PART I - THE REAPING

Polivia Glass, the garish and vapid Capitol woman who is District 12's escort, totters around in her neon-green high heels, checking the microphone and fussing with her brilliant-pink hair while the children of District 12 file in to their allotted sections in front of the Justice Building. It is Reaping day.

The afternoon sun shines directly in his eyes and Kurt squints, wishing it would all just be over, so he can shut himself in a room and block out the world again.

Mayor Anderson stands proud and tall on one side of Kurt and Haymitch stands on the other, already roaring drunk and swaying on his feet. Two years ago, Kurt would've judged the old victor's behaviour; would have turned up his nose in disdain and made a cutting remark about what a spectacle he was making of himself.

Two years ago, Kurt wasn't the victor of the 98th Hunger Games.

Watching the children of District 12 spread out before him, being offered up like lambs for the slaughter, he kind of wishes he is as drunk as Haymitch right now. In the next 30 minutes, six of those children will be chosen to die. And no matter how many times Haymitch tells him otherwise, he knows it is his fault.

Has known it is all his fault ever since his best friend Mercedes got reaped for the 99th Hunger Games and he watched her get blown to bits. And returned to District 12, grief-stricken and alone, only to find a new Head Peacekeeper waiting for him there, enforcing Capitol tyranny on his home worse than ever.

Kurt is drawn back from his tired, ever-present guilt by Polivia tapping the microphone and clearing her throat. The loud noises echo around the still square.

It's time to begin.

“Happy Hunger Games!” she trills, bright and bubbly as she stares out at a crowd of frightened twelve to eighteen year olds. “And may the odds be ever in your favour!”

Kurt bites his lip, training his gaze determinedly at a far-off tree to avoid gazing over the crowd. The odds are never in their favour.

Polivia chirps out a few heavily-practised, Capitol-praising monologues before calling upon Mayor Anderson to deliver the speech about the Dark Days.

Mayor Anderson steps up to the podium, looking tired and beat, as he narrates the same story that is read out every year – about the Dark Days over a hundred years ago when the districts rebelled against the Capitol, about how twelve of them were defeated and the thirteenth obliterated, how the Treaty of Treason was formed and the Hunger Games were started to serve as a reminder and a warning against future rebellion.

“It is both a time for repentance and a time for thanks,” the mayor intones, finishing the story, before reading out the names of the past victors of District 12.

There have been four District 12 victors in ninety-nine years of the Games, of which only two are still alive. Kurt and Haymitch.

Haymitch Abernathy is something of a living legend in Panem. He is the only person to have gone into the Hunger Games twice and survived. He won the 74th Games at the age of 16 and was reaped in the Third Quell, the infamous all-victor Games, along with his mentor Maysilee Donnor.

There was no victor from District 12 left to mentor them in those Games and Haymitch's surly uncouthness did not endear him to the audience. Yet he won against all odds. Fought tooth and nail to survive. Only to do his best to drink himself to death ever since.

Mayor Anderson steps down from the podium and Kurt smooths his face into careful blankness as Polivia once again takes the stage.

“It's time to choose three brave young men and three brave young women for the honour of representing District 12 in the 100th Hunger Games!” she exclaims with a cheerfulness that makes Kurt want to scream. “Ladies first!”

She wobbles to the glass ball containing the names of all the girls in District 12 and carefully fishes out three slips, before turning back to the crowd, beaming in excitement.

Kurt doesn't really hear the names through the dull roaring in his ears, only sees the frightened, shocked faces as each girl comes up to the stage from the crowd. A Seam girl from the 16 year olds section, tiny and delicate, her face pale as she walks on stage. Another Seam girl, a tall and menacing-looking 18 year old, grim determination shining in her eyes. A 17 year old merchant girl who Kurt vaguely recognizes was in his year at school, before he became victor and was no longer required to attend. Her blonde hair unfurls from its strict bun as she walks on stage, visibly trembling.

There are three more children to be reaped and Kurt already feels sick to the core.

“Now, onto the boys!” Polivia squeals, her clapping hands resonating loudly. The tapping of her heels is the only sound in the silent square when she moves to fetch three slips of paper from the bowl containing the boys' names.

“Jac Soreen,” she calls out, and Kurt takes a deep breath as a burly hulking merchant boy walks up from the 18 year old section. Before Kurt became a victor, before… everything, Jac used to bully Kurt, used to push him around and make his life a living hell. Kurt tamps down on the inrush of conflicting emotions, glaring out into space as Jac climbs onstage.

“Lory Ramson!” is next, an emaciated 13 year old from the Seam, eyes so dulled by starvation and suffering that he doesn't even look particularly terrified at being reaped.

Polivia opens the very last piece of paper, smoothing it out and Kurt can feel his nerves beating in his ear, can feel the anticipatory, terrified breathlessness of the crowd as they wait for the last name to be called, the last person to be sent to face death, while the rest will have another year to live.

Kurt doesn't even have anyone he would pray to be spared.

It's been just him and his dad for so long, ever since his mother's death nearly ten years ago. The only other person he ever cared about was Mercedes and she is dead. Because of him.

Kurt shakes his head, trying to clear his thoughts. At least there is no one left for Snow to take from him this way. At least he has that small comfort.

With that morbid thought giving him strength, Kurt stands up straighter just as Polivia calls out the name. And it turns out he was wrong about that.

Because the name that is called out is Blaine Anderson.

*

No! Everything in Kurt screams vehemently. He feels like he is choking, all the air is caught in his throat and he can't breathe.

A small calm, clinical part of him is dissecting the ferocity of his reaction, trying to figure out exactly why he cares so much. It's not like he knows Blaine. They haven't exchanged more than a few words and one memorable conversation in their entire lifetime.

But.

Kurt's fingers travel to his pocket, the one with the little, gold mockingjay pin he never goes anywhere without. He feels a panic so crushing he's briefly sure his knees are going to buckle.

There is a commotion on the other side of the square. He turns to see Blaine's older brother and Mayor Anderson's eldest, Cooper, struggling against his mother and a blonde merchant kid, screaming his head off, trying desperately to break free.

“I volunteer!” Cooper screams, scrabbling against his retainers. “Send me in instead, please, I volunteer!”

Kurt can feel his heart squeezing with a dozen more emotions along with the raw, nameless panic. Cooper is 25 years old; he is not within reaping age. He can't volunteer for Blaine even if he wants to.

Blaine still faces the arena unless someone else within reaping age volunteers to take his place.

Three other merchant kids detach from the crowd to help Mrs Anderson and Blaine's friend (Sam, Kurt thinks his name is) subdue Cooper. Together they all manage to herd the still-screaming man away from the square. It is for the best. The longer Cooper protests, the more the chances of severe punishment to him and his family.

Kurt turns a fleeting glance to Mayor Anderson, who is still standing straight and tall, his face an impassive mask. His only open show of emotion to the ripping apart of his family are his clenched fists. Kurt's heart hurts.

“Well,” Polivia exclaims, clearly happy to have such captivating entertainment from their boring district. “He just didn't want to lose all the glory to his little brother I see! Too bad he's too old to be reaped!”

Kurt has never wished to punch her more.

“But no matter!” she continues, searching out someone in the crowd. “You will win for your family, won't you dear? Bring some glory to the District?”

Kurt follows her gaze instinctively. And wishes he hadn't.

The Peacekeepers, who were distracted by the commotion, have finally reached Blaine and are herding him towards the stage.

Blaine looks like he's desperately trying to regain control of his emotions, his beautiful honey-gold eyes wide in a riot of emotions as he walks closer to the stage, panic and terror and heart-wrenching sadness clouding their usual sparkle and warmth. But by the time he climbs the podium, he is under control. His face, so like his father's, is just as impassive. He quietly moves to stand with the other male tributes and turns to face the crowd.

And then something happens. Like a ripple going through the square, every person in the crowd holds out the three middle fingers of their left hand in silent salutation, in a custom as old as District 12. It is a gesture of love and loss, one made in funerals to say goodbye to a loved one.

It is as though watching tragedy befall the Mayor, someone who holds such a position of power but is still so clearly at the mercy of the Capitol, has shaken something in them. As though watching Blaine, who has touched nearly everyone in the district with his kindness and his gentle heart at some point, being sent to near certain death has finally stirred them.

And the tired and defeated people of District 12, who normally do not even show enough energy to be considered interesting by the Capitol, stand tall and proud, openly defying the unspoken rule of apathy and submission, making their loss and respect known.

The mayor's impassive armour cracks and he heaves a shuddering breath. A single teardrop rolls down Blaine's cheek. Kurt bites viciously down on his lip and feels the skin break, drawing blood.

The anthem blares on the speakers, Polivia chirps out some more useless Capitol epithets and just like that it is over.

The population of District 12 disperses, to celebrate the relief of having survived yet another reaping, to celebrate having their children safe and sound for one more year. Six families stay behind, weeping for what they would lose. Six children file into the Justice Building to say goodbye to their loved ones, before they would be lead away to an arena to face death.

*

Kurt Hummel was reaped for the 98th Hunger Games at barely 15 years of age. He felt the entire district's horrified sympathy as he walked up to the stage. Everyone knows and respects Burt; he owns the district's only electronics store and is their only electrician/mechanic after all. It was clear they did not expect Kurt to come back. That they expected Burt to end up alone, end up losing both wife and son.

What no one expected was the Capitol's reaction to Kurt.

With his tall lithe form, brilliant blue-green eyes, chestnut-gold hair and elfin features, the Capitol audience clamoured to him during his Games, adored how pretty he was. Showered him with sponsors in the arena, sent him gifts which tipped the scales in his favour. The fact that he was naturally resourceful and clever and agile made them root for him even more. Following Haymitch's advice, Kurt played it up for all he was worth, grit his teeth and charmed the crowd that considered watching children kill each other entertainment.

When Kurt won, it was by using his brains rather than with physical strength. He made it to the final six with hardly any injuries and not a single kill to his name, sustained by generous sponsors.

Two weeks into the Games, when it was just him against five Careers hell-bent on killing him, Kurt made his first offensive move. He had grown up helping his dad at their electronics shop, knew his way around any gadget. He dug up the mines used to prevent kids from stepping out of their pods too early in the arena and managed to reactivate them.

Kurt didn't aim to kill with his plan. He simply intended to blow up the Careers' supplies and destroy their camp; make a dent in their chances of survival in the arena.  But the plan went haywire. The Careers arrived halfway through his setting up the mines. They were blown to smithereens and Kurt himself was thrown into the air.

And just like that, the 98th Games ended, five careers killed in one fell swoop and the lone victor, Kurt, fished out of the arena unconscious and bloody, his right foot blasted clean off and turned into a bloody stump at the ankle. The Capitol gave him a prosthetic made of steel and synthetic skin, surgically soldered artificial metal rods to his bones and stitched up his flesh till he could barely even tell the difference.

Kurt returned from the Games with an artificial foot and a heavy load of guilt over five deaths he didn't mean to cause, but knew were inevitable for his survival anyway. Plagued by nightmares, he lashed out. Showed insolence and anger at every turn where he was expected to show triumph and joy over winning. Disdainfully pointed out his own little act of rebellion against the Games; at using something the Gamemakers did not intend to be turned into a weapon and surviving because of it.

And Mercedes was reaped for the 99th Hunger Games.

President Snow summoned Kurt right after Mercedes died by a Gamemaker-engineered lightning bolt. Kurt sat in Snow's garden, nose assaulted with the cloying scent of roses and blood, numb with grief after watching his best friend vaporize before his eyes. President Snow frankly told him that the reaping was rigged. That Mercedes, his best friend and the closest thing he had to a sister, was killed in the arena as a lesson to Kurt. That if he didn't toe the line, his dad would be next.

Kurt, through the pain and horror crushing him, got the message loud and clear. Being the new favourite Victor of the Capitol does not mean he has any control over his life, any power. Everything he loves could be snatched away in a second and any illusions of power and safety are merely that – illusions.

The Capitol holds all the power.

The announcement for the Fourth Quarter Quell came six months after. Kurt sat alone in his new home at the Victor's Village, waiting for the axe to fall. The Quells always have a special horrifying twist to them. For the second Quarter Quell, the entire family of the tributes chosen were sent into the arena. For the third, the tributes were chosen from a pool of victors. He fully expected something else to happen, some other way for Snow to directly punish him.

But instead, Snow announced, “On the hundredth anniversary, as a reminder that in any rebellion against the Capitol, for every dead Capitol citizen thrice as many rebels will die, this year each district will offer up six tributes instead of the usual two.”

Kurt's first reaction was indecent, terrible joy. His dad was safe! No matter what they do, they wouldn't be sending Kurt back into the arena!

And then the announcement sunk in. Thrice as many tributes. He will have to mentor six children in his second year of mentoring. Watch them die as a warning to anyone who so much as breathes a rebellious thought.

As a warning to him.

Kurt wondered then if the Games were already decided this year. If there were already specific orders to have all the District 12 tributes killed.

Another six deaths that he will have caused.

That was the first time he wished it wasn't just his foot that got blown to bits in the Games.

*

Kurt stands against the door of the room allotted for them in the Justice Building, while they wait for the tributes to finish saying their final goodbyes. Kurt has already made his goodbyes to his dad. Right after the Reaping, outside the Justice Building, Burt offered to come in. Wait with him till he leaves. But Kurt insisted that he return home immediately. After his last two times waiting for the train in the Justice Building, one for himself and one with Mercedes, Kurt wants his father away from there as quickly as possible.

Polivia is prattling on about some nonsense in a corner and Haymitch has already started drinking again. No doubt the sight of thrice as many kids marching to near certain death is pushing him to seek oblivion in a bottle even faster. Or maybe it is the fact that Mayor Anderson's son was reaped. Kurt has always thought Haymitch feels some connection to the family. Maybe he even knows Blaine and is fond of him. Well, as fond as Haymitch is capable of being about anyone…

Blaine Anderson.

Kurt supposes it'd be hard not to like him. The boy just exudes a sort of innate light and happiness that is rare and precious in a world such as theirs. It used to draw Kurt's bewildered eyes every time they were in the same room, back when he was still at school.

Blaine has always been something of a puzzle to Kurt – he just doesn't understand how anyone can be so gentle and sweet in this cruel world. Where even merchant kids with a little more wealth tend to be degrading and violent to those with less than them, Blaine is the mayor's son and yet he never parades it. Where everyone in the District follows the unspoken class divide between the merchants and the Seam folk, Blaine never makes such distinctions, beams the warmth of his presence on Seam and Merchant alike, and treats them based on who they are, rather than where they are from.

Kurt never actually talked to him growing up. Blaine was a year below Kurt when Kurt was still at school and they never really saw each other much, beyond the occasional glimpse in the hallways or during lunch. In fact, over the course of their lives in District 12, Kurt has had exactly one full conversation with Blaine Anderson.

Just once, but a memorable encounter that Kurt doesn't think he'll ever forget.

He strokes the little mockingjay pin he hasn't parted with for two years, biting his lip thoughtfully, musing on that memory from two years ago.

*

Kurt watches Mercedes and his father being herded out by Peacekeepers, Burt's face a heart-breaking study of panic and anguish, all his goodbyes choking in his throat. Kurt has just been reaped. There is nothing he can say that can make a difference. He takes a deep breath, trying to use those last few precious minutes to gather himself before being lead out to face the cameras again. He lifts up his wrist to wipe his eyes on the cuff of his fancy reaping shirt, when the door opens and snaps shut quickly. He drops his arm and snaps up to find Blaine Anderson standing there, looking so completely devastated that Kurt freezes in bewilderment.

Blaine crosses the room in a few quick strides and takes Kurt's right hand in his own, slipping something into it.

“You are allowed to wear a token from your district into the Games,” Blaine whispers urgently, like this is the most important thing in the world. His earnest-wide eyes swim with unshed tears. “You are allowed to take something with you, as a memory from your district. And I hope you will take this.”

Kurt closes his fingers around the warm metal something when Blaine draws his hand back, at an utter loss on what to say. Stares at the way the tears clump Blaine's sweeping eyelashes together, the droplets diffracting the sunlight filtering into the room.

They have never even talked to each other before, he didn't even know Blaine knows his name, so why is this so important? Why does Blaine look like his heart is breaking?

“Please,” Blaine whispers.

So Kurt opens his hand and there he finds a circular, golden pin showing a small mockingjay in flight. 

“My mother gave it to me at my first reaping,” Blaine says, a lone tear rolling down his cheek. He reaches up to wipe it off, a sad smile curving his lips. His eyes hold Kurt's again, mesmerizing and bright. “She said it'd protect me. I really hope you'll wear this. Maybe it'll protect you too.”

“Of course,” Kurt manages, still shocked and confused by the whole conversation. “Thank you… Blaine.”

Blaine opens his mouth as if to say something more, but at that moment the Peacekeepers sweep in. Two of them drag Kurt away while two others stand next to Blaine to prevent any outbursts.

“You can win this,” Blaine calls out, sudden and desparate, just as Kurt steps over the threshold. “You are smart and fast, if you try you can really win this! Please just win and come back to –“

Blaine voice abruptly cuts off, the Peacekeeper has closed the door between them. Kurt is herded off towards the train.

As he walks away, Kurt says a soft mental goodbye to Blaine Anderson, just like the rest of District 12. He doubts he'll ever see them again.

*

That is the only time he's ever talked to Blaine.

Kurt had spent that entire first train ride to the Capitol puzzling over the incident and what Blaine meant to say. Come back to – what? District 12? Blaine?  He had then proceeded to aggressively stamp down that last thought. It wasn't the time to get lost in fantasies when he was facing certain death in a few short weeks.

But then he won. He survived the Games and returned to District 12, broken like only the Games could break someone. He holed himself up at his new house in the Victor's Village, barely seeing anyone apart from Burt and Mercedes and Haymitch. Sometimes he considered returning the pin to Blaine, meeting up and seeking an explanation for what the gesture means, but the thought of parting with the thing after holding onto it through the darkest times of his life felt impossible. Blaine never came to ask for it and Kurt never tried to reach out to him. Their paths never crossed.

Until today.

Kurt wriggles his shoulders, settling back more comfortably against the door of the waiting room, thinking, thinking; idly playing with the pin in his pocket.

He doesn't understand the ferocity of his own emotions when he thinks of Blaine's name being drawn at the Reaping. Doesn't understand why the very thought of Blaine in that arena makes his heart clench and the air to disappear from the room.

It is just one conversation. Kurt doesn't form bonds easily, has always walled up his heart fiercely against everyone. He doesn't let himself carefor people easily, because what is the point when they could just die anytime, what is the point when you have no power and no way to protect them…?

So when exactly did Blaine Anderson manage to mean something to Kurt?

Maybe it has nothing to do with Kurt and everything to do with Blaine. Maybe it is just that Blaine is so good. Blaine cares for people, helps people, makes everyone around him better.

Kurt knows from old, whispered talk at school that Blaine secretly took tesserae to give his share to the people of the Seam. Sometimes when Kurt went there on house calls for his dad, he would see Blaine accompanied by his brother or a few friends, walking around with a discreet bag full of food, dropping a loaf here or a roll there.

Mayor Anderson does his best, but the truth still remains that the Capitol does not consider District 12 a place to waste its precious resources on.  The Capitol never cares for its people and the people have grown to care only for themselves.

Blaine cares for everyonethough. Someone like him should not be sent to die.

But even if Blaine somehow survives, even if he wins the Hunger Games, he won't come out the same person, won't be him anymore. The light will have snuffed out, and Blaine will have become just as jaded and cynical as the rest of them. No one wins the Games unscathed. No one wins the Games without killing and maiming and turning into something twisted and broken. A mere shell of the person they once were...

Sudden pain shoots through Kurt's shoulder blades as the door he is leaning on pushes forcefully against him. Before he even registers it, Kurt spins around lightning-quick with deadly feline grace, whipping out the sharp penknife he always keeps on him and training it on a wide-eyed Peacekeeper.

The Peacekeeper slowly raises his hands, wary eyes fixed on Kurt, who is standing stock-still, taking deep calming breaths and trying to quiet his pounding nerves.

“Sorry,” Kurt says finally, pocketing the knife and slipping into the playful façade with which he charms the Capitol crowd, “You can take the boy out of the Games, but you can't take the Games out of the boy!”

The Peacekeeper drops his hands, though his eyes are still wide. He turns to Haymitch, who has his eyebrows raised at Kurt.

“It's time to board the train,” the Peacekeeper announces to the room at large, before leaving with a shake of his head.

Haymitch stumbles out the door first, Polivia following him to go fetch the tributes. After one more deep breath, Kurt straightens his clothes and starts following Haymitch to the car that'd take them to the train station. A small gathering in front of one of the rooms catches his eye and he stops, moving closer to the wall to watch.

Blaine is being hugged by his mother and Cooper, while Mayor Anderson and a small crowd of Merchant and Seam kids alike stand around them. All of them are crying.

The Peacekeepers arrive to escort the group out. After a few teary protests, they all start moving, leaving Blaine's lone, miserable form behind. Kurt watches Blaine's face till the door closes shut, obstructing him from view. He feels that clawing panic in his gut again.

Blaine just looks so vulnerable and innocent and tiny. Has he always been this tiny? He does not look capable of hurting a fly, let alone surviving an arena of seventy-two kids all trying to kill him. How on earth this fair, how is any of this fair?

A hand drops heavily on his shoulder and Kurt has already halfway pulled out his penknife again before he realizes it is Cooper Anderson.

“You have to help him,” Cooper says without preamble, crowding in on Kurt, eyes half-crazed and full of desperation. Kurt takes a step back, putting some distance between them, raising a hand to placate him.

“It's kind of my job to help him, of course I will,” Kurt replies, trying to sound as reassuring as possible.

“No you don't understand!” Cooper snaps, with an intensity that mildly scares Kurt. “He won't help himself, he won't kill! You have to convince him he should, you have to help him see that the most important thing is to live, that he should do everything to live! You have to bring him home!”

Kurt stands still, trying to supress the onslaught of emotions that rise up in him again at the thought of Blaine fighting in the arena, Blaine dying...

“Promise me,” Cooper says, taking another step closer and clutching Kurt's shoulders, “promise you'll make sure he wins, promise me you'llbring him home!”

Kurt wants to tell him that he can promise no such thing, that it is beyond his control, that he has other tributes. That there is no way to help.

“I promise,” he whispers instead. It slips out before he can stop himself, but he doesn't take it back because what is the point if everything good and beautiful dies? “I'll do every single thing I can to keep him alive, I promise.”

Cooper takes a shuddering breath, looking deep into Kurt's eyes before nodding and releasing him. Kurt watches Cooper walk away before taking a deep breath and heading to the car that will take him to the train station.

He shouldn't have promised that. Not when so many things can go wrong, not when he has five other kids to help as well, not when death can come for any of them in a second and he doesn't have the power to do anything but sit and watch…

But Kurt Hummel always keeps his promises.

*

Kurt closes the door to his train compartment with a weary sigh and leans against it for a moment before moving to undress quickly. There is a luxurious bathroom that comes attached with his compartment and he plans to take full advantage of it before dinner. He walks into the shower area and adjusts the pressure and temperature to just how he likes it, before stepping under the warm spray and relaxing his muscles.

It's been an exhausting day.

He thinks of what he has to do while shampooing his hair. After the shower he will have to go to dinner and face this year's tributes. He will get to know them personally over the next several days. Only to watch them all die in a few short weeks.

If the odds are in their favour, one of them may survive. But no matter what the odds favour, five of those kids will die.

Kurt just wants to bury himself in the soft blankets on his bed and never come out. Instead he towels himself dry and pulls on black pants that hug his legs magnificently, one of his own creations. He chooses a light blue dress shirt to go with it. Cinna designed it for him during his Victory Tour two years ago.

Cinna, his stylist, is probably one of the very few people Kurt met at the Capitol that he actually likes. For his Victory Tour, Kurt was required to have a “talent”, some skill to show off as his future hobby or profession, when he isn't fulfilling his mentor duties. Kurt, who has always harboured a love for clothes, chose fashion-designing. After some tutoring from Cinna, he discovered he actually does have a great aptitude for it. Cinna is one of the very few people in the world Kurt fully trusts.

When Kurt enters the dining car, everyone has already assembled and dinner has been served. He drops into the empty chair next to a drunken Haymitch, avoiding eye-contact with everyone.

A few minutes of tense awkward silence, broken only by the tinkle of cutlery.

“Well!” Polivia exclaims, breaking the awkward quiet and clapping her hands. “Why don't you all introduce yourselves properly, so we can all get to know each other?”

Kurt rolls his eyes before going back to stab at the roast chicken in front of him. He wonders what exactly goes on in that idiot woman's brain. These kids are being sent into an arena to fight each other to the death. The last thing they're going to want to do is to get to know each other.

The strained silence continues and no one speaks. Polivia's maniacal smile twitches slightly. She brandishes her fork like a baton, pointing it at the blonde-haired merchant girl, who startles in her seat.

“Let's start with you! Tell us about yourself, dear,” Polivia says, smile growing even wider. The girl looks mildly alarmed.

“Um,” the girl begins hesitantly, “My name is Abbie, my father is the district shoemaker? Um. I'm seventeen, I was in the same class as Kurt in school actually, before he – before –” she trails off, darting one quick glance at Kurt before looking back down at her plate.

“Oh, excellent! Were you two friends?” Polivia pokes, and Abbie just shakes her head, not looking up. Kurt goes back to chewing his food and ignoring Polivia.

“Well, let's move on,” Polivia says, when it becomes clear neither of them is going to say anything. She gestures to the surly-looking Seam girl sitting next to Abbie. “You next.”

The girl looks up with a scowl.

“Coraline. Eighteen. Father sells liquor at the Hob and mother takes in clothes for washing. Three brothers work in the mines.”

With that, she goes back to eating her food and completely ignores any further attempts at conversation. Polivia looks utterly lost and Kurt hides his snort of laughter behind his hand.

When he looks up, he catches Blaine smiling at him, a fond little upturn of his mouth that should not look so intimate, like he knows Kurt, knows what he was just thinking…

Kurt straightens abruptly in his seat, blushing. And then has a quiet crisis over blushing, because he is supposed to be a cold-hearted, ruthless victor, dammit.

“Jac Soreen. Eighteen,” he hears and snaps out of his thoughts. Polivia has continued down the line and his old bully is lounging cockily in his chair, smirking at everyone. “My father owns the granary and mother works at the Justice Building. I like to wrestle and I'm pretty strong, like Kurt here can tell you,” Jac finishes, directing his smirk at Kurt.

Kurt bites the inside of his cheek, trying to restrain himself from whipping out his penknife and carving out one of the bully's eyeballs. It is probably frowned upon to murder one of your own tributes before they get into the arena.

“Janette. Sixteen,” the tiny, petite girl sitting next to Jac pipes up. “Father and mother both work in the mines and my sister's been a cook at the Mayor's house for a year now. The Mayor says she makes the best chicken pot pie in the district.”

She beams around the table, face glowing with pride over her sister's accomplishments. Kurt thinks of Mercedes with a sad smile. Of how excited and proud she had been when the first crate-full of Kurt's own designs arrived from the Capitol, right before his Victory Tour.

“She cooks really well,” Blaine agrees with a grin, turning towards Janette. “And she is definitely much nicer than old John. He used to throw knives at us every time Cooper and I stole cookies.”

Blaine seems to become aware of everyone at the table staring at him. With a self-conscious little smile he turns back, eyes flickering towards Kurt before flitting away.

“My name is Blaine,” he says. “I'm sixteen years old. Janette and I are in the same year at school. My father is, um, the Mayor and my brother works at the Justice Building.”

Blaine looks unsure what else to say and after a few seconds, Polivia turns to the last tribute. Lory, Kurt recalls, from the name called out at the reaping. The boy is attacking the food in front of him and only seems to realize they are waiting for him to talk after a few seconds of silence.

“Lory, I'm thirteen,” the boy says, between shovelling food into his mouth. “Father died in that mine blast three months ago, mother is outta job but she helps the seamstress sometimes. I've got a younger sister and three younger brothers.”

With that he goes back to his food like he hasn't eaten in months. Judging by the way his bones are poking through his skin and his sunken dulled eyes, he probably hasn't. Kurt stares at the boy sadly, wonders if he is only here because of all the tesserae he no doubt must have taken.

Polivia makes a trill of disgust.

“I suppose you've never had fare this delicious but that's no reason to utterly forget your manners and eat like a caveman,” Polivia says in that ridiculous Capitol accent of hers, turning up her nose. At a starving child who is being sent to fight to the death for the entertainment of people like her.

Kurt's temper, already stretched thin by everything that has happened today, finally snaps.

He slams his fork and knife on the table with a resounding thunk and turns to Polivia with a glare. She recoils from him in no slight terror.

“Not everyone has so much to eat that they have to take puking juice just to make space for the rest of the feast,” Kurt snaps in cold anger. “Or go under the knife to cut out body fat because it makes them less pretty. Most of us don't get to eat enough to put weight. When you're starving and haven't eaten for days, the last thing you'll be thinking about is manners, I assure you, Polivia.”

Polivia gapes at him, looking like a fish out of water. Kurt does not let up on his glare, tilting his head with as much haughtiness and icy disdain as he can muster.

“Well,” she explodes finally, a blotchy blush making her face resemble a bruised overripe plum. “Well I have never! You make one small mistake and they demote you to escort District 12 and look at what I have to deal with now. Drunkards and barbarians and horrible nasty children, Inever…”

“Yes, our hearts go out to you in this period of extreme suffering,” Kurt interrupts, sarcasm dripping in every word. “How terrible it must be to be escorting starving, terrified kids to get slaughtered instead of bloodthirsty thugs from District 2. Almost makes you realize they are actually justchildren doesn't it?”

Polivia stands up, face completely purple now and grabs some napkins before storming out dramatically, sobbing.

Kurt rolls his eyes and starts buttering a roll.

Suddenly Haymitch, who has been face down on the table for most of the evening so far, guffaws loudly next to Kurt and claps his shoulders.

“Ah, bless you, kid,” Haymitch slurs between bursts of laughter, “You're a never-ending pain in the ass, but sometimes I'm actually glad you didn't decorate the arena with your intestines and managed to get out in one piece.”

“Well, not exactly in one piece,” Kurt retorts with morbid humour, gesturing to his prosthetic foot. Haymitch chortles some more, before his head thumps back to the table.

Kurt suddenly remembers they have company and looks up to find five pairs of eyes trained on him intensely, each with varying combinations of emotion. The sixth pair which hasn't bothered to watch is, of course, Lory, who is still too busy wolfing down the food to pay any attention to his surroundings.

“You should stop eating now,” Kurt tells him, more to break the silence and stop all the awkward staring than anything else. “This food is rich. Even if you've been eating three square meals a day, too much will make you puke, and you…well.”

Lory doesn't so much as pause and Kurt lets out a huff of annoyance, going back to his roll. Well fine then. The kid can puke his guts out and learn his lesson the hard way.

“He's right you know,” he hears Blaine's soft voice say. “It's going to make you sick if you don't pace yourself.”

Lory actually looks up from the half-eaten chicken leg he is currently wolfing down. He stares at Blaine before turning a longing gaze at all the food piled on the table.

“Tell you what,” Blaine says, grinning conspiratorially. “You stop eating now and I'll tell the Capitol attendants to give you a small portion of food every two hours. That way, you still get to eat it all and you can hold it down without making yourself sick.”

Lory seems to mull it over before he nods, finishing the chicken he is already holding in his hand before pushing his plate away. He gives Blaine a tremulous, tentative smile, and Blaine's smile in reply is like sunshine.

Kurt holds his breath and stares.

As though feeling Kurt's gaze on him, Blaine turns his head and catches Kurt's eyes. His smile widens, eyes crinkling adorably, everything about him sweet and open and lovely and breathtaking.

Kurt breaks their interlocked gaze, turns away, feeling strangely lightheaded.

Are those actual butterflies in his stomach, like some mooning pre-teen?

What the hell is happening to him?

His eyes land on Haymitch, who lifted up his head during the exchange, and is now staring at Blaine, a curiously haunted expression on his face. He takes periodic swigs from the bottle of wine clutched in his hand, steady, speculative gaze never leaving Blaine.

After dinner, Haymitch wanders off to his own compartment. Polivia returns the dining car with dignified stiffness, leading the tributes to watch recaps of the reaping from all the districts, pointedly ignoring Kurt.

Kurt just smirks. He finds her obvious hostility towards him simultaneously amusing and relieving, so he does nothing to fix it. In fact, things have worked out rather wonderfully.

His amusement takes a nosedive once the actual recap starts.

There are just so many kids. Name upon name upon name is drawn from each district, child after terrified child is called up, and by the time they get to district 12, Kurt is overwhelmed by the sheer number of kids who are going to die.

If the normal Games are a nightmare, this is hell itself. Worse odds, less hope, more dead kids and ultimately more power to the Capitol.

Kurt wants to punch someone. Kurt wants to cry.

The tributes aren't faring any better. It is like seeing the magnitude of their competition has finally made it completely sink in. Abbie and Lory look downright terrified, letting out soft whimpers, eyes holding the look of cornered prey. Jac and Coraline are some strange mixture of panicked and determined. Janette has tears in her eyes, and Blaine.

Blaine looks so lost, the light of his presence so dim, so hopeless…

Kurt gives them all a wordless nod and all but runs to his compartment. Runs away from the confusing desireto hold Blaine, to comfort him. The desire to enclose save protect that Blaine brings out in him, which he doesn't understand and doesn't want to try to understand because what if –

What if.

This is going to be a long month.

*

Kurt startles awake from a disturbed sleep full of dying children, all his senses on high alert for danger.

He sits up, heart thudding, looking for whatever woke him, his hands scrabbling towards his penknife. It takes a few seconds before the roaring in his ears lets up and he registers the loud, off-key singing from the compartment opposite him.

Haymitch's drunken voice is spectacularly mangling a funeral dirge.

He turns bleary eyes to the digital clock sitting on his bedside table. The red, neon “3:00 a.m.” taunts him. The caterwauling from Haymitch's compartment hits a particularly deafening peak.

For Heaven's sake.

Kurt stalks out to his old mentor's compartment door and bangs on it, fuming. What the drunken fool is doing wailing like this at three in the morning Kurt doesn't know. When the knocking has no effect at all, Kurt throws the door open, about to give Haymitch a piece of his mind.

And he freezes at the sight that greets him.

Kurt's no stranger to Haymitch's abhorrent drinking spells, where he all but drinks himself to death. He's seen enough of those over the past two years of being Haymitch's lone neighbour in their isolated Victor's Village. But even by those previous incidents, what he sees now is a little extreme.

Three empty wine bottles litter the ground around Haymitch and a fourth is already half-empty. From one side of the room, the nasty putrid smell of alcoholic vomit emanates. Kurt gags on air, bile rising in his throat.

“Prettyboy!” Haymitch yells from where he is lying on the ground, surprisingly coherent considering the amount of alcohol he's consumed. “Come join us for a nightcap. Maybe we'll get lucky and actually die from alcohol poisonin' before we get'ta the Capitol. Escape from killin' another six kids.”

He takes another swig from the bottle in his hand, alcohol sloshing clumsily over his face. His eyes are bloodshot and puffy.

“Not like we can bring any of ‘em home anyway, even if we tried,” Haymitch mutters. “They're all dead, all dead. Everyone dead.”

Kurt stands till for a minute, stunned. And the he feels something in him snap.

Blood pounds in his ears, white-hot anger fills his brain. In that moment, he's so furious he feels blind with it.

He crosses the room in three long strides and bodily lifts Haymitch from the ground before slamming him against a wall.

Kurt isn't really one for physical strength. He won the Games with brains and stealth, not direct confrontation and fights. But in that moment, fury propels him.

He pushes right up into Haymitch's face and shakes him, hard. The bottle of wine slips from the old mentor's drunken grasp and shatters on the floor.

“Listen to me, you filthy drunk,” Kurt spits furiously, shaking him once more till his bleary eyes focus on Kurt. “Despite your best efforts over the years, I know that brain of yours is still sharp enough to cut steel. I don't care how depressed you are over having to lead six kids to the arena instead of the usual two. I don't care how much you'd rather numb yourself to face this. You are not giving up on them. You are not leaving me to do this alone and I won't fucking let you.”

Haymitch's eyes are clearing, a little of his spit-fire returning. Kurt shakes him again for good measure.

“From tomorrow, you are going to be sober for every damn day till the fucking Quell gets over. You are going to do everything you fucking can to bring at least one of our tributes back. You are going to help me or I swear to God I'll personally put a knife through your ribs.”

Haymitch glares at him and Kurt glares right back, refusing to step down. He stands nose to nose to his drunken mentor, feeling noxious alcoholic fumes right in his face.

“Get the fuck out,” Haymitch growls after a few more minutes of mutual glaring, raising a hand to punch Kurt's face.

Kurt dances back with feline agility, Haymitch's fist missing him by mere centimetres. Haymitch growls again and makes another half-hearted swipe at him and Kurt whisks out of range.

He nods once at his mentor's scowling, thunderous face and quickly exits the compartment, sliding the door shut behind him. He leans against it, taking a deep breath, staring up at the train ceiling with tired eyes.

He saw the acknowledgement to his words in Haymitch's eyes before he left, saw the old man pulling himself out of whatever depressed pit the day's events pushed him into. He knows he can count on Haymitch to be his ally now.

No matter what, he won't be alone in this.

Once you're in the Games, you never really get out. And allies mean the difference between surviving and sinking.

*

“Get up and stand yourselves next to each other in a line facing me,” Haymitch's gruff voice orders the six tributes just as breakfast winds down.

He looks sharp-eyed and belligerent and not at all like a man who'd sunk partway into an alcohol-induced coma just five hours ago.

Kurt smiles to himself and sips his mug of hot chocolate.

“Well what are you waiting for, a red carpet? Get off your asses!” Haymitch roars when the tributes just sit there staring at him. They scatter like scared chickens, following his orders.

Once they are suitably arranged, Haymitch places down his cup of coffee and stands, walking towards the tributes, gaze sharp and calculating.

“Hmm,” Haymitch says, starting at the farthest left, and circling Jac thoughtfully. “Well you won't win no beauty contest, but I guess you'll look presentable enough once the prep team's done with you. Your size alone can get you sponsors.” Jac smirks his disdainful reply and Haymitch moves on to the next tribute, coming to a stop in front of Coraline.

He stares at her for a second, before grimacing.

“Well, that's unfortunate,” he says mildly to her face. She scowls back at him, which in no way improves her looks.

“There's nothing we can do about that,” Haymitch says, gesturing vaguely to her entire self. “But again, you're built like an ox and look like you can kill things. We can play the surly and dangerous card, the sponsors love those.”

He passes on to Abbie and Lory, growing more expressionless by the minute as he takes them in. The former is neither pretty enough to be remarkable nor big enough to make an impression, while the latter is just too emaciated and starved-looking for anything else about him to be noticeable.

It'll take a hell of a lot to make either of them someone worth betting on.

After a few more minutes of resigned contemplation, Haymitch grunts in their direction and moves on to the other Seam girl, Janette.

When he comes up to her, she squares her small shoulders and looks right back into his eyes. She is a tiny wisp of a thing, pretty, with the straight black hair and the steel-grey eyes common in Seam folk.

But what makes her stand out is the hint of intelligence and intuition that sparkles defiantly in her eyes.

“We can work with that,” Haymitch says with an approving nod after studying her for a little while. “You are too small to be an actual physical threat, but you've got spunk, kid, we just have to play that up.”

With that he moves on to the last tribute.

Blaine.

Kurt straightens slightly in his chair, his full attention focused on them.

Haymitch circles around Blaine with a deep frown, even going so far as to poke and prod him a few times like an animal kept in an exhibit.

Blaine is obviously uncomfortable under the intense scrutiny. But apart from one nervous twitch of his fingers, he stands still. And after a few deep breaths, he manages to actually look relaxed and detached from the proceedings, as though the entire process doesn't even affect him.

Kurt is impressed.

“Oh the Capitol's going to fall head over heels for you,” Haymitch says after a few minutes, with a dry, almost sad chuckle.

Blaine's brow wrinkles the tiniest degree in confusion but Kurt can see what Haymitch means. Blaine isn't just good-looking or conventionally handsome.

Blaine is beautiful.

Beguiling honey-gold eyes that sparkle in the sunlight with warm flecks of hazel, framed by black lashes so thick and long Kurt wonders how they don't get tangled up every time Blaine blinks. He isn't very tall or broad, but he is compact, with a slight but well-defined musculature that is visible even through the loose white dress shirt he has chosen to wear this morning.

His hair, finally out of the strict, controlled style he always wears it in back home, is a mess of thick curls that tumble about his head. It makes Kurt itch to run his fingers through them, holding Blaine's head in place and kissing those lush pink lips while running a hand down his sun-warm skin and… what is he doing?

Kurt drops a spoon and ducks under the table, having a silent panic attack.

He's never had those kinds of thoughts about Blaine before. Heck, he's never had those kinds of thoughts about any actual person before. On those rare occasions he felt the regular desires of a hormonal teenage boy, it was always someone faceless that he fantasised while quickly taking care of business. He's never daydreamed like this about someone before.

And the last person he needs to be thinking about like this is his own tribute who he has to send into an arena to fight to the death and what on earth is he doing?

Haymitch is still speaking and this is so not the time for Kurt to have a confusing, hormone-induced mental breakdown. He takes a few deep breaths, pushing all his thoughts forcibly into a corner of his mind before standing up and settling back into his chair, impassive mask in place.

Well, almost in place. Blaine is looking in his direction with a concerned gaze and Kurt ducks his head, blushing furiously.

Get a grip, Hummel.

“You are going to look phenomenal once Cinna's done with you,” Haymitch, is saying as he circles Blaine once more. Blaine's eyes flicker back to Haymitch. “The Capitol audience will eat you right up.”

Kurt really does not want to think of the Capitol audience in conjuncture with Blaine right now.

“Yeah, yeah what's the point of all this,” Jac Soreen calls out obnoxiously, snapping Kurt out of his tumbling thoughts. 

Haymitch stops and turns towards him, thinly veiled look of contempt on his face.

“It's not like anyone won the Games by just being pretty,” Jac continues, puffing his chest with superior cockiness. “It's about skill and survival, not how much of a pretty pansy I can be.”

“Never underestimate the amount of favours justbeing a pretty pansy can get you in the arena,” Haymitch says, looking at Jac like he is something the dog dragged in. “It's a television show, they want entertainment and they want pretty faces putting it up. It's how Finnick won a few years ago, and it's why Kurt didn't starve in the arena.”

With that, he turns back to Blaine, studying his face once more. Jac snorts at Haymitch's back and Kurt bites his cheek, restraining himself from punching Jac in the mouth.

“Although I gotta say,” Haymitch says dryly after a few more minutes. “Cinna's gonna have a real hard time dealing with those eyebrows.”

Blaine immediately lifts a hand to rub over his rather wild brows, which are now crunched self-consciously.

Kurt buries his face in a mug of hot chocolate to hide his laughter. 

And to stop himself from doing something stupid like reassuring Blaine his eyebrows are endearing. Just like everything else about him.

*

They are about thirty minutes away from the Capitol and Kurt is slumped in his chair, palms pressed to his eyes in frustration. Haymitch breathes loudly next to him, nursing a glass of wine.

Kurt doesn't even feel like telling him off for it. In fact, he kind of wants to ask for a glass himself, considering how the morning went.

They are in one of the many recreation compartments in the train. The Capitol attendants call this one ‘The Lounge'. It's where Kurt and Haymitch usually go whenever they need to talk in secret. The room is hung with over a dozen tinkling wind chimes, and when they open all the windows, conversations can be held there undetected by any Capitol bugs.

Kurt and Haymitch set up there after breakfast and sent summons for the tributes to come in one at a time. The plan was to talk with them and get a general read on each tribute's capabilities, their strengths and weaknesses, so Kurt and Haymitch can work out a gameplan when they reach the Capitol, while the tributes themselves would be busy at the Remake Centre.

Kurt supposes he should have foreseen what a complete disaster it would turn out to be.

Jac was first and he pretty much stated point-blank that he doesn't need any help from an old decrepit drunk and a 17 year old pansy-boy. Haymitch grew tired of his cocky bullshit within three minutes and kicked him out.

Coraline was no better, surly and suspicious and uncooperative. All they managed to get out of her was that she is good at wrestling and can hold her own in hand-to-hand combat. But then she shut down again and Haymitch had to dismiss her, breathing heavily in frustration.

It was somewhere between Abbie and Lory that Haymitch called for a bottle of wine.

Abbie burst into tears halfway through Haymitch's questions about her strengths and all Lory cared about was if he would get even more food at the Capitol than what he got here.

Janette's session went much better compared to the rest. She exhibited intelligence and quick-thinking and mentioned being handy with a slingshot. She also seemed to have a reasonable skill in keeping herself fed. All of which could be of use in the arena. Kurt smiled at her with as much encouragement as he could and instructed her to listen to her stylist, Portia, before dismissing her.

They are now waiting for the Capitol attendant to fetch their last tribute, Blaine. Kurt slumps back even further in his chair and tilts his head back, staring despondently at the ceiling, mind still on Janette.

He tries to be hopeful for her, tries to work out a good plan for her…

But.

She is just so fragile looking, no physical strength at all. And a slingshot can only do so much in an arena full of lethal weapons she doesn't know how to wield or defend against.

The reason District 12 rarely ever has a Victor and the reason their chances are always so bleak is because they just don't have anything they could use to their advantage. In literally every other district, children are put to work in the district industry from the minute they can walk. Even five year olds from 4 can catch a dozen fish, children in 7 could butcher anything with an axe before they are even old enough to be reaped.

In District 12, they only start working in the mines at eighteen, and any small titbits of knowledge that may help them survive are only learned after they are already beyond reaping age.

Yet another thing that stacks the odds against them. He sighs.

A polite double-knock on the compartment door pulls Kurt from his depressing train of thought and he straightens in his chair. “Come in.”

The door slides open and Blaine walks in, politely inquisitive, and takes the seat Haymitch gestures him towards.

“Just a strategy meeting,” Haymitch assures him, taking a sip of his wine. “We usually do this the day before your personal interviews, but since there are so many of you, we thought we'd get a headstart.”

Blaine nods, face open and attentive.

“Tell us anything you can think of about yourself, anything that you think might be useful in the arena,” Haymitch says, leaning forward slightly.

“Um,” Blaine looks down, thinks, before glancing back up with a self-deprecating half-smile. “I'm not a bad wrestler, my brother gets me to fight with him all the time and I can usually beat him, even though I'm smaller than him. I'm really fast, you see. I can also box. Cooper made me take it up.”

He looks to them, eyebrows raised and Kurt nods, encouraging him to continue.

“Cooper made me train in a lot of things actually,” Blaine says. “He always… worried. That I'd get reaped.” He pauses, face sad and drawn, no doubt remembering his brother's screaming and panic at the town square yesterday. Kurt's heart squeezes with the need to comfort him.

“He used to steal swords and knives,” Blaine continues, shaking himself out of it, “from the old relic room and make me practise those, till we got caught two years ago. And also –”

Blaine pauses and looks around as though searching for something, before turning to Kurt with questioning eyes.

“You can say whatever you want here,” Kurt says, picking up on his dilemma immediately. “The wind chimes drown out our words so Capitol bugs can't pick them up. What you say here stays here.”

Blaine looks at him for a beat more, then nods slowly.

“We went beyond the fence sometimes,” he says, voice light and casual, as though discussing the weather, as though that isn't the kind of offence that could get him killed back in District 12.

Kurt startles, mouth dropping open slightly. He was expecting some minor instance of rule-breaking, not something in this degree of severity. He stares at Blaine – quiet, serious, earnest Blaine – and tries to imagine him slipping through the fence into the forbidden woods. He can't picture it.

But then Blaine gives him this impish, impudent smile, eyes sparkling with suppressed mischief and –

This is a side of Blaine he has never seen before.

Kurt gapes, heart pitter-pattering, entirely inappropriate to the situation, but God is there any side of this boy that isn't absolutely fascinating? –

“And what did you do beyond the fence?” Haymitch prompts while Kurt flounders mentally. Blaine's attention switches back to the old mentor.

“We usually went there to collect plants,” Blaine says. “There is this restricted area in my dad's office, um, I guess it's technically breaking the law for me to even know about it.” Kurt blinks. Stares at Blaine's matter-of-fact expression and blinks some more. “But Coop and I managed to figure out how to break into the security system there,” Jesus Christ, “and it has a lot of... knowledge. Even things from before. Before Panem I mean. Things they don't let us learn in school or anywhere else. History and medical discoveries and botany and technology and… just, so much. There was even a manual on surviving in the wild, how to make bows and arrows and setting out traps for animals ... There were newer things too, documents and computer files from the Capitol.”

Blaine pauses, staring at his hands.

“I've read almost all of it,” Blaine says, speaking to the floor. “And we, me and Cooper. We used to go beyond the fence, to find edible plants, and medicinal herbs. And catch some game, if we could.”

His eyes look back up again, earnest and wide and passionate; this Blaine is familiar. Kurt's seen this Blaine every day back in District 12, offering a helping hand to tired women and dropping cookies to little kids who could never afford it themselves.

This Blaine is familiar. And every bit as captivating.

“It's just – we barely get any provisions from the Capitol at all in our district,” Blaine says emphatically. “So many families just starve and I couldn't bear it. I just wanted to help in any way I could and so did Cooper. And then we had all this knowledge we found.” Blaine pauses, searching for words.

“We made some bows and arrows to hunt with, laid out traps for animals while we scouted for plants. Once we got the hang of it, we managed quite a good haul between us. And it helped so many –”

Blaine is far away now. He's looking out the window at the world flashing past them, wistful and sad.

“And sometimes we just went exploring,” he says softly. “The world out there is so unrestrained, so – free. We found this lake once and Cooper taught me how to swim. The trees were full of mockingjays and we sang to them all day, listening to them sing back. It was all so warm and wild and beautiful.”

Blaine falls silent, lost in his thoughts. Kurt watches him, unable to look away. He yearns – for what, he doesn't know. To be able to comfort Blaine now? To have a chance himself to visit this paradise Blaine's described? To have a day with Blaine beneath the trees, singing together to the mockingjays?

Kurt doesn't know how long he sits there, watching and yearning, before Blaine seems to snap out of it.

“Forgive me, I was rambling,” he says with an apologetic smile. The spell breaks. Kurt turns away, blushing slightly.

“Not at all,” Haymitch says, looking strangely pained. “We got quite a lot out of you. You are somewhat handy with swords and knives. You can wrestle and box. You can make your weapon in the arena even if you don't get one at the Cornucopia. You can hunt and gather. Not bad, kid. Not bad at all. I'd say you are almost a Career.”

Silence descends again while Haymitch sips some more of his wine.

“But that's not what I want,” Blaine says, voice so quiet Kurt barely catches it.

“What?” Haymitch grunts, looking up from his wine glass. Kurt's eyes move back to Blaine and he tilts his head, confused.

“Being like a Career,” Blaine says, conviction building with every word. “That's not what I want.”

“I think you misunderstood him, Blaine,” Kurt says placatingly. “He simply means you have as good a chance of making it as a Career, not that you are like one.”

“No but that's not what I want either,” Blaine says, eyes dark and unreadable.

“You don't want to have as much chances of winning as a Career?” Kurt asks, thoroughly confused.

“I can't kill,” Blaine says abruptly. “In fact, I won't. I won't deliberately use what I know to make a weapon to kill someone. I won't… I can'tdo that and live with myself.”

“What?” Kurt asks, thrown.

“I will not kill in the arena,” Blaine enunciates every word, slow and clear, as immutable as a mountain.

Distant panic alarms sound at the back of Kurt's head but most of him is confused and annoyed. Angry.

“None of us particularly wanted to be cold-blooded murderers!” he snaps, harsher than he meant to. He pauses, pulls in a calming breath. He just needs to make Blaine understand, make him see. Theres no need for this choking panic rising in him. 

“None of us thought we could kill either," Kurt bites out. "But we all did what we had to do once they threw us in there, so stop being stupid and start dealing with it!”

It's just – the thought of Blaine not even fighting, just giving up and dying and being gone forever, and leaving Kurt behind – how dare he?

“But you were ready to fight to kill if it came down to it, weren't you?” Blaine is asking, sounding thoroughly unreasonable. “Even at the start?”

“Well of course I was! I wasn't going to make my dad watch me get butchered to bloody pieces on national television!” Kurt yells. He is so irrationally, terribly angry.

“Well I can't do that, alright!” Blaine yells back just as loudly; it's the first time Kurt has ever heard him raise his voice. “If someone is running at me with an axe, I will defend myself but I don't think I can land a killing blow, alright? I can't hit another human being, another kid, who is just as desperate and terrified as I am, and intentionally bury a knife in them. I can't kill someone who has been so brainwashed by the Capitol that they proudly march to their death. Killing a human being, a person, it's not something I can do! And I am not going to let the Capitol turn me into another piece in their Games. If I'm gonna die, I'd rather just die as me!”

There is a minute of ringing silence, the only sound Blaine's loud breathing after his outburst.

“Do you think that's going to be any consolation to your family when they're watching you get killed?” Kurt asks shakily, fisting his trembling hand. “Do you think the fact that you died as yourself and kept your morals or integrity or whatever is going to be any help at all when they get you back in a coffin?”

Blaine runs a weary hand over his face.

“For once, I just have to do what is right by me and not think of others,” he mumbles into his palms. When his eyes meet Kurt's, there is something broken and haunted in them. “And I can't kill someone just for me, Kurt. I can't – I won't let them change me like that.”

“So you're not even going to try to win?” Kurt feels hollowed out, empty. His arteries feel filled with lead.

“Oh no,” Blaine says, shaking his head earnestly. “I'm going to try just as hard as the rest of them, maybe even harder. I want to live, Kurt. I want to see my family again. But if someone runs at me with a mace – well, maybe you should warn the Capitol to bet on the other person.”

He gives Kurt a half-hearted smile which Kurt does not return. Their eyes hold for a few long moments before Kurt breaks it, looking away, willing the tears to recede.

A few more minutes of heavy silence later, Blaine quietly excuses himself and leaves the compartment. When the door slides shut behind him, Haymitch wordlessly pops open another bottle of wine and Kurt doesn't even think to protest.

Instead he fetches a glass of his own and holds it out to Haymitch for a shot.

“Are you even old enough to drink this stuff,” Haymitch asks with raised eyebrows. “It's much stronger than my usual.”

“I've been old enough to be sent into an arena and fight to the death for over five years now,” Kurt says tonelessly. “A little strong wine shouldn't be a problem.”

Even Haymitch has nothing to say to that. The glass is filled and Kurt downs the entire thing in one go.

The liquid burns as it goes down his throat. Momentarily dulling the ache in his heart.