without once looking up.

But before turning to leave, the Avox pauses, and you watch as she inhales a whiff of Yoongi’s personal scent. Yoongi never overdoes it; he only slathers on a bit of lotion around his arms and neck to achieve a faint effect. It’s not overbearing, nothing too fancy at all, so customers can’t accuse him of manipulating them into buying more products; yet the smell’s still there, giving him a small boost of charm—he really needs it.

You see Yoongi subscribing to his lotion routine every day, just minutes before the two of you open up the shop. The scent is the first thing you smell when you walk in every morning. That crisp smell of mint, sour lemon and clean linen. It’s started to become a smell that brings you strange calm. Not because Yoongi’s wearing it, but because you’ve always been a fan of mint.

You smelled it a lot in District 8; there were mint bushes outside the factories, in the forest, too. You’d come home every day from training smelling the leaves. You used to imagine that the smell itself would soothe the aching pain in your wrists, your sore arms and legs. It was one of the many lies you told yourself to endure your training.

The Avox must like the smell too because she’s lingering, trying to ingrain that particular scent in her head. She must be so deep in her thoughts, because the next thing you know, her grasp on the bag slips, and the whole thing falls to the floor with a loud clang.

You’re the first to crouch down and pick up the thick bag. It’s mostly reflex, not kindness that forces you to do it. Nothing cracks, thanks to the heavy fabric—it would’ve made a nasty mess that Yoongi would’ve made you clean.

You smile as you hand the Avox the bag back. “Mint’s a nice scent, isn’t it?” you say. “Smelled it all the time back in my district.”

Her eyes light up with recognition. She lets out a gargled noise that sounds a lot like the number eight. Or maybe you’re imagining it. But if she is from District 8…

You suddenly search her eyes, her face, her posture. She couldn’t be… Could she?

There were so many people involved in the rebellion that you never got to learn everybody’s faces and names. But the others? They all knew who you were. You were the face of the movement; how couldn’t they know you?

So was she involved too?

And does she know what you’ve done?

Does she secretly wish that she could bludgeon you to death for selling out the others?

The foreign feeling is back: the horrible emptiness in your gut, the wrenching of your insides.

But you force yourself to smile. “Well, you’re all set,” you tell her. “Have a nice day!”

She looks so grateful—as if no one has ever bothered picking up the things she has dropped in years. As if no one has ever looked her way, even talked to her unless they were giving out orders.

But what if she wants you dead?

What if she’s hiding her real emotions, just as you are?

You don’t get much time to mull over it, however, because she’s hastily leaving—either embarrassed about dropping the bag or eager to escape the presence of you, the one who ratted out the rebellion.

Yoongi stares at you. And though you have your back turned to him, you can feel his gaze piercing through the back of your head. “You didn’t have to be so nice to it.”

You press on your stomach, grimacing slightly. “I know.” You turn to him when you can manage the pain a little better. “I know how I’m supposed to treat an Avox.”

But what if she’s a Avox because of you?

You would’ve preferred it if she tried to kill you. Her grateful gaze flashes in your mind. The pain in your stomach worsens.

“Do you, though?” Yoongi asks. “Because I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to talk to them if you’re not going to give them orders.”

“I was trying to be amiable,” you tell him. “She’s still technically a customer.”

“No, she isn’t,” he says. “Her master is.”

“Why do you always have to argue with me?”

“I only do it when you’re wrong.”

“God!” you shout, running your fingers through your hair. Yoongi’s not making anything easier. Now you have to deal with him and the strange stomach pain. “Sometimes I wish I could fucking kill you.” But you regret it at soon as the words come out.

“Why don’t you do it then?” he says. “Maybe you’d put me out of my fucking misery.”

Your eyes involuntarily widen. Does he really think that you’d kill him? As much as he’s akin to a pesky fly, you don’t think you completely despise him anymore. But does he still despise you?

“I-I thought…” You hate that you stuttered. You hate that he got to hear it come from you. You clear your throat. “I thought you of all people would be happy.” He owns his own shop, despite the dubious ways in which he’d inherited it. He makes quite a lot of money every day. He no longer has to worry about President Snow breathing down his back if his sales drop just a little bit.

But Yoongi laughs out loud, to your surprise. It’s the kind of laughing you’d do when you’re in utter disbelief. Ergo, he’s not laughing because you said something funny; he’s laughing because you said something stupid.

“Me? Happy?” he says. “I’m a Victor, Y/N. I’ll never be happy.” He glances at you. “How can I be? When the person who toyed with and killed my brother won’t leave me alone?”

There’s a lump in your throat. It’s comparatively tinier than the last one, but it’s still there, threatening to squeeze your throat closed. Yet… you ignore it, trying not to think about how hard it is to breathe. “Well, surprise,” you say, dryly. “I guess no one is ever fucking happy. So you really aren’t that special.” You scoff. “Everyone who fucking comes into this shop is depressed. They all come here because they want something. Because they’re desperate. Isn’t it funny? The desperate helping the desperate.”

He scowls. “I never said I was desperate.”

“You never say you said anything,” you retort.

“That’s because you put words in my mouth.”

“I’m only saying what you’re probably thinking.”

“Oh, because you’re such a fucking mind reader?”

“Maybe you’re that fucking easy to read.”

“Go fucking take your billion hour lunch break,” he tells you. “I have better things to do than argue with someone like you.”

Someone like you, huh?

Well, if he really hates you so much, he must hate most of his customers. Because a good percentage of the people who come to this shop—other than the Capitol dogs—are just like you. They frequently blend into the shadows, often ashamed that they’ve resorted to this tactic—as if it’s something illegal. Other times, though extremely rarely, they are proud and haughty; you can almost mistake them for a Capitol dog if you aren’t so keen.

These are the people who have been sold to the Capitol by President Snow. Just like you. People who are forced to spend their nights with strangers. People who are barely getting by because every cent they make, President Snow takes. And the tips that their clients give them—especially if they’re not a Victor—are scarcely enough to keep them afloat.

But if Yoongi really hates people like you, then why does he give them a special discount? Why does he give them products for free?

“What did you mean?” you ask him, weeks later.

He turns around from cleaning the tinted windows. “Mean what?”

“When you said that you hate people like me,” you say.

He frowns. “I never said that.”

Those words are like a trigger. Why does he never admit to anything? Before you know it, you’re raising your voice. “Yes, you did!”

“You’re only proving my point,” he says.

“How the hell am I proving your point? What even is your point?”

“You have a fucked-up perception of things,” he tells you.

“Excuse me?”

“You think that everyone is against you,” he says, so casually, so easily. There’s no way he came up with this on the spot. He’s thought about it before; you’re sure of it. It bothers you. How long has he been psychoanalyzing you? “You think that you’re the fucking victim and everyone else is the villai—”

“So?” you say, cutting him off. “Is that so bad?”

“It is when you start remembering things incorrectly,” he says. “I never told you that I hate people like you. I told you that I can do better things than argue with someone like you. You know, someone who always fucking thinks the other person is attacking them. People like you are so blinded by their own fucking perception that they can never admit when they’re wrong.”

“I do it to survive,” you tell him. “Because everyones does want to bring me down!”

“Well, wake up then,” he says. “We’re not in the Arena anymore.”

“You might not be!” you tell him. You can feel yourself losing patience. “But I still have to go to the Capitol buildings at the end of the day. I still have to sleep with these repulsive men and women knowing that if I refuse, Snow will have my head!” There’s a pause while you catch your breath. And when you come to, your voice is cold, icy. “What makes you better than that Peacekeeper you hated so much? You both need to get off your high horse.”

Your words seem to shock Yoongi into silence.

“What?” you say. “I’m right, aren’t I? Got nothing to say all of a sudden?”

He pauses a moment before nodding his head. “No, I have something to say.”

“What ever could it be?”

“That I was wrong. And I’m sorry.”

Then he simply turns around and begins wiping the windows clean again.

All you can do is stare at the back of him, mouth agape. Was this some sort of trick? Is he pulling on your leg? He must think you’re stupid if you actually believe his apology.

“What are you doing?” Yoongi asks. He doesn’t turn around, just pauses his cleaning. “Aren’t you going to help?”

You scowl. And without saying anything more, you pick up another rag, walking over to clean the windows on the other side of the door. The two of you work silently, you seething in anger and suspicion, and Yoongi? You have no idea what he’s fucking thinking. Neither do you care.

But you do know that tomorrow, the two of you will act like nothing happened.

And just like this, with mid-sized banters here and there and wordless resolutions, months pass. Now, your presence is always expected in Yoongi’s shop. He still scowls at you when you enter, sure, but that might be due to habit. Just as you, by habit, shoot him back a murderous glare. Regulars come to greet both you and him, and they often bring you gifts, sometimes forgetting to do the same for him. You’ve quickly become a favorite, though you’re not so sure how. Can they not see through your façade? Don’t they know that you don’t really care about them? Don’t they realize that you simply covet the nice gifts and large tips that they leave you?

Even so, there must be something different in the way that you treat them. Because Yoongi mentions it, nonchalantly, one day. The feeling of wanting to murder him in cold blood doesn’t completely go away, but it comes less frequently now. Yet he still has a way of getting in your head. It’s enough to make you want to slap some sense into him—not enough to kill him, but well-enough to bruise his stupid ego.

“I noticed you don’t call them Capitol dogs anymore,” he says as he thoroughly cleans his soiled gear while leaning against the counter.

The store smells like honey, amber and vanilla—Miss Bijou’s personal scent. She’d just left a couple of minutes ago, but she’d stayed longer than usual. Turns out, the man she was in love with, Mr. Bauble, recently became engaged to another woman. She had cried big, fat tears, the feathers on her skirt wobbling as she hugged you. One of the feathers on her lashes had also fallen off, but everyone just pretended that didn’t happen—to save her from further embarrassment. She wouldn’t let go until you had to gently coax her to spend her money on more products.

“Do it for yourself, Miss Bijou,” you’d told her. “Mr. Bauble never deserved you anyway. So show him that you’re better off without him.”

She’d complied, hugged you tightly, told you that you were one of her only friends, and left the store with four bags in her hand—an obvious splurge. Your entire year’s worth of salary, spent in a blink of an eye.

You look back from feather dusting the shelves, giving Yoongi a distasteful look. “I’m glad you have a brain to be able to discern that.” But the mysterious feeling in the pits of your stomach had come back as soon as Miss Bijou had left. It’s coming so often these days that it’s strange when you don’t feel it.

“You’re nicer to them too,” he says.

You frown. “I was always nice to them.”

“I know,” he answers. “It just feels more genuine these days.”

“Well, it’s not.”

“Really?” His eyebrows raise. “Is that why you’ve been feeling sick to your stomach so often?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

He gives you a strange look.

You stare right back at him.

He’s the first to break eye contact, staring down at the messy residue of assorted lotions, candle wax and perfume on the wooden counter. He sighs. But before he can even reach down to grab a rag to wipe it all down, you’re doing it yourself.

He gives you another strange look.

You give him the side eye. It’s nothing special. But during the months of working for Yoongi, you’ve come to know exactly what condition he likes to keep his (stolen) shop in. Subsequently, at times, it can even seem like you can read his mind.

SEVEN.

The silver bell chimes when you walk in. Except, today’s a little different. Where is that stupid, welcoming scowl of his? And where is he?

You carefully step into the shop, instinctively slinking into the shadows. This is what they taught you to do during your training: to be the predator, to wait out the danger, to leap in when you spot weakness. Even after all of these years, you can’t seem to escape it.

You’re not stupid.

This could very much be the work of President Snow. He probably figured out that you’ve been spending time with one of his ex-prostitutes and thought he was giving you bad ideas, which, he was. Maybe Yoongi’s somewhere in the Capitol building now, being tortured alive. Maybe there are rows and rows of Peacekeepers hiding behind that purple curtain, waiting to jump you and take you there too.

Do they really think some Peacekeepers could take you out? The rebels trusted you to assassinate President Snow and murder everyone else in the room. You’re a built killer; if you want, you can kill anything in your path with a blink of your eye. You’re stealthy, picking up a glass bottle, ready to tug the curtains down and kill whoever dares to hurt you. But then you hear a crash! and an oomph!

No Peacekeeper in their right mind would let out such a pathetic sound. President Snow would have their head.

The sound comes from behind the curtains; it’s faint, which means it’s from behind closed doors. So it must be coming from inside the door down the short hall. Yoongi’s living space. You’ve never been in there, nor have you cared that you haven’t.

Has he been taken hostage? Is a customer angry at him? But Yoongi wouldn’t let a mere Capitol citizen best him; he’s the Victor of the 95th Hunger Games. He should be tougher than that. So what the hell is happening?

He couldn’t be waiting to jump you, could he? Was the pathetic sound of weakness a ploy to let your guard down? Did all those months you spent together working the shop mean nothing to him? Probably. He must be fed-up with you; your persistence has bothered him, and now, he’s going to kill you—just like he killed old woman Hennenger.

But not if you kill him first.

You slip between the purple curtains, walking quietly across the floorboards, making no sound. Your hand ghosts around the door handle down the hall. And you hesitate. You don’t know why. You never hesitate when you go for the kill. This is why you won the games; this is why they trained you.

You shake the thoughts away. There is an uncomfortable feeling creeping into your gut. It’s horrible; similar to the sensations you’ve been feeling when you’ve dealt with customers in the past. You push past it, and you swing the door open, ready to jab the glass bottle into Yoongi’s throat.

But you stop.

He’s on the floor, next to a small bed. There’s a small kitchen in one corner, another door in the other—that one must lead to a bathroom. There’s a desk and a chair with a few dirty dishes and paperwork piled on top the table’s surface. Overall, quite a humble one-bedroom space for a shop owner who sells expensive products.

Your eyes shift back to the man. He’s crumpled on the floor, face red, hair clinging to his forehead from sweat. He seems to be in a great deal of pain.

Stern voices echo in your head.

When you see someone wounded, you finish them off.

Your training instructors told you that countless of times. That’s what you did in the Arena; it’s exactly how you won. You never hesitated, never second-guessed yourself, never let anyone get away alive.

But…

“Don’t just fucking stand there,” Yoongi grunts. “Do something.”

You stare at him. “Do… Something?”

What could you do? What is there to do? You can put him out of his misery. Is that the merciful way to put it? Is that how you kindly deal with someone who is injured? Apologize and then kill them?

“You can start by helping me up,” Yoongi tells you, outstretching his arm as if wordlessly telling you to grab it.

You look at him suspiciously. “Help you up?”

“Yes, Princess. Have you forgotten how to speak over the night?”

You scowl at him. Then, placing the glass bottle on his desk, you walk over, grabbing onto his arm and yanking him up. He winces in pain, obviously favoring his right leg. You drop him on the bed, and he nearly wobbles over. He’s so weak. If he were in the games now, even someone from District 11 could’ve picked him off.

“Thanks,” he grumbles.

You don’t answer. Because you don’t know how to respond.

When you see that he has no intentions of killing you, you sit down on his bed next to him. “They didn’t heal that after your games?” you say, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Heal this?” he frowns. “I got this after the games.”

So it hadn’t been the District 1 girl who’d mauled his leg. That would make sense. After someone wins the games, the Capitol scrubs and polishes and mends and fixes their body—it would almost be like they never fought in the Arena. So then…

“You think I got off easy when I tried to escape?” Yoongi asks.

Your eyes raise. “You let them do that to you?” You bring your legs up to cross them on the bed and Yoongi scowls.

“That’s disgusting,” he says. “Put your feet down.”

You ignore him. “I asked you a question.”

“Should I have killed them instead?” he asks, exasperated.

“Is that even a question?”

“Right. And then they would’ve killed my entire family. Back then, Jungkook was still alive.”

Oh. Right. You feel uncomfortable again. You end up putting your feet down.

“Stomachache?” he asks when he notices you pressing on your belly.

You nod.

“I had to let them do something to me,” he says. It almost comes off as an excuse, but you let him be—only because your stomach stops you from arguing. “That way, they would think they’re still in control,” he continues. “But you always wondered how I got out, didn’t you?” He doesn’t wait for you to reply. “Well, I bought it.”

“Bought it?” you say incredulously.

“I bought my way out,” he clarifies as if that would help you believe it any better. “I bribed my clients, stole from them, and then I killed Hennenger because she was old and unimportant enough to fake a health-related death.” He leans back on his bed, careful not to bump his left leg onto the edge. “She didn’t wrong me in any particular way,” he says. “She was one of my most loyal clients. But she was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

So he kills when he has to, too. Interesting.

You throw him a look. “You are a monster after all.”

“I know I am.”

“And your leg?” you say. You’ve always wondered about it. Not because you cared but because it was pitiful. “Is that when they found out?”

“They ransacked this place,” he says. He closes his eyes, but you can tell that he’s holding something in. What is it? Fear? Anger? Sadness? Why is it so hard to read him? “That dent in the wall?” He points though he’s got his eyes closed. “That’s where the Peacekeepers threw me. Had a concussion. They took turns beating me with the blunt ends of their guns—like it was some sick game. And then the leg… They were going to kill me, but I had money. A lot of it. I was saving up to escape anyways, so I paid them off. But they made it clear I’m not allowed in Capitol buildings. Hence,” he sighs, gesturing to his leg. “Hence why it’s been getting worse. God, it took me fucking ages to scrub my own blood off the floors.”

You feel sick hearing his confession.

Is this really his life? Trapped in his little fragrance shop with no way out? Even with money, he can never live like a real Capitol citizen.

So wait a minute.

This isn’t freedom. In a way, he’s just as locked up as you are. So why are you asking him for help?

Suddenly, your head feels too heavy for your neck. Your limbs feel sluggish and your stomach? It seems to free fall from inside of you. You lurch up onto your feet. The words leave your lips before you can even comprehend them:

“I have to go.”

There’s something that flashes across Yoongi’s face; it goes away so quickly that you don’t have enough time to discern what it means. But then he’s stoic again, and he lazily opens one eye. “I thought as much,” he says in an even tone. “Lock up the shop for me, will you?”

You don’t know why you half-expected him to stop you, perhaps even beg you to stay. He stays silent the entire time you walk out, and you even walked extra slowly to give him a chance to say something, anything.

Nothing.

He says nothing. He lets you leave. So you do.

You lock up the shop, closing the door behind you, hearing the faint sound of the jingling silver bell before you make your way back to the Capitol buildings. His stupid words echo in your head the whole way there:

I thought as much.

I thought as much?

I thought as much?!

What the hell is that supposed to mean?

It makes you almost irrationally angry.

Sure, you left him because he’s no use to you now, but did he really insinuate that he knew that was going to happen? Is that what he meant by fucking ‘I thought as much??’

You imagine that if you march back and confront him, he’ll berate you for putting words in his mouth again. The goddamn bastard. And why didn’t he stop you? He could’ve asked you to stay. He could’ve scolded you for being so fucking shallow.

It’s almost like he wanted you to leave! Like he was waiting for it!

You pause in your footsteps.

Did you make a mistake?

Should you have at least said goodbye?

No.

You begin to walk again.

You did the right thing.

He hates you anyway. And now that you know that he’s just as free as you are, you’ve lost interest in his aid. In fact, he probably needs help just as much as you do. So there’s no reason for you to stay with him at the shop anymore. He never wanted you there anyway. And now you don’t need to endure his stupid little scowls and annoying remarks every morning through evening.

But…

I thought as much.

God, why can’t you let that go? Leave it to Yoongi to somehow always get inside your head—even when he’s not anywhere near you. The rest of the trip to the Capitol buildings is a long one. You can’t stop repeating his words over and over again in your head.

By the time you reach the Capitol buildings, it’s time to check your pool of clients for the night. You’re considerably luckier than most. While others sleep with whoever requests them, you’re so popular that you get to pick your client for the night out of the many who ask to see you. It’s a privilege—that you get a choice.

It makes you think. Are you somehow freer than Yoongi?

No… that can’t be.

Even if Yoongi’s confined to the small quarters of his shop, he doesn’t live for anyone other than himself. If he chooses to, he can take a few days off of work and President Snow won’t have his head. He has his own agenda, his own autonomy. Well, his own autonomy to be an asshole to you, that is.

You, in the end, still live for other people. Maybe you get the illusion of power from the fact that you get to choose your clients. But it doesn’t matter who you choose because, at the end of the day, they’ll still use you, throw you out and then pay for your usage—like you’re some kind of animal. And you can’t take days off as you please or President Snow will have your head.

After you put your client to sleep, you stare at your hands from the edge of the giant bed. You’ve put your legs up on the sheets—even with your shoes on—because it’s a comfortable position. It reminds you of earlier today when Yoongi had freaked out over it.

Yoongi.

Even on your job, you couldn’t stop thinking about him.

The faux moonlight streams in from the window of your client’s suite. It bathes you in its blue light, which is supposed to calm you down, but you’re agitated all over again.

Goddammit, Yoongi. Those damned words won’t seem to leave your head:

I thought as much.

You run your fingers through your hair.

I thought as much.

You roll your eyes.

I thought as much!

You stand up. You’ll fucking show that stupid bastard. He thinks he’s so smart all the time! Thinks he can read you like a book. Well, you’ll prove him wrong. He’ll be so wrong about you that he’ll be humiliated. I thought as much, my ass.

You tiptoe around your client’s gigantic suite. He’s richer than the average citizen—most likely a Gamemaker or some sort of famous researcher. He probably has an unlimited amount of medical supplies. You dig around the place, finally finding a fridge-like cabinet with white backlight that holds everything you probably need.

You don’t care for the labels, so you take one of each product, stuffing them in the pockets of your robe and holding whatever that doesn’t fit in your hands. He’ll never notice that anything’s gone—he’s far too rich to be counting his supplies. Then, in the dead of the night, you leave the Capitol buildings, your pink silk robe billowing out behind you in the wind.

The real moonlight is a hideous, dim shade of yellow. But compared to the fake, eerie blue light in your client’s suite, it’s infinitely better. At least it somewhat calms you.

The silver bell sounds strange when it’s so dark out, but you step into the shop, where the lights are still off—the way they were in the morning. You cock your head, shifting the medicine in your arms before pulling back the purple curtains behind the counter. The walk down the short hallway is a little unsettling, and that’s coming from you, who once had to fight off dangerous rat muttations with her bare hands.

When you reach the door, you hesitate.

You feel real stupid, right now.

Did you come all the way here in the dead of the night just to prove this tree stump of a man wrong? And what about the medicine? You didn’t have to bring it, did you? But what if he’s dead behind that door? What if you left him when he was dying? Well then, that’d really suck. Because how else would you prove him wrong now?

That is exactly why you brought the medicine. You want him to be conscious when he sees you come through that door. You want to see that shocked look on his face.

The door creaks open. Inside, the room is pitch-black dark. You can barely make out a figure on the bed. The figure groans. Well, he’s not dead at least.

You switch on the light. And there Yoongi is, laid out on the bed, in the exact same position you saw him hours ago. Had he not moved the entire day? You walk closer to him, only to find him staring up at his ceiling blankly.

Where’s his scowl? His snarky commentary?

“I’m back,” you say, only slightly desperate for a reply.

There’s something glistening on his face. Is there a leak on the ceiling? Your eyes train up to see what he could possibly be staring at, but there’s nothing interesting up there at all—not even a crack. So the wetness on his face…

“Are you crying?”

He finally blinks. In fact, he blinks several times. “I was,” he croaks. He sounds bad. Much worse than the way you’d left him this morning.

For a second, you’re angry that you didn’t come sooner. You would’ve liked to see him cry.

“Well, I brought some medicine, so you don’t have to whine about the pain anymore.” You sit on the bed, laying out the assortment of creams and bottles of pills to show Yoongi. He barely looks your way.

“Why are you back?”

Your hands hover over the medicine. “What do you mean?”

“You left,” he says. “Why did you come back?”

“I always leave and come back. That’s how working part-time works,” you sigh.

“No,” he says, closing his eyes again. “This time, you weren’t going to.”

How is he so sure?

“Well, I’m here now,” you say. “So you were wrong.”

Silence.

It’s so, so awkward. Why isn’t he fighting back? He should be saying something mean. This is why you came back! To see his reaction; to fight with him. But why is he so weak?

“I thought about giving up, you know.”

You turn to him. “Giving up?”

He hums. “Sometimes waking up doesn’t seem worth it.”

Why is he telling you this? And how the hell are you supposed to respond to that?

“Why did I want to live so bad?” he says. But it sounds like he’s talking to himself, not you. “It feels like such a waste. That I out of the 23 others had to be the one who lived. And look at me now, busted leg, terrified of the fucking Peacekeepers, living in hiding, being so fucking alone all the time… I’ve killed so many people to be alive, but why did I do it? If I’m going to live like this? Even if I try to be a better person, it will never erase what I’ve done.”

You stare at him. This is far beyond being weak and vulnerable.

He might as well be digging his own grave. How can he be like this in front of you? You could kill him in the blink of an eye if you wanted to. How can he trust you like this? To be so open and bare in front of you?

“I was so ready,” he croaks. “I was ready to accept my fate. So why the hell did you waltz back in?” Yoongi’s eyes slowly open and he stares straight back at you, cold, hard eyes meeting your very own. “I know you didn’t do it because you care about me.”

“You’re right,” you say. “I don’t.”

“You probably wanted to prove me wrong,” he says. “Even though I’m no use to you anymore, you’re stubborn, and you hate it when I’m right.”

You also hate that he can read you like a book.

“Are you going to take the medicine or not?” you say, an exasperated sigh leaving your lips. “It’s fucking three in the morning and I came all the way from the central Capitol to deliver this to you.”

“Whatever,” he says. “Just leave me alone.”

Something inside your stomach twists again.

But you can’t just leave him alone. You didn’t walk all that distance just to walk back in your flimsy pink silk robe. You’re going to finish what you started.

So without another word, you seize Yoongi’s leg, roll up his pants and take a look at the injury yourself.

He winces, eyes scrunching closed, but he doesn’t say anything.

The leg is bright red and swollen. It looks like most of the damage is from the inside. How fucking convenient. You noisily sort through the medicine to find something worth using until Yoongi has to spit out a very annoyed, “Can you be any louder?”

You get the sudden urge to snap his leg.

But that would be the exact opposite of what you’re trying to do. You’ve only ever tried to heal yourself. Why would you ever care about another person’s well-being?

Still, you pick up a thick, silver cream that looks just about credible and begin to lather it onto his lower leg. He grimaces every time your fingers make contact on his skin, but he doesn’t complain.

It’s hard being gentle.

The only time your skin is on someone else’s is when you’re servicing them or killing them.

So this is quite new.

When you’re finished, you roll back down his pants and throw a bottle of pills in his face. His eyes open and you see annoyance flash across his features.

“Eat up,” you tell him.

“I can’t fucking figure you out,” he says, groggily picking up the bottle of pills from out of his face.

“Then don’t.”

He looks at you strangely. “Okay.”

Every time he agrees with you, something feels wrong. You’re just so used to being alone, fending for yourself that when someone’s on your side, it feels like an act. Like a lie.

“I think I’ll start paying you,” Yoongi suddenly says. “For working.”

Your eyes widen. “Paying me? Are you delirious?” Maybe his leg is worse than you thought.

“I’m serious,” he deadpans.

“Why the hell would you do that?”

You’re not friends. You barely tolerate each other. You’re only helping him because… well, because you came all the way here and you might as well make something out of the trip. He may not be useful to you anymore, but… If he died, you would lose the little interest you already have in your life.

“I want you to owe me,” he says. “You helped me with my leg, so I’ll start paying you. I don’t want us to be even just yet.”

You scowl at him.

“And you still owe me two questions,” he says.

“Do I?” you pretend you’ve forgotten. “I thought you wanted to give up. Are you changing your mind?”

He leans up on his elbows, dried tears on his face, eyes bloodshot and lips cracked. “I can’t die yet,” he says, attempting a grin. “I’m a curious man. I’ll need some answers from you.”

EIGHT.

Leave it to the Capitol to invent advanced medicine and not think to share it with anyone. Whatever miracle ointment and pills you’d given Yoongi, they’d worked. He’s almost as good as new.

You wish the pills could’ve fixed his attitude, though.

He still walks with a limp, but judging by the way he carries himself, and the speed of which he can move from one place to another (mostly to slap your hand when you touch something you’re not supposed to), much of his pain seems to have subsided.

He’s also been scolding you less these days about keeping the shop in shape. It’s either because he realizes that you have blackmail material on him (now that you’ve seen him all weak and crying), or you’ve just gotten better at knowing what conditions he likes to keep his shop in.

It’s pretty funny. Despite the messy way he keeps his room, Yoongi likes to keep his shop shining from wall to wall—maybe to give off an illusion that he’s actually clean? That no one could possibly have any dirt on him? Either way, it’s a lot of work to be constantly scrubbing the counter down, washing the dirty beakers in the sink and feather dusting every inch of the place, but strangely… it’s not too horrible.

Now that you’re balancing two jobs, you have even less time to sleep. But they always told you sleep is for the dead, anyways. And besides, you think you actually enjoy coming to the shop.

It feels like a real job, now that you’re actually getting compensated for your work, and Yoongi’s generous with the money, too. Maybe he just has that much to spare. This is also the first thing in your life that you’ve voluntarily chosen to do. And it was a good choice, indeed.

You enjoy washing the glass bottles, sweeping the floors, talking to the customers (no matter how disingenuous you have to be). You enjoy the scowl on Yoongi’s face every time a customer asks for you and not him. You enjoy the fresh mint, the sween lemon and the clean linen when you walk into the store every morning to find him waiting for you at the counter.

You enjoy it all because you know that you don’t have to be here if you don’t want to.

Enjoy…

What a strange little word.

You’ve never exactly enjoyed anything in your life, for what was there to enjoy? You were always taught to get the job done, to move on from one tragedy to the next. You never had the time to stop and think to yourself, ‘Wow, I really think I take pleasure in this activity.’ How could you? When you were learning things like the fastest way to bludgeon someone to death?

But enjoyment is an amazing feeling. It puts bubbles in your chest, makes you feel like your feet are off the ground. If you’re not too careful, you might just fly away. Sometimes, you catch yourself involuntarily smiling. You never smile for yourself. Always for other people—mainly to charm them, trick them, getting them to do what you want… So what is this? Is this what enjoyment makes you do?

You’re careful never to let yourself smile in Yoongi’s presence. He would never let you hear the end of it. But still, on the nicer days, where the sunlight streams in through the tinted windows of the shop, casting its amber light on the glass bottles, reflecting small rainbows on everything inside, you can’t help the smile that slips onto your lips.

It’s pretty.

You never knew that beauty could extend to the outer world. They always told you that your vicinity was a dangerous ground, that you had to stay tense and guarded. But there’s no reason to suspect the worst around here.

It’s so peaceful.

On slower days, you no longer wait for customers at the counter; it gets old pretty quickly to count the cracks in the wood. Now, you wait with Yoongi in his room.

He usually sits at his desk, dozing off, working on some documents, eating lunch, whatever it is that he does to pass the time. And you? You sprawl on his bed in a starfish position, staring at the ceiling and letting the soft mattress support your stiff back.

The first time you collapsed onto his bed without warning, he’d given you a distasteful look. “You’re getting the fucking sheets dirty,” he’d complained.

“Like you’re any cleaner,” you replied, not moving an inch.

He couldn’t really do anything about it (nor could he disagree), so he quickly gave up. He wasn’t going to share his chair with you, either.

His bed is always so comfortable. If you were him, you would never leave it. The sheets also smell like him. The mint, the faint hints of lemon and linen. Occasionally, when he’s not looking, you bury your face into his sheets.

Except, he is looking today, and he breaks the usual silence to embarrass you about it.

“What the hell are you doing?”

You immediately jerk your face away from the bed. “Thanks for waking me up, asshole.”

He squints at you as if he’s well-aware that you’re lying. You’d never sleep in front of him; even he would know that. Sleeping is the most vulnerable position a normal person can put themselves in. And while you trust Yoongi enough to no longer want to kill him at the slightest inconvenience anymore, you don’t trust him enough to sleep while he’s in the room with you.

“Yeah, right,” he says. “Jungkook used to do that all the time, you know.”

“Do what?” You frown, sitting up on your elbows. It’s rare that he would mention his brother, and it’s even stranger that he’s doing it in front of you—the person who killed him.

“Pretend to sleep,” Yoongi answers. “He did it a lot when we were kids. And then when you’re unsuspecting, he’d reach out and wrestle you to the ground. He’d always win.”

“Oh.”

What are you supposed to say to that? The only thing you can seem to take away from Yoongi’s little anecdote is that Jungkook never grew out of that habit of his.

“You can’t seriously be sleeping during the games!” you giggle, poking at Jungkook’s cheek as he lies there on the forest floor, eyes closed, breaths even. When he doesn’t answer, you feel the urge to yank his hair. But you can’t do that. Not with the cameras on.

You’re supposed to pretend that you love him, not that you’re waiting for the perfect chance to kill him—after everyone else is already dead.

So you caress his cheek, lean in closer—just so the audience back home could squeal—and whisper, “Hey, wak—”

He’s awake and on top of you in less than a second.

You gasp, the wind nearly knocked out of you as he holds you on the ground, pinning your body down along with a couple of leaves.

How fucking stupid! How fucking weak of you to be taken out like this! You’re about to slip the knife from your pocket out to slit his throat, when you realize that he was grinning happily.

“Got you,” he sings before crawling off of you. “Did you really think I’d be asleep?”

“W-Well, I just! Your breathing was so even, I—”

He only leans in and ruffles your hair. You want to cut his hand off. “Let’s go,” he says, taking your hand. “We’ve got some others to kill.”

“—about me?”

Yoongi’s voice brings you back to reality and you blink a couple of times in an attempt to register his words. But you realize you’d missed more than half of it.

“What?”

Some time when you were lost in your head, he’d turned around. And now, his back faces you. You stare at it blankly until he repeats his question.

“Did he ever talk about me?”

The two of you make camp in front of the Cornucopia, guarding the supplies and basking in the riches the Gamemakers had to offer. The sky is dark, and the moon is shining. The dead tributes’ names had already been flashed in the sky. Four of them in total today—all killed by the two of you.

“Weren’t we productive today?” Jungkook says, offering you some jerky found in one of the packs. He cooks wild squirrel with his other hand, letting the fat drip down and sizzle into the fire.

“I guess we were,” you answer, taking the jerky and taking a small bite of it—pretty and dainty—just like they taught you. “We have five left now.” Five left before you’d have to kill him too.

“We’ve got time,” he says. “We’re doing better than my brother did, actually.” He smiles.

“Oh?” you say, even though you already knew. “You talk about him a lot.” During training, in between interviews, in the dead of the night when you’d sneak into his suite to visit him (and many others), he’d always mentioned Yoongi.

“I look up to him,” Jungkook says. “I know I said it in my interview, but I’m here because of Yoongi. Because I want to show him that I can win, too.”

Yikes, you think. “That’s admirable,” you say.

“He said he survived the Arena thinking of me,” Jungkook says, the faux moonlight cascading over his doe eyes and sculpted face. “I want to do the same. But… I dunno, he didn’t have someone like you with him…”

His gaze is too soft. Too kind. It takes everything inside of you to not look away.

“I want to be just like Yoongi,” he says. “But I want to be with you too.”

You don’t know what to say, so you just kiss him to shut him up. Thankfully, he takes the bait, and the Capitol gets a good show out of that one.

It’s too bad you can’t do the same with Yoongi. If you leaned in to kiss him, he’d probably murder you, and you wouldn’t be able to do anything about it… Because now, the thought of hurting Yoongi feels… weird. It feels odd.

“What, cat got your tongue?” he says without bothering to turn around.

You scowl. “Is this how you’re going to use one of your precious questions?”

He pauses for a second before answering, “Yeah.”

“Well…” The stomachache is back again. “He… He always said he wanted to be just like you.”

“I meant the things he said off camera. You said in your Victor interview that you cozied up with him before the games even began.”

You feel like throwing up. It’s like he’s caught you in a web, except you’re not the spider, he is.

“We weren’t usually talking when we met,” you say, which is the truth. Yoongi looks rather disgusted, but you continue on anyway. “He still told me small things. Like…” You struggle to remember. When he spoke, you’d always tuned him out. You were interested in what he could do for you, how much he could trust you, not what he had to say about his goddamn brother.

You’re in his bed, and he’s holding you in his arms, his bare chest pressed flat against your back.

“You awake?” he whispers in your ear.

“Is that even a question?” you reply with a sigh. He should know that you never sleep with someone around. But perhaps maybe he did know. Maybe he only wanted a good segue to talk to you. And even if you were a little short-tempered around him, he never minded. In fact, he enjoyed it when you were a little mean. Because you were honest with him and him only.

You can practically see Jungkook smiling. “I can’t believe we’ll be in the Arena in three days.”

“Me neither.” Although you prepared thirteen years of your life for this.

“I’ve been wanting to ask you this for a while,” he says. “But why did you volunteer?”

You turn around, exasperated. “I thought you listened to my interview.”

He just nudges your noses together. “You were lying,” he says, grinning. “I could tell.”

You sigh. “I volunteered because I knew I could win.” There was something about him that always compelled you to tell the truth—even if it was only a part of it.

“Really?” he says, face lighting up. “Me too!” Then, he laughs. “But there can’t be two winners.”

You fight the urge to roll your eyes.

“You know, back in District 2, my instructors hand-picked me to be the boy volunteer four years ago,” he says in a low whisper as if the Capitol could barge in at any minute and arrest him for illegally training for the games. “I was fourteen. But during the actual reaping, my brother overrode the already rigged selection.”

“Did he?”

“The instructors considered him too, but they ultimately chose me over him.” Jungkook’s grin widened. “I thought he was jealous at first, and I was angry at him for taking the spotlight, but as I watched him in the games, bleeding out, starving, crying out my name… I realized he did it to protect me.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really,” he says. “He thought I was too young to win. That I still had a lot to learn. So I took four years to learn more, and I volunteered myself. I’m not letting my brother down.”

“Oh yeah?” you say. “And will he be waiting at home when you come back as a Victor?”

Jungkook shakes his head. “He never came back home.”

“How protective,” you say sarcastically, but when you catch his hurt face, you smile, pushing back his bangs and pecking his cheek. “I’m sure he had his reasons.”

“I’m gonna win to find him,” Jungkook says. But he looks at you, eyes softening and his grip around you tightening. “But I’m not gonna be the one who kills you.”

How ironic. Because you’re going to be the exact person who kills him.

“He told me he wanted to win to find you,” you say, sitting up and hunching over to press on your stomach. “He told me that he didn’t want to let you down.”

Yoongi’s silent.

“He told me that he thought you were probably waiting for him at the Capitol. That when he won, he’d finally be able to meet you. And then you’d be proud of him…”

Again, silence.

“I resent you,” Yoongi finally says after a long time. “I still hate you for killing him.”

“I know.”

You don’t know what else to say.

And Yoongi doesn’t seem to mind.

The two of you dwell in the quietness of the afternoon, both sinking into your respective thoughts.

As the faint smell of mint leaves calms your mind, you realize that even if Yoongi resents you, hates you, absolutely despises you for what you did to his younger brother, he still trusts you. Why else would he be sitting at his desk with his back turned to you? Why else would he doze off some days or be lost in his thoughts with you in the room? In the Arena, that would be like him asking to be killed by you.

But, of course, this isn’t the Arena, and if he trusts you this much, you couldn’t possibly kill him—nor hurt him for that matter.

As you lazily trace the lines of the wood of the ceiling in your mind, it suddenly dawns on you.

You trust him too.

Why else would you be lying on his bed, completely unguarded with him right in front of you? Why else would you not feel the need to kill him every time he annoys you? And why else? Why else would you find comfort in his scent?

NINE.

The 103rd Hunger Games rolls around.

You and Yoongi watch the reaping together in his small space, where a cheap hologram set lies near his desk. It helps pass the time.

But the reaping is always the most boring part of the televised Hunger Games. Volunteers usually make things interesting, but volunteers at Districts 1, 2 and 4 are far too common, too predictable. And these tributes never volunteer because they want to sacrifice themselves to protect their loved ones; they volunteer because they think they’ll win. It’s flashy and ostentatious. No one wants to watch someone who thinks they’re better than everyone. Which was why everyone talked about you when you volunteered. They thought you volunteered to protect the little 12-year-old girl who had started to cry when her name was called. District 8 rarely—almost never—has volunteers, so of course they assumed you volunteered out of the goodness of your heart. You sure made it seem like that: in your interviews, in your expressions, in your actions.

But in reality, your district had an agenda, and you were merely their puppet.

You glance back at the hologram where by now, a boy and a girl have been chosen from District 8. The boy is much younger, and he’s crying. The camera makes sure to pan to his older brothers who look horror-stricken, yet they don’t have the guts to volunteer. The girl is older, but she looks desperate, eyes darting around to the girl’s section, wordlessly praying that someone will volunteer to take her spot. No one does.

Yoongi speaks absentmindedly with his eyes trained to the hologram. “I’ve never seen a District 8 volunteer other than you.”

“I didn’t do it because I was kind,” you say.

“I never said you were kind,” he says back. “You didn’t even know the girl. I always assumed you volunteered because you, for some reason, thought you would win.”

So he had seen through your cordial glances at the girl, your relieved smile when you glanced at her from up on the stage. He had seen through your kind words during your interviews—somehow just like his younger brother. The rest of the Capitol was fooled, though. They thought you were the sweetest little thing.

“You didn’t think I’d be a threat.”

“No,” Yoongi admits. “But I always suspected you’d get a lot of sponsors.”

“Did you?” you say, placing your hand on the top rail of Yoongi’s chair.

He turns around slightly in his seat to look at you. “And I was right.”

“You were.”

“I didn’t think you’d actually…” he trails off. “But as soon as I saw the training scores, I knew you were hiding something. A lot of things, actually.”

“Too bad you weren’t Jungkook’s mentor. You could’ve warned him.” The words come out of you before you can stop yourself. You glance at Yoongi to see if you’ve hit a sore spot. Will he get angry at you? Will he yell? Tell you to leave? The horrible feeling is back in your stomach again, and you want to say something, tell him that you were just joking. But would that even help?

“Yeah,” Yoongi agrees with you, to your surprise. “I could’ve. Too bad I’d already been banished. Should’ve waited a couple years before I decided to retaliate… But I never thought that idiot would volunteer to make me proud or to find me or whatever the fuck.”

“He could’ve won,” you say, though you know that’s not true. As long as you were in the games, everyone else was doomed.

“Don’t lie to me,” Yoongi says. He turns back to look at the hologram. “He was a goner the moment he saw you.”

It hurts. Your stomach turns, twists, tangles up just like yarn.

“I didn’t mean to do it,” you say, hoping it makes him feel better.

“You had a plan,” Yoongi says. “That’s what you told me, remember? Then you went rogue.”

Of course you remember. The first day you’d met—when you had cried and begged and told him your sob story. How could he ever forget?

Your grip on the chair tightens. “It wasn’t my plan,” you confess. It’s strange, but you don’t want him to hate you more than he already does. “It was theirs… People who were sick of the games,” you say. “People who were sick of the Capitol.”

“I thought so,” he says, a little too casually for your liking.

“Are you trying to tell me you knew all along?” Your eyes narrow.

“It wasn’t too hard to piece it together,” he says. “District 8’s mentors were killed during the Second Rebellion, which means no one trained you. But someone did something because you played the games better than any Career I’ve ever seen. I didn’t think some 18-year-old could’ve strategized that herself.”

“So you doubted my abilities.”

“Yes, and I was right,” he says. “I was never sure who you worked for, but I do know now.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“They wanted you to be the new Mockingjay,” Yoongi says. “So they trained you back at District 8, like the academies do in the Career districts.”

It’s quite shocking how much he can discern from little hints here and there, but he also didn’t win the Hunger Games at 16-years-old for nothing. He was always astute and observant. You just never thought that he’d observe you.

“They chose me when I was three,” you say, confirming his suspicions. “And they began training me when I was five.”

“The Third Rebellion, huh?” Yoongi says, leaning back in his chair. “I guess they didn’t think things through, putting a child at the front of their campaign.”

“It almost worked with Katniss Everdeen,” you say, though you’re not sure why you come to the rebel’s defense. It might just be a habit.

“Yeah, well, Katniss Everdeen is dead.” He’s also not wrong. “And you betrayed them, so I’d say the success rate is zero.”

You wince. “I didn’t mean to do it.”

“Really?” He sounds painfully sarcastic.

“Really,” you say. “I… I dunno. The deal was that they’d feed me, clothe me and train me. All I had to do in return were two things: win the games and assassinate Snow. I was supposed to kill him during the victor crowning.”

“He’s still alive,” Yoongi says, but it’s without malice—as if he’s only stating a fact.

“Obviously I didn’t go through with it,” you say.

Yoongi hums. “You told me before that it was because you didn’t want to work for someone again. Clearly not the entire truth,” he says. “Because you’re working for me now.” You grimace. “So why? Why couldn’t you?”

Why. What an age-old question. You’re not even sure if you can admit the real reason.

“Do you really want to use up your last question on this?” you say, eyebrows raised.

“Sure,” he replies. “Why not?”

“What if I’m not sure of the answer myself?”

This time, his eyebrows raise. “Then maybe you’re lying to yourself too.”

Why is he always right?

You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “I dunno… I just—It felt good to be congratulated for the first time in my life. They never… Well, back when I was training, they never really liked me.”

“But you were their precious Mockingjay.”

“They’d photograph me, ask me to read random scripts in front of a camera and videotape my training sessions, but it was never because they admired me. At least, it didn’t feel that way.”

“I see.”

It feels good to finally let it out. You can almost feel the pain in your stomach dissipating.

“I didn’t want to be thought of as a rebel,” you admit. “It wouldn’t make sense. I’ve always done what I was told to do. I was always so obedient. And for the longest time, I didn’t know why I was chosen and why I had to train. I just did it. No questions asked.”

You glance at Yoongi, who seems to be listening intently.

“I sold them out,” you say, and the bubble in your stomach pops. “I tipped off the Peacekeepers about their location and… I don’t know what happened to them. They’re dead now, maybe. Or they’ve become Avoxes.”

Yoongi clicks off the hologram. He turns away from you, resting his head on his hands.

“So I guess I am a monster.”

“All Victors are,” is his rather comforting answer. “But we all have our reasons.”

You had your reasons, all right.

They’d let you bleed out of your injuries from training for days—made you fight through the pain because they told you that’s how it would be like in the Arena. They’d tie you down and repeatedly hit you with non-lethal objects to get you used to blunt force trauma. They would never let you eat what you caught in the woods; instead, they’d give you the scraps of their dinner. Because it would prepare you for starvation. They never let you sleep with blankets; they didn’t even let you sleep on a bed so in the Arena, you wouldn’t miss the comfort of a plush bed with fleece blankets. Even when you were at the Capitol, they fed you detestable food—too salty jerky, nearly perished squirrel meat, small berries—because they couldn’t have you getting spoiled just days before the biggest moment of your life, could they? They made you sleep on the hard, marble floors too, and the only sanction you had was when you’d visit the other tributes in the middle of the night.

Because you knew they’d let you in their beds, and the rebels couldn’t do anything about it. Technically, you were following their directions: play coy, wrap the other tributes around your finger.

It never really hit you—the gravity of their treatment—until now.

You knew you were unhappy then, and you knew you didn’t belong with the rebels, but you didn’t think that they ever used you. When you betrayed them, you thought it was because you wanted to save yourself. You didn’t think you were trying to save yourself from them.

But how fucking funny the universe works.

Now that you escaped being used by the rebels, you’re tangled up in the same web again, being used by the same man you were supposed to kill.

It reminds you.

“It’s getting late,” you say, glancing at the small antique clock on Yoongi’s desk. “I might have some clients.”

“Might?”

“It depends,” you tell him. “I select my client of the night. If I don’t like the pool of requests, I don’t choose. But I’ll have to, sooner or later,” you say. “Or Snow’ll know I haven’t been making his money.”

“How much?” he asks.

Your head whips around to stare at his back. “What?”

“How much for the night?”

You scoff. “You’re not telling me that you actually want to—”

“Don’t get too comfortable,” Yoongi snorts. He turns, standing up from his chair to face you. You get a whiff of his scent: the mint, lemon and linen. It nearly overwhelms your senses. Did he put on more lotion than normal today? “I don’t want you in the way that you think.”

The only thing you can manage to do is roll your eyes. And after some hesitation, you tell him your price.

He nods. “I can do that.”

“So what?” you say, arms crossing over your chest. “You’re just going to steal me for the night?”

“Steal?” he asks, cocking his head. “Of course not. I’m paying for you to stay.”

It’s time to throw the age-old question right back at him. “Why?”

He gives you a long, hard look, black eyes seemingly piercing into your soul. It somehow sends something sizzling down your spine. Does he know? That you didn’t tell him everything? That you purposely left out the parts where they’d used you? Where they’d hit you, starved you, bled you out? You don’t want him to think you used to be so weak—or worse, stupid.

But he just shakes his head, maintaining eye contact as the words casually slip from his lips: “Because I figured you’d need a rest today after all that stomachache.”

TEN.

Every so often, when Yoongi’s happy with the money he’s earned that day, he’ll buy your company for the night. His money, of course, never goes to you. It’s wired straight to President Snow, who guzzles up all the profit he makes from selling young bodies to the Capitol. Staying the night at the shop also means you don’t get your usual share of the generous tips your clients leave you. But it’s worth it. Yoongi’s paying you to work, anyway.

He also always lets you sleep on his bed, but that was only after you (jokingly) threatened him. (It wasn’t anything too mean, just that you’d put a strong diuretic in his meals whenever he least expected it.) But he never reacted strongly to your threat either, so you suspect that maybe he wanted you to take the bed in the first place.

Never in your life have you ever slept on a whole bed just by yourself. It’s something that you could get used to. Being able to stretch out your legs without touching somebody else’s, to have ample back support and soft covers that keep you warm at night—you almost feel bad that you make Yoongi resort to sleeping on his chair. You glance at him at times. His upper body is usually laid out uncomfortably on his desk, and he slouches in a manner that would’ve had your past instructors screaming. But he never complains.

It’s nice spending a night with him.

Yoongi never whines about a wife that he does not have. He doesn’t whine about his nonexistent children. And he sure as hell doesn’t whine about his job when it’s all that’s been keeping him afloat. In fact, he doesn’t really talk to you, which doesn’t bother you at all. You like it that way. He lets you do whatever you want. You begin to look forward to these nights at the shop.

Sometimes, when you and Yoongi are feeling less hostile towards each other, the two of you stay up late to watch the reruns of the current games. It started ever since the day an exhausted Yoongi collapsed onto his chair and switched on his hologram set to search for fine entertainment before he fell asleep. You’d already been swaddled up in his blankets on the bed, and you were about to yell at him for switching on the hologram when you were trying to get some well-deserved shut-eye. But the games happened to be playing, and it was like a train wreck you couldn’t look away from.

Even on the first day, it’s clear that one of the Careers would win. By day 11, there are only a few tributes left, and they are those who survived day 10’s violent, bloody massacre. You used to be able to watch every single moment of the games—all the blood, all the gore, the screams, the crying and begging—but now, sometimes you have to look away. You used to analyze every tribute’s fighting styles, memorize their strategies and minute habits. Yet now, none of that interests you. Instead, watching the games makes your chest heavy. It feels like your frequent stomachaches, but even worse.

Yoongi usually ends up shutting off the hologram when he notices you grimacing, and at first, you were offended that he thought you couldn’t handle it. You yelled at him for that, and he’d tried to keep calm but ended up yelling back. You’d left that day, storming away and muttering obscenities under your breath and retreating into another one of your client’s beds. But you came back the next day, pretending that incident never happened. And now, you’re glad that he shuts off the program. It saves you from stomachache.

On day 15, there are only two tributes left. You and Yoongi watch, you sitting on his chair and him right behind you, arms resting on the top rail. “Don’t turn it off this time,” you warn him. Even if you get a stomachache, you want to see how this ends.

Yoongi just nods, eyes glued to the screen.

This year’s Arena is set in a city in ruins. The two tributes who are left are forced to meet each other back at the Cornucopia after some bird muttations chase them there, nearly pecking out their eyeballs. The tributes circle around each other at the remains of a courtyard, where there are crumbling bricks, splintered wood, metal pipes—all great weapons—strewn about. You can already see about ten different ways to kill someone in this particular setting. The thought unsettles you. But you make sure not to show any emotion on your face. Yoongi always thinks he knows better, and despite your warning, he’d turn the hologram off again.

You and Yoongi watch the scene unfold. One of the tributes—the boy from District 2—picks up a metal pipe and swings it at the girl from District 4. She ducks, quickly scrambling around in the dust to come up with a red brick. It’s a dumb move on her part; she won’t be able to get in close range to him when he’s got that metal pipe. But as the District 2 boy is laughing at her unintelligent choice of weapon, she throws the brick right at his arm. She’s got good aim. He drops the metal pipe, clutching his arm in pain, and she’s quick enough to take this opportunity to lunge at him. They end up falling on the dirt floor with the boy taking most of the impact. She’s sitting on his chest, his arms trapped under her knees.

You can tell from the look on the boy’s face that he knows he lost. He begins to beg. But the girl is quick. She picks up the brick she’d thrown—the one that is tinged with skin and blood—and she begins bludgeoning him with it. You can hear squelches of skin, of blood splattering. The crack! of the skull. The moans of the boy in pain. She’s so weak. The games have been going on for so long that she’s out of strength. She can’t finish him off with one hit. It’s worse for both of them.

It’s exactly like what happened during the 73rd Hunger Games; the brick bludgeoning, the city ruins… The Gamemakers decided to come full-circle after three decades.

The scene even reminds you of your own games.

“Look at that,” Jungkook grins. “We killed the last one.”

You link your arms together, pulling his body close to yours. “That just leaves the two of us.”

“I guess it does.”

“So, are you going to kill me now?” you ask him innocently—as if you’d already accepted your fate.

He looks at you, eyes softening when he catches sight of your long face. And for a while, he just stares at you, drinking in your features, especially lingering on your eyes and lips. It takes a long time for him to find his words. “Not if you kill me first.”

And before you can even react, he’s embracing you, hands in your hair, your arms around his waist. The hug is sweet. And he embraces you like it’s the last time he’ll ever do it, which isn’t so far off from the truth. There’s something like desperation in his actions, and you try to mirror it, wondering if anyone in the Capitol will believe you. He smells of mud, rainwater and sweat. It isn’t too bad, considering that you’ve only been out here for three days.

Your mind is racing. If you make the move to kill him, will he fight back? Or will he let you kill him? Will he let his feelings for you go so far that he’ll sacrifice his life for you to win? Or will you have to end his life by brute force? And what about his brother? He wouldn’t so easily give up on the search to find him, would he? He surely wouldn’t give him up for you.

But all of your thoughts vanish when he leans into your ear, and your hair hides his mouth as he whispers, “I trust you.”

Then, he’s leaning away, his fingers tracing your cheek and moving down to hold your chin. His dark eyes twinkle in the morning sunlight. He trusts you? Does that mean he won’t fight back when you eventually stab him to death? Does that mean he trusts you to sacrifice yourself for him? No, he wouldn’t do that. Because as haughty and cocky as Jungkook can get, he’s kind to the people he loves. You’ve heard him talk about his older brother.

He pulls you in for one final kiss—one that would have the viewers back at the Capitol gasping and squealing. It’s too chaste, too sweet. Before you can really process it, your hand slinks behind to grab the silver dagger you kept hidden in your pants. And when you stab him, his lips are still on yours. His eyes open, though. Blood splatters from his mouth. You step back, watching him fall. He’s dead before he hits the ground. You’d stabbed him right in the heart. Without any hesitation.

Even when the hovercraft comes to pull you up, the winner of the 99th Hunger Games, you can taste his blood in your mouth. The bitterness, the iron.

And you swear you can taste it now.

You’ll never forget that face before he fell. It hadn’t been a look of betrayal. Nor had it been a look of hatred, even contempt. It had been acceptance. But why? Why was he so okay with it? Why did he let you kill him? You don’t understand. He deserved to fight back. So why didn’t he?

Did he know that you were going to kill him? He was always smart; he should’ve known that this was your strategy: to charm everyone in the games and to kill them when they were blinded by adoration for you. Did he think that you’d make an exception for him? Did he think that just because you were meaner to him, that you’d spare him? That you showed him your true self? And that you really truly adored him back? So was he waiting for you to kill him? But what about his older brother? Did he give up on his ambition to find him just because of you? But no… it couldn’t be.

Yoongi switches off the hologram. “Stomachache?”

No, this is considerably worse. It feels so painful, yet nothing seems to be there. How do you feel empty yet drowning at the same time?

“Can you stay?” he asks, eyes sparkling and mouth set in a hopeful smile. “We’ve never had breakfast together.”

But you’re already gripping the door handle of the exit. “I don’t—”

“I know you don’t eat breakfast, but today’s the last day… You know, before we get thrown into the Arena.”

All the more reason for you to skip your meals today. You wouldn’t want to mess up 13 years of training the day before the main event. “I can’t,” you tell him. It’s the truth.

“Why not?” Jungkook asks, stepping forward.

You give him a hard look. “Because tomorrow, we’ll get thrown in the Arena and we’ll have to kill each other eventually.”

And to your surprise, he laughs. “So? That’s tomorrow. We’re friends today, aren’t we?” You want to correct him. 'Friends' is such a strong word. You and he are allies. But do allies sleep with each other? “Besides,” he continues in your silence. “We won’t have to worry about killing each other in a long time.”

“Oh?”

“We’ll have to kill the others first,” he says, walking even closer. He stands before you, hands lifting to play with your hair. “And when the time comes…” He pulls you into his arms. “I guess we’ll have to fight to the death.”

You snort, pushing him away. “So you’ve thought that far too?”

“Of course I have.” He can’t stop staring into your eyes. “But I don’t think I’ll put up much of a fight.”

You roll your eyes. “Your survival instincts are going to override your feelings, you know.”

He shrugs his shoulders. “I have a hard time hurting the people that I love.” Then, he opens the door of his suite for you, waiting for you to leave. And you do, because you have to begin your rigorous training just like any morning. But his words echo in your head for a second longer than usual.

I have a hard time hurting the people that I love.

Was that it, then? Love?

How could a silly little thing like that cost him his life? He must’ve been an idiot! It was you or his brother. It was a lying stranger versus his own blood. He should’ve killed you; you would’ve felt better if he’d fought back. But no… He couldn’t hurt you because he loved you. You don’t understand. How can you dedicate yourself to a single person like that? Enough to make you sacrifice your own life?

Love?

You’ve been told that you were loved before. The rebels, your clients, your fans after the games… But it never made sense to you. They only loved you because you did something for them. So you always thought love was something you exchange—a give and take.

But you never gave Jungkook anything.

Even when you were an absolute asshole to him, he always acted in your best interest. But how? He only knew of your existence for a little over a week. How long does it take to fall in love? Do you really know nothing about it? Is it love that made the Peacekeeper mourn over his dead daughter? That when he smelled her personal scent, he broke down? Is it love that Miss Bijou is missing that makes her so lonely and friendless? Is it love that Yoongi feels for his brother?

Is it so hard to lose a loved one?

Is that why Yoongi hates you?

In that case…

What about all the people you’ve killed in the Arena? Do they have loved ones at home? Loved ones who want to kill you for inflicting harm and pain on their children? What about the people you’ve indirectly killed because you sold them out? What about the ones who survived and became slaves to the Capitol? Do they hope to see you one day? Even as Avoxes, would they try to seek vengeance for their loved ones?

You would deserve it, wouldn’t you? You ruined their lives. You didn’t have to rat them out, but you did. Because you thought it would gain you a favor from President Snow. And all he did was sell you to the Capitol.

God, you’re a monster.

You can see the faces of those you’ve killed. They’re looming over you, laughing at your distress. They tell you that you deserve everything that happened to you: your embarrassing failure to attain true freedom. It will never matter how much you try; you will always be owned by the Capitol.

Maybe all of this happened because you don’t have anyone to love and no one ever loved you. And the only person who did, you killed without hesitation. Because back then, you never thought too much of his words.

I have a hard time hurting the people that I love.

Why didn’t you understand it before? There’s a hole inside of your stomach. It’s growing and growing until it expands to your chest. You feel empty. Barren.

He loved you! He really, truly loved you.

“You’re not supposed to be here!” you say. The words come out sharper than you’d hoped, but Jungkook is far too used to your short temper to react any differently.

He just moves in to embrace you, cradling your head in his arms.

“You’ll see me in there, anyway,” you murmur against his chest.

“But this is the last time I’ll get to see the real you,” he murmurs back.

“The real me?” You’re incredulous, pushing him back to stare at his face.

“Yeah,” he answers, tugging you in to plant a small kiss on your lips. When he pulls away, he’s grinning. “You act a lot sweeter in front of the cameras,” he says. “But I like it when you’re you.”

“What makes you think that this is the real me?” you ask him, brows furrowed.

He only shrugs. “I just know.”

“Well, what if you’re wrong?”

He shakes his head with a grin on his face. “Then I guess I’m a fool.”

“You’d be a little more than a fool,” you say, but you find yourself in his arms again. It’s annoying. He always finds a way to wiggle his way into your embrace. And strangely, you often find it hard to leave. So, the two of you stay in each others’ arms in silence.

Soon, you’ll be escorted underground, below the Arena, and wait until the tight capsules transport you above the surface. Then, the games will begin. But Jungkook seems to want to savor this moment. And in order to kill him in the future, you have to let him appreciate you.

His grip on you tightens.

“I know you’re going to do it,” he says. Your eyes widen. It’s like he can read your mind. “I’ll be okay,” he whispers. He begins to draw circles on your back.

“Don’t say shit like that,” you tell him, face still buried in his chest. “You won’t know what it’s like in there.”

“I won’t,” he answers, “but it won’t matter. I’ve thought about it, Y/N, but in my entire life, I think I’ve been the happiest here.”

“Here?”

“Yeah. With you.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“No, it’s the truth. I liked it here with you. I trained all my life to be here, but now that I am here, I just don’t… I don’t know. What would I do after I won? What if Yoongi never came home for a reason? What if he wanted to cut ties? What if I can’t find him?” His fingers tangle up in your hair. “And then there’s you. I know I volunteered to be here, and I know I wanted this, but… I don’t know anymore,” he says. “I just want to spend every waking moment with you.”

He’s stupid. So goddamn naïve. Or… wait a minute. He could be saying this to trick you! So you let your guard down! So when the time comes, he can go for the kill since you wouldn’t suspect anything! You frown.

“You don’t have to believe me,” he says. How does he know you so well? “But when you do it, don’t hesitate.”

Is he really…? No, he has to be lying. He can’t be telling you that you have to kill him. It’s impossible! He can’t like you this much, can he? It has to be a trick. You’re desirable, but not to the extent that your fans would sacrifice their life for you. So what he’s saying must be a lie.

Except, years later, now you know it wasn’t.

He’d given his heart to you and you’d repeatedly smashed it down. How had he never gotten tired of you? What did he see in you that was so lovable? God, it hurts to breathe. There’s a searing pain in your chest, so you buckle over to clutch it.

“If you need to throw up, I’d rather you do it in the bathroom,” Yoongi says with an indiscernible look on his face.

You can’t answer.

Everything is too much. And even though you’re sitting, the world is spinning.

“Do you need me to drag you there?”

He doesn’t understand.

You’re not sick to the stomach; you’re sick in the head.

“You’re getting the table wet. That’s a pretty expensive table, you know.”

That’s when you realize you’re crying. Your vision is blurry again, and that coupled with the pain in your chest? It hurts more than the time you broke four bones in your body during training. Because then, you at least knew you’d heal in time. But this? Can heartache heal?

“No, seriously. That’s real poplar wood.”

He must be shitting with you. Can’t he see that you’re in pain?

“Can you hear me?”

God, he boils your blood sometimes.

“Leave me alone!” you shriek. The sheer volume of your voice even takes you back. You hadn’t meant to yell.

But Yoongi ignores your tone altogether—he must’ve been teasing you before, that asshole. “I guess everything’s finally catching up to you.” He settles down at the edge of his desk, facing you. When you give him an incredulous look, he clarifies. “Guilt,” he says. “Or sadness. I dunno. Anything you’ve repressed before, during and after the games.”

Is that what the pain in your stomach had been this entire time? Guilt? Sadness? Are you so emotionless that you can’t tell the difference between emotional and physical pain? Yoongi never once breaks eye contact with you, and it’s so uncomfortable to the point that you have to look away first. You think you understand now.

You might not know love, but you understand. To see the person who killed his brother ask him for help, to see her every day because she won’t fucking leave him alone… To house her, support her, help her… Does he look at you and see red? Whenever he hears your voice, does he hear Jungkook’s?

Deep down, does he still seek revenge? Deep down, does he wish to kill you?

He must only be helping you because if he doesn’t, you would kill him. But maybe he’s plotting a way to kill you. Maybe one day, he’ll find the nerve to call up the Peacekeepers. Maybe he’s already working with Snow right now, praying on your down fall.

You wouldn’t blame him.

In fact, you can’t even look at him.

“You can do it, you know,” you tell him in a shaky voice. “I’ll let you win just this once.”

He looks utterly confused. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Don’t play dumb! Kill me, Yoongi!” you stand up, tears flying off your face as you stand up to grip his shirt. “You were going to do it, anyway.”

He stands still, letting you threateningly hold his shirt but not doing anything about it. “Is that your way of apologizing?”

Apologizing?

“W-What?”

“You feel guilty about killing Jungkook.”

Silence.

“Did you think that I wanted to kill you this entire time?” He cocks his head, staring straight into your eyes so hard that your grip on his shirt loosens. Your hand falls to your side. “If I wanted you dead, don’t you think I would’ve poisoned you by now? I know my way around chemicals, you know.”

Oh.

“Do you really think that if I kill you, we’ll be even?” he asks.

You look down at your feet, and no answer emerges from your lips.

“Why the hell would I waste my money buying you for the night if I wanted you dead?”

“To gain my trust?” you whisper.

Yoongi just sighs.

“I know,” you whisper. “I’m…” The word gets stuck in your throat.

“You’re what?”

“I’m… sorry.”

Silence.

It’s so uncomfortable that you look up to see Yoongi staring at you; he has a look of disbelief on his face. “You’re… sorry?”

You nod. “I…” You grit your teeth. Why are you stuttering and pausing and crying? It’s so pathetic. “I hurt him,” you say. “I hurt him and I hurt you and then I hurt everyone else in my entire life. But I never knew or cared. I didn’t know you’re supposed to feel things and that love is real and that I don’t exist to be used and that feelings are meant to be understood and that I shouldn’t use others’ emotions against them and I—” You stop, panting for breath. “I didn’t know he loved me.”

Yoongi is silent.

“I thought he was using me too. I thought it was all just for show! I didn’t think that he… I didn’t—” The babbling is back again. You shut up before you can lose even more dignity. It’s a lot of staring into your own feet after that.

Pathetic.

But is it really?

You are sorry after all. And you’ve seen Yoongi lose himself to his emotions before. Is it so wrong that you apologize? You don’t think you’ve ever apologized for anything other than this in your whole life. It’s always been killing and killing and killing, on to the next, get on to another mission. This is weird.

You’re not really used to this.

And Yoongi seems to be relishing in the silence. He slowly backtracks and sits on his bed, leaning back slightly to stare at the dent in the wall where the Peacekeepers had thrown him years ago. He doesn’t speak—and he doesn’t really need to.

You trudge towards the bed, sitting down next to him.

He doesn’t need to say that he forgives you. You don’t need to hear that he forgives you. And he doesn’t have to forgive you—in fact, you’d feel better if he never does. Even if it would mean that you owe him everything. And even after your embarrassing breakdown, you don’t feel the need to knock Yoongi out to give him slight amnesia.

You glance at him as he continues to stare into the wall, a blank look plastered on his face.

When you look away, he glances in your direction.

But you see his gaze from your peripheral vision.

You realize that you don’t have to speak for him to know either—that you really do trust him.

ELEVEN.

The District 4 girl is the new Victor. She’s crowned and celebrated in the Capitol, but you can’t watch the ceremony. It reminds you too much of what you were supposed to do: you were supposed to kill him. Kill President Snow.

You wonder what your life could’ve been if you had. If you listened to the rebels. Would the rebels have won? Would you have tasted real freedom? Or would you have died trying?

But the rebels… would they have killed everyone in the Capitol? Even people like the sentimental Peacekeeper who longs for his lost daughter? Kind yet lonely Miss Bijou? The innocent children who’ve never had a day of hardship in their life? But it was never their fault that they were so spoiled. They never knew any better.

But god, are you so fucking sick of killing and murder and death. Why did you never feel guilt for taking someone’s life? Because you didn’t know how much it could affect others.

You didn’t understand why Yoongi was so mad. You didn’t understand why the Peacekeeper would pay so much just to smell something that reminded him of his daughter. You didn’t understand why Jungkook died for you. But you understand now. Because you can’t imagine feeling that gaping hole inside of you every day.

On some days, you feel stupid. And weak.

It’s a disgusting feeling.

You’ve never been so vulnerable, so in tune with your feelings in your life. Every way you walk, you feel like sobbing. Every time Yoongi looks your way, you see Jungkook’s face. You hear his last words to you. You recall all of your memories together. Either Yoongi notices that you’re repenting or he’s been nicer ever since you apologized. You still don’t know where that apology came from. But strangely, you don’t regret it. Yoongi might never forgive you for killing and toying with his younger brother, but he would never hurt you in the way that you hurt him. Despite your shortcomings, he has always been generous. Even if he has lingering doubts.

“I want to blame you, you know,” he says one day as the two of you work together to close the shop. He’s been paying more frequently for you these days; you rarely ever enter the Capitol buildings anymore. He considers his pay as his taxes to the Capitol, and Snow doesn’t care where his money comes from, as long as he gets it. But it allows you to stay at the shop with Yoongi, sometimes spending entire weekends there—from morning to night.

“Blame me?” you echo, meticulously cleaning the tools on the counter. Yoongi trusts you enough to let you handle them now. He used to slap your hands away when you went anywhere near them. Then, in your head you would’ve imagined killing him with those very tools. But you can’t imagine doing that now.

“Yeah,” he says, looking up from mopping the floors. His eye contact isn’t as fierce as it used to be. It’s almost like he’s talking to an old friend, although you wonder if that’s the right way to describe it. You’ve never talked to an old friend before. Much less have a friend. “I want to hate you. And sometimes, yeah, I want to kill you, too. But I guess it wasn’t entirely your fault.”

You stare at him. Is this his late reaction to your apology? Is this what he had been thinking in his head that day as he stared into that wall with the dent?

“Some days I get really angry,” Yoongi confesses. He goes back to work, running the mop across the wooden floor.

“At me?” you ask. And it dawns on you that just a teeny tiny part of you does care what he thinks of you.

“At you, at myself, at Jungkook,” he answers. “But I’m working on it. I’m trying not to be angry. I hate it when I am. It’s like I can’t control myself.”

Somehow, his words resonate with you.

“Do you know why I kept you around for so long?” Yoongi asks you. He looks up from his mopping, staring you straight in the eyes.

“Because I clean your toilet so you don’t have to?”

He doesn’t react at all. “Because I trust you.”

Oh.

“Because I trust that you won’t hurt me, given that I won’t hurt you. Because I know you’re already walking on eggshells since you killed my brother. Because after a while,” he says with a slight pause, “I realized that you were helping me too.”

“Yeah, like taking care of the shop.”

“Sure,” he says. “Sure.”

“You’re hiding something,” you reply.

“Can you tell?” he asks.

“I can read you like a book.”

“Oh?” He raises his eyebrows. “Read me, then.”

“Well, you’re big on self-improvement, that’s for sure. You’re sentimental, but you don’t like to show it. But maybe a couple of years down the road, you’ll be softer than the people from District 11—”

“It seems like you’ve gathered some substantial information,” Yoongi snorts. “Fine, then. I won’t deny it. But let’s just say that we’re even now.”

“Even?” you ask, quirking your brow.

“I don’t like owing people things,” he answers. “Just like how you don’t either.”

“So you’re saying we shouldn’t owe each other anything anymore?”

“I’m sick and tired of keeping count,” he says. “I’m sick and tired of being sad, and I’m sick and tired of being angry.” He places his mop against one of the towering shelves and walks over to you, resting his elbows on the counter. “Or maybe I’m always sick and tired.”

You understand how that feels.

“Would it help if I told you that I trust you too?” you say.

“Oh, yes, I’m magically healthy and awake now,” he says sarcastically.

You roll your eyes. But you do really trust him. You could turn your back on him without worrying he’ll stab you. You could sleep by his side without questioning if he has ulterior motives. If he tells you that you have nothing to owe to each other, you believe him. Whole-heartedly.

There’s that silence again.

The two of you lean on the opposite sides of the counter. It’s peaceful. The warm sunlight filters into the shop, making the glass bottles glitter in different shades of the rainbow. It’s a little hazy, though. Soon, it’ll be evening, and you’ll help Yoongi make dinner—just as usual.

“I think the apple blossoms calm me down,” Yoongi suddenly says. “They make me feel less alone.”

It takes you a second to realize he’s talking about your personal scent. And for another second, it feels like the sunlight is warming you from the insides. Such a strange feeling.

“Do they?” you ask. “Then I like the smell of mint,” you confess absentmindedly. “It makes me feel secure.”

He peers at you, dark eyes twinkling. There’s something about his gaze that makes you feel warm again. Are you glowing? You certainly feel like you are. Is this what happiness feels like? Have you finally found it? Will it fade away at one point? Will it come back again?

You don’t care. Because as you gaze into each other’s eyes, the aroma of mint and apple blossoms mixing together, for the first time in your life, you feel free.

⨰ a/n: i didn't know that tumblr had a 1,000 paragraph limit. :0 this post was DEFINITELY way over that. spent another hour shortening it down >:( but this is the final product! i'm very proud of how the characters turned out (dare i say this is my favorite story that i've completed on my blog so far??) i very much enjoyed writing every moment of this, and i'm sorry it took such a long time to get posted! nevertheless, please enjoy, if you can, leave feedback (so we can squeal about the characters together!)

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