PART II – THE TRAINING

“You sure you don't want to try it with a girl at least once?” a loud voice says behind him and suddenly he is tackled from behind by 120 pounds of wild, feral girl.

“Hello to you too, Johanna,” Kurt says with wary fondness as he extricates himself from her arms and turns to grin at her.

“I'd totally volunteer to be that girl, by the way,” Johanna clarifies. “'Cause look at you, gorgeous.” She looks him up and down, hooting lecherously and Kurt resists the urge to cross his arms in front of his body and shield himself from her view. Not that it will do him any good against her.

“Still not your team, Johanna.”

Johanna mutters something about ‘all the good ones' (probably offensive, knowing her) but Kurt is distracted by the sight of a tall, bronze-haired man walking towards them, accompanied by a wizened old woman.

“Finnick. Mags.” Kurt calls happily, returning their warm hugs.

Johanna, Finnick and Mags are the only people at the Capitol Kurt actually considers his friends, apart from Cinna and Haymitch.

Johanna Mason from District 7 won the Games two years before him. Finnick and Mags are both District 4 victors, the former as young and beautiful as the latter is shrivelled and old. Kurt remembers being nine years old and watching Finnick Odair on the television, awed and terrified by the stunningly beautiful fourteen year old with the clever hands and brutal skill with a trident.

All three of them were there for him last year when he was mentoring Mercedes, offering him their sympathy, advice and support. It is one of those experiences you just couldn't go through without trusting someone in the end.

Mags babbles something at Kurt in her toothless, garbled speech and he blinks, turning to Finnick for translation. Finnick somehow always understands her, though all Kurt hears is gibberish.

“Mags wants to know if you've finally managed to get yourself a lad back in good ol' 12,” Finnick says with a roguish wink at Kurt.

Unintended, the image of a sweet, curly-haired boy with the prettiest golden eyes rises in Kurt's brain and to his horror, he feels himself blush furiously.

And of course, every single person in their little group of Victors immediately notices it.

“Oh my god, you actually managed to snag yourself a boy?” Johanna asks with so much astonishment, Kurt would've been insulted in any other circumstance, but right now he is still too busy mentally kicking himself and floundering.

“Excellent! Is he cute?” Finnick asks, waggling his eyebrows. Genuine friendly interest wars with lascivious enthusiasm on his face.

“The cutest,” Kurt blurts out before he can stop himself and freezes when all three of them whoop so loudly, other Victors turn around to see the source of the commotion.

“Oh my god, shut up,” Kurt hisses, but the other three pay no mind, grinning widely.

“Details!” Johanna says, dragging Kurt to the balcony behind the Mentors' Lounge. She pushes him into a private alcove and scoots in next to him, Finnick and Mags settle on his other side. The wind whistles loudly through the open area, drowning out their voices and providing the perfect cover against Capitol bugs and prying ears.

“There's nothing to say!” Kurt says vehemently, trying to do damage control. They stare back in blatant disbelief.

“I don't have a boyfriend!” Kurt insists.

Johanna scoffs. “Quit lying and man up, Hummel. Spill the sordid details. Is he good in bed?”

“Johanna!”

“What? It's important!”

“I. Don't. Have. A. Boyfriend.” Kurt repeats through gritted teeth. “There isn't anyone!”

“Who's Mr Cutest then?” Johanna demands, her threatening glare promising physical damage if he lied. Kurt blushes once again despite himself and ducks his head, avoiding their gaze.

There is a beat of silence and then Johanna bursts into loud, raucous peals of laughter.

“Oh my god, this is golden,” Johanna huffs out and hiccups between all the laughing. “Prettyboy here has a crush. He has a little schoolboy crush on some kid and no clue how to go about it!”

She doubles up in more laughter while Finnick and Mags snicker quietly. Kurt feels his face burn from the amount of blushing he is doing.

“It's complicated,” Kurt says, tilting his chin up superiorly while she hiccups next to him.

Honestly.

Abruptly, Johanna sits up and grabs his face between her small palms. Before Kurt can so much as blink, she lunges forward, smacking a lewd,wet kiss on his mouth. Kurt is so thoroughly shocked it takes him ten whole seconds before he jerks back, eyes wide.

“What the fuck –?”

“How complicated can that be?” Johanna interrupts him with a sly smirk before bursting into another round of laughter. Mags and Finnick abandon all pretence and join her, howling with mirth.

“When the boy is a tribute you're mentoring, I'd say plenty complicated.”

That shuts them all up.

“What?” Johanna asks, levity all gone in an instant.

Kurt slumps back in his seat and lets out a loud exhale. “Yeah, I know. I'm screwed.”

“Was it rigged?” she asks, clutching his hand, eyes flashing anger and pain. “Is it like last time with your friend? To punish you more?”

“No, I don't think so,” Kurt says wearily, rubbing his eyes. “I only realized I felt something for him over the past two days, after he was reaped. I don't even know what I feel for him. All I know is I can't handle it if he dies. I just… I can't face that.”

Finnick raises a hand and squeezes Kurt's shoulder in support and sympathy. All traces of mirth have vanished from his face, he almost looks haunted.

With a start, Kurt remembers Annie Cresta, the poor mad girl he knows Finnick loves. Annie Cresta, Victor of the 92nd Hunger Games, who Finnick realized he had feelings for while mentoring her. Finnick can understand what Kurt feels right now better than anyone else.

So many lives the Capitol has bonded in their misery.

Kurt sighs and leans back further in his seat, gazing up at the sky. The wind gently ruffles his hair.

Since the reaping, everything about him has felt knocked off-balance. The confusing rush of emotions has left him exhausted and numb.

Mags garbles something at him and Kurt turns his head to Finnick, eyebrows raised.

“She wants to know which one your boy is,” Finnick says.

“The last one to be reaped,” Kurt replies, remembering the hot sun in his eyes, Cooper screaming his head off and the raw strangling panic. “The mayor's son, Blaine.”

Without a single word, Mags stands up and waddles off.

“Where is she going?” Kurt asks, bemused, but Finnick just shrugs in reply.

Johanna has pulled out her Monitor and is tapping and scrolling through it. It is a portable electronic tablet all mentors are given for the duration of the Games. It gives them easy access to details about their tributes, their scores and popularity among the Capitol crowd. And once the actual Games begin, it also gives live updates on kills, allies, location, sponsors and so on.

“Shit, he's so pretty,” she says, looking down at something on the screen. “Normally I'd say get it Hummel, but…”

Kurt leans closer for a look and with a jolt, sees that the tribute portraits are already up.

Blaine is dressed in a skin tight, all-black suit that covers him from neck to ankle, ending in shiny, knee-length boots. His curly black hair is glossy and artfully tousled. His beautiful gold eyes have been made up slightly to look smoky and seductive. He blinks at them seriously from beneath a banner that reads ‘District 12: Blaine Anderson'.

He looks fit and strong and beautiful. Everything a tribute should be.

Even as Kurt looks, the little red bars on the right hand corner which indicate public interest go up a few points.

“But they haven't even really seen him yet,” Johanna says, blinking at the screen.

“He's beautiful, that's all they need to get interested,” Finnick says, leaning in to study Blaine, disgust for the Capitol audience evident in his voice. “But at least with looks like that, he'll definitely rake in the sponsors. He's already got that advantage.” He glances up at Kurt. “How does he measure on skills?”

“He'll probably have a fighting chance at winning, if he tries.”

Johanna and Finnick stare at him like he's crazy.

“What do you mean, if he tries?” Johanna asks, incredulous.

Kurt turns away with a resigned sigh, not looking at them.

“Blaine doesn't want to kill,” he says hollowly.

“Well, of course he doesn't, none of us want to!” Johanna snaps. “Except maybe the gorillas from District 2. It's how it is, you just grit your teeth and hack your way out if you want to live!”

“That's just it,” Kurt says, staring unseeingly into the distance. “Blaine doesn't want to live like that, doesn't want to survive by directly causing the death of someone else. Something about how he'd rather die as himself than turn into a piece in the Capitol's games. He's very stubborn on that.”

There are a few minutes of silence as the other two digest that. The wind whistles between them, a disjointed laugh floats out to them from within the Lounge.

“Of course,” Johanna finally bites out, misplaced anger and bitterness colouring her voice. “Fucking figures, Hummel. All the boys who would trip over themselves to have you, but nooo, you have to set your eye on the fucking angel of peace and conscience.” 

Kurt laughs, he can't help it, because life does seem to have a twisted sense of humour where it concerns him, doesn't it?

They all lapse into silence once again, each lost in their own thoughts, waiting for the opening ceremonies to begin.

***

The lowest level of the Remake Centre is more or less a gigantic stable, horses and carriages lined up at the ready, tributes and stylists milling about everywhere. Kurt makes his way through it, returning shouts of greeting from fellow mentors with well-practiced, casual grace as he tries to reach his tributes.

Cinna is the first one to see him from the District 12 section. He starts walking towards Kurt, eyes twinkling and lips upturned, and Kurt picks up his own pace, grinning widely. He walks right into Cinna's open arms and they hug tight for a few moments before Cinna draws back, looking Kurt up and down with an assessing eye.

“You've grown again in the three months since I last took your measurements,” Cinna chides, sounding fondly exasperated. “I'm going to have to alter all the clothes I've designed for you now.”

“Technically, you don't have to design for me at all during the Games,” Kurt reminds him with a cheeky grin. “It's the tributes you should be worrying about.”

“But of course I have to design for you,” Cinna says with a negligent wave. “No one else is even remotely as gratifying to dress up as you.” Kurt preens at the compliment.

“Though I think you may finally have some competition on that front.” Cinna nods slightly towards the District 12 stalls, staring at something approvingly.

Kurt follows Cinna's gaze and it is ridiculous how instantly his stomach bursts into a thousand butterflies.

Blaine is standing stock still while one of the prep team girls, Venia, flits around him doing some final adjustments. He is dressed much like his tribute portrait, in a full body, skin-tight black suit, with solid knee-length boots that criss-cross and lace up around his calves. A swirling, shimmery red cape hangs from his shoulders, dominating the outfit, and a dramatic headdress with pieces shaped like embers of coal is perched firmly over his artfully tousled curls. Kurt stares, enchanted, by the little frown scrunching Blaine's eyebrows while he listens to the prep team clucking around him, by the neat slender line of his waist and slim-defined muscles of his arms, by the errant curl that keeps flopping over his forehead that Blaine pushes back with an annoyed little flick of his wrist and the truly remarkable way the suit clings him, to his legs and thighs and shoulders and –

“You are all sharp lines and startling angles,” Cinna muses, shooting Kurt a small smile, startling him back to their conversation. Kurt scrambles, tries to wrench his mind from its dangerous trajectory. “You are – a statuesque beauty shall we say, superior almost, desirable and unattainable. Charmingly dangerous. The perfect combination of ice and fire, such fun to dress.”

Cinna's attention falls back to Blaine and Kurt follows his gaze, he can't help himself.

 “That boy now, he's a different kind of fun,” Cinna continues. “He's all soft warmth and gentle curves, extremely beautiful yet so veryapproachable. A crowd pleaser in every way.”

“You'd both make an aesthetically captivating duo if you stood next to each other,” Cinna trails off wistfully, still looking Blaine up and down with a critical eye. “A study in perfectly complementing contrasts. It would be wonderful to design co-ordinating outfits for the two of you –”

Kurt is blushing furiously when Cinna turns towards him. He drops his eyes, avoiding Cinna's gaze, knowing Cinna would be able to read everything from his blotchy-red face.

He feels, rather than sees, when Cinna's eyes widen in realization and flit quickly between him and Blaine. But when he finally gathers the courage to look up again, Cinna's face is an impassive mask.

“What do you think of this year's outfit?” Cinna asks casually, leading Kurt toward their section and Kurt gratefully grabs on to the change in topic. He knows Cinna won't just drop it the issue. But ten minutes before the opening ceremonies are about to begin in a crowded stable full of enemies and spies, is not the time and place for this conversation.

Kurt shakes himself out of it and turns a critical eye to Cinna's creations for this year, assessing them thoroughly.

The tributes look amazing, of course. The outfits are amazing, strong and dark and dramatic, a thousand times better than the coal-miner's outfit District 12 was usually stuck in till Cinna took over for Kurt's Games.

But – 

The outfit this year isn't as breathtakingly stunning as Cinna's previous two creations for the opening ceremonies.

During Kurt's Games, Cinna dressed his tributes in a suit made of fabric that shimmered in different shades of fire when the light caught it, with a cape and headdress lined with orange-shaded glass pieces. When the lights of the stadium had trained on Kurt and his fellow tribute, they literally dazzled with the glow of a muted star, shimmering and sparkling and unforgettable. Last year, Cinna created a deadly coal-fire suit that, when turned on, resembled the shifting and moving of red-hot coal embers.

Kurt tries to see what could possibly be the selling point for this outfit. The detail that can turn it from amazing to stunningly inspired. But whatever it was evades him, and he turns to see Cinna smiling in amusement, watching him try to figure it out.

“Okay, I'll bite,” Kurt says finally with a defeated grin. “What's the catch point of this outfit?”

“Fire,” Cinna says, with a slightly maniacal smile of joy.

Kurt raises his eyebrows. Hasn't fire been the catch point of every outfit Cinna has made so far?

Ten minutes later it becomes apparent exactly what Cinna means.

“You're going to set my tributes on fire?” Kurt screeches, while six wide-eyed tributes scuttle back from the blowtorch their prep team is brandishing at them.

“Oh, it's not real fire I assure you,” Cinna says, eyes sparkling with excitement. Kurt gapes at him, he is truly insane.

“Portia and I came up with it. Its synthetic, it won't burn them. It's perfectly safe, I promise.”

It looks pretty unsafe to Kurt.

He opens his mouth to protest some more, but a reverberating gong sounds through the stables and there is an increased flurry of activity as the wide doors at the front of the stable slide open.

The District one chariots trundle out.

“We have to light them up now, we're up soon!” Cinna says, signalling hurriedly and the prep teams move forward. Kurt watches in horror while his tributes shuffle around like scared deer. He looks around for advice or help, but Haymitch is nowhere to be seen.

Instinctively, he walks up to Blaine and slips his hand into his for a reassuring squeeze before drawing it back. Blaine startles slightly at the touch, turning to stare at Kurt, surprise and some unnameable emotion flitting behind his eyes.

He opens his mouth to say something and Kurt waits, heart thrumming a little. But they are interrupted by the sight of Cinna walking down the line of District 12 tributes, setting their headdresses and capes on fire.

Is Cinna actually cackling? Dear god, he has truly cracked.

Blaine stares with a significant amount of wide-eyed terror as Cinna comes closer.

“One word and I'll tear it off your back, I promise,” Kurt whispers to him and the briefest smile flickers across Blaine's face before Cinna is upon them.

Deftly, he moves the blowtorch over Blaine's cape and headdress till the fire catches, quickly spreading. Blaine stands stock-still for a second before he relaxes in palpable relief, obviously unburnt.

Kurt lets out a soft sigh.

“What is this stuff?” Blaine asks, sounding fascinated, putting a finger through the flickering and entirely real-looking flames.

“Synthetic fire, Portia and I made it,” Cinna replies. “Now get in your chariots, it's almost your turn.”

The six tributes scramble to comply, and Blaine gets into the last one with Janette. This year, as there are six tributes instead of the usual two, three interlocked chariots attached one behind the other have been provided for each district, each carriage carrying one male and one female tribute.

The fire has turned into a billowing inferno by now, tongues of fire licking up and down the tributes' bodies, turning them into magnificent flaming creatures that couldn't possibly exist outside of a fantasy.

“What do you think of the outfit now?” Cinna asks with a playful smirk while Kurt stares in awe.

The horses have started trotting towards the entrance and Blaine turns back to Kurt and smiles. His eyes are molten gold and dramatic bursts of fire frame his face. His very skin seems to be glowing. 

He looks ethereal. Breathtaking. A creature crafted of fire and light.

“Brilliant,” Kurt whispers, staring after Blaine and the trail of fire he's left behind. His heart thumps in his chest. “Absolutely brilliant.”

*** 

District 12 is all the Capitol talks about after the opening ceremonies.

Even as the chariots are drawing back into the stables, Kurt sees the interest points for his tributes soar up. There are already a few sponsors lined up for all of them, even Lory. And Blaine's feed is practically drowning under the positive attention.

Kurt wordlessly turns and hugs Cinna in thanks while the District 12 carriages finally come to a stop in front of them. The fire has started dying down a little and the prep team flutter around the tributes, trying to douse it completely.

A movement in his periphery sets off alarms in his head and Kurt feels himself reacting, whipping around and searching for the threat.

One of the hulking, lethal-looking boys from District 2 is glaring murderously in their direction, obviously angry over being upstaged. Kurt follows the boy's gaze to see who the brunt of his wrath is focused on and feels his heart sink to somewhere below his gut.

Blaine is smiling sweetly, nose buried in a bouquet of flowers someone in the audience had thrown at him, completely unaware of the death stare trained on him. A few tongues of flame are still flickering around his body.

Before Kurt can do something exceptionally stupid like crouch protectively in front of Blaine and growl a threat, the prep team begins to usher the tributes towards the elevators to take them to their rooms.

The District 2 boy's eyes follow Blaine till he goes out of sight.

Kurt hangs back with Cinna, waiting for the crowd around the elevators to disperse. When it is their turn, Kurt and Cinna get an elevator to themselves. The ride up to the Training Centre is quiet but Kurt can feel Cinna's heavy, thoughtful gaze turn on him more than once.

Each district has an entire floor to themselves in the Training Centre and District 12 is at the topmost floor. Each tribute gets their own room, fully appointed with every luxury the Capitol can offer. The District Team – comprising of mentors, stylists, prep teams and escorts – also get similar accommodations in the same floor as their tributes.

When the elevator comes to a halt, Kurt nods wordlessly to Cinna before all but running to the room allotted for him and hiding there till dinner time.

After a luxurious shower in the magnificent Capitol bathroom, he feels much more settled. He pulls on comfortable red pants and a white cotton shirt, knotting his favourite scarf firmly about his throat before taking a deep breath and going out to dinner.

Once again, everyone is already assembled and starting on dinner when Kurt joins them. He takes the only remaining empty seat next to Haymitch and right across from Blaine, and starts on dinner without meeting anyone's eyes. The only person talking is Polivia, going off on another of her condescending speeches of “encouragement”, which usually just managed to degrade rather than boost the tributes' morale.

Just as dessert is being brought in, Haymitch speaks up, cutting Polivia off right in the middle of a sentence.

“When you're in the Games,” Haymitch starts abruptly, ignoring her huff of annoyance, “and you're starving, or freezing, or dying of dehydration, a few matches, a loaf of bread, or a bottle of water can mean the difference between life and death.”

The tributes have all stopped eating, even Lory, and are listening to him with rapt attention.

“And to get those life-saving things you need sponsors,” Haymitch continues, taking a sip from his wine glass. “Thanks to Cinna and Portia, you all got the Capitol's attention. Now what you have to do is impress the Gamemakers and get the Capitol to like you.”

“And how do we do that?” Janette asks, her voice wavering slightly.

“Impressing the Gamemakers gets you decent scores,” he says. “And a decent score in your private session with the Gamemakers gets the Capitol to bet on you. You are scored based on how much chance the Gamemakers think you have of surviving. For that you need to pay attention in Training over the next few days.”

Haymitch takes another long pull from his wine glass before setting it on the table.

“Learn everything they teach you,” he instructs.  Avoid what you're good at, don't show off your best skills to everyone. Save your strengths for the private session. Learn new weapons and new skills. Learn how to light a fire, how to make a snare. Tie a knot, climb a rope. You'd be surprised how many times it's the lack of basic survival skills that causes death in the arena. Learn how to recognize edible plants and roots so you don't starve. Avoid the careers. Allying with them will definitely end with a knife in your back.”

Haymitch pauses, looking each tribute in the eye gravely before turning to Kurt. “Anything to add, Kurt?”

Kurt sets down his knife and fork and looks up to see six pairs of eyes staring at him. Jac has his eyebrow cocked disdainfully.

“Don't ignore each other in Training,” Kurt says, trying not to react to Jac's sneer. “Act like you are all friendly with each other. It'll confuse the other tributes, make them think the six of you have formed an alliance together. It'll make them less likely to target any of you as easy pickings.”

 Blaine, Lory, Abbie and Janette nod their assent, while Jac rolls his eyes and Coraline doesn't acknowledge Kurt's words at all, simply going back to her dinner.

There are a few minutes of heavy silence.

“Alright go to bed, kids,” Haymitch says. “You have a long day ahead of you tomorrow and you need all the sleep you can get.”

Polivia rises to usher the tributes to their rooms and Kurt lets his eyes follow Blaine till he leaves the room.

With a small groan, he pushes his half-eaten plate away and slumps back in his chair, feeling drained. Just yesterday morning, he was still in District 12, safely holed up in his room and with no overwhelming knot of fear in his stomach over the life of a boy he doesn't even really know.

How did Blaine manage to root himself so deeply in Kurt's heart in just one day? Is it even possible for someone to become so important to your life, when you have never even had a proper conversation with them? Is it possible to fall in love with someone just because they exist?

Is he in love with Blaine?

“Come to the roof I need some air,” Haymitch says abruptly, interrupting Kurt's mental wrangling. Before Kurt can respond, Haymitch takes a firm hold of his arm and all but drags him to the roof of the Training Centre.

This is another one of those places Kurt and Haymitch go to whenever they need to talk in private, safe from the Capitol's bugs. There is a little garden off to the side of the roof that is full of wind chimes, and the brisk wind also provides cover to talk in secret.

“So when exactly were you gonna tell me you are in love with the Anderson boy?” Haymitch asks without preamble when they reach the garden.

Kurt stumbles and nearly falls on his face.

“What?” Kurt asks, stunned. “How –?”

“Mags,” Haymitch replies, looking at him steadily.

“Oh,” Kurt says, avoiding his eyes.

“I just want to know why I wasn't told how you feel about that boy the second he was reaped,” Haymitch says, obviously angry. “We could've started working on a plan right away, I could've started getting sponsors for him already, why did you –“

“I didn't know alright,” Kurt interrupts him tiredly. “I've talked to him once in my entire life, I hadn't even really seen him for two years till the Reaping yesterday, I didn't know I would feel like this, I don't know how I feel – why I feel –“

Kurt breaks off, presses his palms against his eyes hard, till he sees stars. When he drops his hands, he finds Haymitch looking at him with an inscrutable expression on his face.

“Start at the beginning, boy,” Haymitch says, his voice brooking no arguments.

“There's nothing to say,” Kurt replies miserably, turning away to look out over the edge of the roof. A multitude of artificial lights that twinkle around them, drowning out the sky. You can never see the stars here.

Haymitch waits, gaze still unwaveringly fixed on him and after a few moments, Kurt sighs deeply.

“I've always known Blaine, of course,” he begins. “Him being the mayor's son and all, and District 12 isn't that big to begin with, it'd be hard not to know who he is. And I used to stay back in school sometimes, to listen to him sing. He sings beautifully.”

Kurt's lips curve in a wistful smile, remembering all those times he would hang around outside the music room when he knew Blaine would be in there singing. There is so little beauty in District 12, Kurt had never been able to resist lingering whenever he heard Blaine's warm voice bring colour to the world.

Kurt's mother had loved music when she was alive; his childhood had been full of songs and little performances by the fire.  When she died, he had turned inward, turned quiet and closed-off, avoiding anything that reminded him of her. Music had just felt too painful. Till one day when he was ten years old, and he heard Blaine sing for the first time…

He startles slightly.

“Listening to him sing made me want to sing again for the first time after my mother's death,” he distantly hears himself say, feeling strangely off-balance in the face of this random epiphany. It's just –

Blaine, however unconsciously, was the catalyst that brought out Kurt's love for singing again, after losing his mother. Blaine has touched his life in more ways than he previously thought.

“She always loved to sing,” he continues, “and after she died, music made me think of her too much. But I heard Blaine sing one day, and it was so lovely and full of hope and joy, I just – I wanted nothing more than to sing with him. ”

He remembers now that he started singing again that evening – just a little lullaby his mother used to sing to him. Kurt will never forget howhappy his dad was that day, running to Kurt's room, crying with joy over seeing his son sing again after two years of silence.

“But we've never actually ever been friends or acquaintances or anything,” Kurt says, shaking himself out of the memories. “And I didn't even know he knew I existed, until about two years ago.”

He pauses, fingering the little mockingjay pin in his pocket before closing his fist around it.

“Blaine came to visit me right after I was reaped,” he says. “And I don't know why, I never asked him, but it was the only time we ever talked. He gave me this pin, and asked me to wear it as a token from our district.”

Kurt pulls out the pin from his pocket and opens his palm to show it to Haymitch. Haymitch stares at it for a minute with a slight frown before his eyes widen with some realization.

“I knew I recognized that from somewhere when I first saw it,” Haymitch says softly, staring at the pin. “I didn't really think about it before, but that was Maysie's.”

“Maysie Donner?” Kurt asks, startled at the mention of Haymitch's dead mentor. “How did Blaine get Maysie Donner's pin?”

“Maysie was Blaine's aunt,” Haymitch says, still staring at the pin, a haunted expression on his face. “His mother's sister. He has her eyes.”

Kurt closes his hand around the pin and pockets it, overwhelmed. It obviously has even more emotional history attached to it than Kurt previously thought. So why did Blaine give it to him when they barely even known each other –?

“What else?” Haymitch asks, interrupting Kurt's train of thought.

“There's nothing else,” Kurt says, coming back to the conversation at hand. “After I won the Games, I was too messed up at first to go talk to him and then last year happened with Mercedes and –” Kurt leaves it hanging there, old sorrow rising up to the surface again. He takes a deep breath.

“It was only when he was reaped that I realized I feel – that I – I don't know what I feel, Haymitch.”

“But you want the boy alive,” Haymitch says scrutinizing him. “You are willing to do whatever it takes to get him back alive.”

“Yes,” Kurt admits with a sigh, closing his eyes. “Even if it means I have to forsake the other tributes, I'm ready to do it if it'd get Blaine out.

Kurt smiles humourlessly, squeezing his eyes shut tighter to keep the tears from escaping.

“I'm supposed to help these five children, children who all have lives and families waiting for them to come back. And I'm willing to condemn them to their deaths if it means I'd get Blaine out alive. How much of a monster does that make me, Haymitch?”

“Not a monster,” Haymitch's voice says next to him, years of sadness and guilt weighing down his words. “I do it every year.”

Kurt's eyes shoot open and he turns to him. “What?”

“I can only get one kid out even if everything works out,” Haymitch says gruffly. “Till you came along, District 12 wasn't exactly showered with sponsors. I had to put everything into the one that I thought had a better chance of living and cut the other loose.”

Kurt stares at him in dull horror.

He always imagined it is the job of mentoring child after child, only to witness their deaths every year, that reduced Haymitch to seeking oblivion in a bottle. Now he realizes that it is even more personal. Even after escaping the arena, Haymitch is still forced to choose to end lives every year, however indirectly; is still made to do the Capitol's dirty work.

And this is the future that awaits Kurt. Even more blood on his hands, even more deaths on his conscience, turning his life into a nightmare.

Kurt is starting to realize that when it comes to the Hunger Games, the lucky ones are those who die in the arena.

“You gonna tell the boy how you feel?” Haymitch asks, breaking the silence.

“No,” Kurt says, shaking his head. “He needs to concentrate on training and surviving right now. The last thing I want to do is preoccupy him with my confused emotional baggage.”

Haymitch nods. “Once they're in the arena, I'm handing Blaine over to you. I'll take over for the other kids, you concentrate on Blaine. I think that'd be the best for everyone.”

Kurt makes a noise of assent, turning back to stare unseeingly over the Capitol rooftops. With a comforting pat to his back, Haymitch goes back to his room, leaving Kurt alone with his thoughts.

***

The next morning, after a serious breakfast where Haymitch barked out last minute strategies to the tributes, Kurt, Haymitch and Polivia spend the day trying to talk up sponsors while the tributes are sent to Training. Kurt takes over the pre-Games sponsor duties for Blaine and Janette, Haymitch tries to talk up Abbie and Lory, and Polivia for Jac and Coraline, trying to cover more ground.

It is an exhausting morning of pandering to the richest of the Capitol, tolerating their invasive interest and slimy personalities. When he returns to the Training Centre with Haymitch, Kurt is tired and drained.

He gets himself a mug of warm milk and sits with Haymitch in the main room, waiting for the tributes to return.

The district 12 tributes are distinctly dispirited – and in the case of Abbie and Lory, downright terrified – when they come back from training. Kurt and Haymitch spend the rest of the evening grilling them about every aspect of their day, together and then individually, till they are all called to dinner.

Kurt toys with his food, looking at each tribute in turn and thinking about everything he's learned.

From what he understands, Jac completely ignored everything Haymitch told him to do and spent the majority of the day showing off his best skills and trying to get into the Career pack. Coraline didn't outright dismiss their advice, but she didn't exactly follow it either, instead choosing some personal agenda of her own and only going to the weapons section.

Fine, if they think they will fare better on their own, that's their decision. Kurt isn't going to bend over backwards to help them.

The other four listened though. They stuck together as a group, learning basic survival skills. Abbie said she discovered a talent for knots and snares; she is clever with her hands then. Kurt will have to think up some strategy for her using that.

Lory apparently did well at the camouflage stations; that is good. Hiding may be a better option for him than direct confrontation. Despite two days of rich, healthy food, he is still painfully thin and frail.

Janette said she managed to hit every target perfectly with a slingshot. She has a good eye and a steady hand… maybe a bow and arrow?

And Blaine. Blaine reportedly breezed through the plants and roots section and could climb a tree like a squirrel, swift and sure-footed. He apparently also exhibited great dexterity in lighting fires and setting out traps, and wasn't half bad at camouflage either. Kurt feels a rush of relief knowing those things. Blaine already has basic survival taken care of. What he needs now is –

“Alright,” Kurt says, breaking the silence and everyone looks up.

“So today most of you,” he glares pointedly at Jac and Coraline, “stuck to the program and went to all the survival sections. From what you've told me, I'd say all of you are somewhat covered in terms of getting food and shelter. Good job, guys.”

Janette gives him a tentative smile which Kurt returns encouragingly. At least Abbie has stopped sniffling into her napkin.

“Tomorrow,” Kurt continues, “I want you all to finish up on those survival stations you didn't get to today and then get started on weapons. I want you all to at least learn to defend yourselves.”

He looks around at the group before turning to Janette.

“You have a keen eye,” he tells her. “Slingshots are well and good, but I want you to learn how to shoot with a bow and arrow. Blaine can help you, he knows how.”

The tiny girl nods and Blaine gives her a friendly nudge.

“Abbie,” he says, turning to the timid Merchant girl, “I want you to practise with a knife. Spears and swords all require height and strength but a knife just requires quick and clever hands. You can defend yourself if you need to.”

For the first time since the reaping, some sign of a fight enters her eyes and she nods, lips pursed in determination.

“Lory, I want you to try different weapons. Find one you're good at and tell me tomorrow,” Kurt says. Lory nods timidly.

“Jac, Coraline,” he holds their eyes steadily. “Arrogance gets you killed in the arena. Stop being conceited pricks and do what you're told.”

Jac sneers and Coraline, as usual, ignores him.

“Blaine,” he says, steeling himself before turning to look into those warm golden eyes. He still blushes despite himself. Dammit. “I'd like you to work a little with Janette and Abbie at the archery and knives stations tomorrow. Hone your skills with those. But mainly concentrate on direct combat. Sword-fighting, wrestling, swinging an axe. Learn to throw a spear or a net too. Just try to pick up on every weapon that you can.”

Blaine looks like he wants to protest.

“All those weapons are just as useful for defence as offense,” Kurt retorts quickly, picking up rightly on his hesitation. Surprise flickers across Blaine's face. “And tributes aren't the only ones you'll encounter in the arena.”

They all fall silent as they remember some of the more chillingly vicious mutts the Capitol has set loose in the arena over the years.

“I think Kurt covered everything,” Haymitch speaks up. “The original plan stays. Don't draw attention to yourself, don't show off your best skill, don't bond with the Careers and stick together as a group as much as possible. Got it?”

The tributes all nod. Kurt goes back to his own room for some much-needed sleep. He didn't sleep at all last night.

He is no stranger to nightmares. He regularly wakes at night in terror after dreaming about the Games or Mercedes's death or nightmares where the Capitol captures his dad.

But last night was a particularly horrid nightmare. The hulking boy tribute from District 2, the one who glared at Blaine during the opening ceremonies, plunged a spear right through Blaine while Kurt watched, bound up and unable to help. And it repeated again and again, Blaine dying a hundred different deaths and crying out for help, and Kurt running after him only for Blaine to vanish just beyond his reach.

He had woken with a soft scream, heart beating out of his chest and bile rising in his throat. And then stayed awake the rest of the night, too afraid to sleep in case the nightmare came again, and trying to erase the images from his mind.

He brushes his teeth now and pulls on soft cotton pants to sleep in before going to the little medicine cabinet in the bathroom. He taps out two pills from one of the bright-coloured bottles, washing it down with some water.

The pills are a less intensive dose of morphling. He normally doesn't resort to these pills if he can help it. He knows how addictive they can be; has watched more than one victor become dependent on them and wither away, preferring to live in a half-dream haze than to face reality.

But he needs it tonight. There is a luncheon tomorrow at the President's mansion, a sort-of celebratory gathering to herald another year of the Games. Everyone rich and influential in the Capitol will be there, people who can sponsor every one of his tributes without even batting an eyelash.

People who can help save Blaine.

He'll need his wits about him tomorrow to impress them. And for that he needs to be well-rested.

Kurt crawls into his bed and happily surrenders to the dreamless oblivion of morphling-induced sleep.

*

He is woken the next morning by his prep team descending on him like a flock of multi-coloured, excitable birds. He manages to understand through his sleepy haze that Cinna sent them to get him ready for the luncheon.

He slips out of bed with a groan, still a little out of it from the after-effects of the morphling. One glance at the clock and he groans again. It's almost eleven. He's missed breakfast – and getting to see Blaine before he leaves for training.

Ignoring his squawking prep team, Kurt stumbles into the shower and sets it to a comfortable pressure and temperature, pressing the button for vanilla-scented bubbles on a whimsy. The soothing, warm spray wakes him all the way up.

When he's done, he pulls on underwear and ties a towel firmly about his waist before walking out. It's silly – when it comes to his body, he and his prep team have no secrets. He's been naked in front of them countless times. But casual nudity is still not something he's really comfortable with.

He walks straight to his wardrobe to pull on an undershirt, aware of his prep team scrutinizing him the whole time.

“You'd look so good with just a few tiny alterations,” Octavia sighs wistfully when he turns back to them, her eyes roaming up and down his body. Her skin is a pale green this year instead of the light orange it was before, giving her the appearance of permanent nausea.

“A few tweaks to your nose,” Flavius agrees, fingering his bright orange corkscrew curls thoughtfully. “And a little waxing – and oh! Kitten ears! They are all the rage this season and you would look so adorable with fuzzy cat ears. And maybe even whiskers and a tail too!”

“How perfect!” Octavia trills, her eyes widening maniacally. Kurt blinks in mild horror. “He'd be the most beautiful boy in Panem!”

“He's already the most beautiful boy in Panem now,” Venia says, hanging up the garment bag before starting to pull out her tools. Venia is probably the least altered among the trio. She only has one set of golden tattoos framing her eyes in an exotic design. “And besides, you heard Cinna when they wanted to change him after the Games. No alterations.”

Octavia and Flavius nod and sigh despondently and Kurt mentally thanks the universe that Cinna is his stylist.

The prep team get down to business, polishing and tweezing and poking him down to Beauty Base Zero, which is what one would look like if they get out of bed with flawless hair and polished skin and perfect nails and no makeup. They inform him that it is an easier job to get him there than most people, since he is naturally rather flawless.

Kurt's usually latent vanity purrs smugly at that comment.

They are done with him in a little over thirty minutes and Kurt eagerly moves to the garment bag. Cinna's creations never fail to awe him.

And this time is no different.

Inside is a crisp black suit with little diamonds at the cuffs and a pure-white, satin shirt that looks like liquid air. White ankle boots studded with diamonds and a jaunty black bowtie hung with little silver chains complete the outfit. In this suit, Kurt knows he'll look dashing and elegant and most importantly, mature. He'll look older than his seventeen years, and that is important to secure the trust of the sponsors.

“Thank you, Cinna,” Kurt mutters, reverently slipping into the outfit and staring at his reflection in pleasure. He is stunning.

The prep team all coo in appreciation, and flutter about him with little touches here and there, before stepping back in pleased satisfaction.

“Oh I absolutely adore dressing you,” Octavia bursts out, sniffing and pulling out a tissue, overwhelmed. “No one else is ever the same!”

“Except maybe the new kid we have this year,” Venia says mischievously as she packs up everything again. “I was helping Cinna with his outfit for the interviews day after tomorrow. He's going to look gorgeous!”

“Those dreamy golden eyes,” Octavia agrees with a sigh, placing her right hand over her heart. “You can never quite get that shade in artificial implants.”

“And those curls are completely natural,” Flavius complains enviously, fingering his own orange corkscrews.

Kurt listens to them with some weird mixture of pride, jealousy and possessiveness – which in itself was completely ridiculous. It isn't like Blaine is his, after all. No matter how much he's starting to wish he is…

Polivia's nasal voice squeals at his door that they are getting late. She almost makes him wish his old escort, Effie Trinket, would come back.

Effie is just as vapid and shallow as the rest of them, but Kurt can tell that somewhere in there she actually cares.  Kurt's stellar success landed her a promotion and she is now in a managerial capacity in the Escort Co-ordination division of the Games. Kurt saw her a couple of times in the Capitol, flitting about in her bright orange wig and shouting about big, big, big days.

He finds Haymitch standing in the corridor, actually sober for once and glaring at everyone morosely. He looks put-together and smart, dressed in what is no doubt one of Cinna's creations. Kurt stares at him in amazement.

“Cinna and Portia ambushed me,” Haymitch says belligerently as Kurt walks up to him. “Can you believe they actually put me in a fuckingbowtie?”

Kurt laughs all the way to the elevators.

*

Kurt is no stranger to grand galas and luncheons anymore. Since becoming Victor, he has been to countless Capitol parties and celebrations. His Capitol façade is honed to perfection.

He needs it in full force today to get through this.

He grits his teeth and pastes a smile on his face. Dances with every important man and woman Polivia brings to him, carefully slipping praises for his tributes into conversations while charming the pants off them. He puts up with wandering hands and inappropriate comments and the way the Capitol treats Victors like their own personal toys, like property. He turns a blind eye to the thoughtless cruelty rampant at every turn, in this room full of people that watches children fight to death for entertainment.

Anything to get Blaine that one extra penny that may save his life.

More than one man leers at him, his famous beauty attracting them to him like flies to honey. It makes his flesh crawl and his stomach twist with nausea, makes him want nothing more than to run away.

But Haymitch is never very far and always politely rescues him whenever one of them get particularly handsy.

So Kurt grits his teeth and dances.

He catches glimpses of other Victors in the crowd, but doesn't really make an effort to go talk to them. They are all here for the same reason as him after all – to get sponsors for their own tributes. Right now, each of them is as much competition to him as their tributes are to Blaine.

He sees Johanna grimacing while dancing with a Gamemaker and sends her a sympathetic grin when their eyes meet. He cranes his head, searching the crowd for Finnick and Mags.

His eyes finally land on Finnick sitting in the middle of a group of grossly made-up women, all of whom are touching him like he is some glorified toy.

Kurt bites his lip viciously, and waits for the dance to end; bows politely to his simpering partner before heading towards the tables laden with food. He needs another drink before he can feel up to facing the Capitol crowd's dehumanizing attention again.

He finds Mags chewing little cookies in the dessert section and makes his way to her. Mags grins in greeting and babbles something vigorously with a lot of gestures, that passes right over his head. When he just continues blinking at her, confounded, she simply gives a fond shake of her head and plants a kiss full on his mouth, before patting his cheek and flouncing away.

Kurt stares after her for a second, stunned by the Mags of it all as always, before turning to scoop up one of the less-violently-pink drinks. He takes a few steadying sips and a deep breath before foraying into the crowd again.

It's late evening before they return to the Training Centre.

Haymitch steps off the elevator and makes his way straight to the dining room and Kurt follows him, feeling moderately optimistic. Some of the wealthiest and most Hunger Games-obsessed patrons showed a lot of interest in him today, which can only mean good things in terms of sponsors for his tributes.  And literally every man and woman in the luncheon swooned over Blaine; they could not get enough of the ‘pretty boy with the gold eyes'.

Though their disgusting, lascivious interest makes protective anger surge in him, Kurt is still glad for it. When the time comes, he will have no trouble getting money to help Blaine in the arena.

Kurt enters the dining room in good spirits.

Dessert has just been served and Kurt goes straight to a cup of hot chocolate, topping it with a generous amount of whipped cream. He plops into one of the chairs, licking the cream with his fingers and taking deep draughts of the drink, content and relaxed for the first time in days.

When he looks up, his eyes lock on Blaine, who is staring at him with this strange expression on his face, an expression he's never really seen on Blaine before. An expression that makes sparks zing up Kurt's spine.

He straightens abruptly in his chair without meaning to, captivated. By Blaine's eyes, by Blaine's invitingly-parted lush mouth and the delicate blush spreading across Blaine's cheekbones. His eyes stay fixed on Blaine.

And Blaine –doesn't look away.

Warm dark honey-gold eyes travel slowly from Kurt's face down his body then back up again and Kurt sees Blaine swallow. That spark in his spine is now full-blown electricity, spreading across his body, thrumming under his skin and he feels hungry –

Haymitch clears his throat loudly next to him and Blaine startles like a colt and ducks his head. Kurt continues staring at him, at the blush still high on Blaine's cheeks, those long eyelashes casting shadows when they blink and… shit.

Kurt looks around at the tributes and finds everyone busy at their dinner except Janette, whose eyes are flickering from him to Blaine with a strangely exultant smirk. When she catches his eye, she grins impudently. Kurt glares back at her, lifting his chin superiorly. His face is probably an unattractive blotchy red but that's alright. It's all about the attitude.

And the last thing he needs right now is a miniature Johanna hanging off his back.

Haymitch clears his throat again, points a glare at Kurt that promises an uncomfortable conversation later, before turning to the tributes and asking about their day.

Kurt silently listens as Haymitch discusses tactics and ideas to impress the Gamemakers at the tributes' private sessions tomorrow. Haymitch gives a few individual instructions to each tribute and then dismisses them. They all traipse out in various states of anxiety.

Blaine is the last to leave.

He lingers at the door, wavering, turning back to look at Kurt as though to say something. Kurt raises an inquisitive eyebrow and Blaine opens his mouth.

“Hurry up!” Polivia's shrill voice cuts through the silence between them.

Blaine starts and turns back to Kurt, mouthing wordlessly. But then with a blink and a shake of his head, he walks out, leaving Kurt to stare after him.

 ***apter Text

They are gathered in front of the television in the main room, Kurt biting his nails where he sits between Haymitch and Cinna.

The tension in the room is stifling. In a few minutes, they will start announcing the tributes' scores from their private sessions, and it is the first important step towards getting solid sponsors.

The previous TV segment is still playing while they all wait in anxious silence. Three alarmingly-dressed women giggle on the television screen, their sounds discordant with the mood in the room. From what Kurt gathers, they are pulling up pictures of the most desirable tributes this year, and gossiping about them. There is a live audience in the studio, roaring its approval.

Kurt feels his blood simmer with a dull, ever-present hatred.

As if it isn't bad enough that they are treating humans like toys, sending children to their deaths for amusement. Do they have to prey on them like this too?

He listens to them gush at the tribute portrait of a stunningly attractive, dark-haired girl from District 7 and turns to glare at the clock. There are still three more minutes left before the scores are due. Kurt wants to hurl the television across the room.

And then they pull up a picture of Blaine.  

Kurt just freezes – freezes into stillness and watches – while the three women simper at the camera.

Never take your eyes off your enemy, it gets you killed.

“I don't know where District 12's been hiding them all these years,” the violently-purple one is saying in her ridiculous Capitol accent, batting her lashes at camera. “I thought we saw it all with Kurt Hummel, but now we have this pretty thing.”

“Isn't he absolutely delicious?” the second woman asks the audience with a lecherous wink; she has rhinestones embedded in her skin. They roar back their approval. “Oh the money I'd pay to take him home. I could show him a gooooood time.”

She winks again while the audience laughs and catcalls.

“I might even give up my one-of-a-kind diamond necklace,” the third one screeches, holding up an ugly choker. “He'd be worth it.”

Kurt bites his lip so hard he tastes blood.

He sits still, doesn't take his eyes off them till they bring the segment to an end, expressing squeals of excitement for the Fifth Quell. When the women are finally waving their goodbye and the Capitol anthem starts playing, Kurt takes a deep breath and lets himself look at Blaine.

Blaine is curled in on himself staring at the floor, looking thoroughly horrified, making himself as small as possible.

“They do that every year,” Cinna says in a steady, soothing voice, patting Blaine's shoulder. “There are some people here who would probably pay more attention to that than your actual Gamemaker score. I know it's horrible. I'm sorry.”

Blaine nods at the carpet slowly, folding in on himself even more.

“It's just,” Blaine starts and then pauses, licks his lips. “I didn't expect… that. I was prepared for them to look at me and size me up as a… a killer, a piece of killing machine in their Games. But I wasn't prepared to be looked at like… like that.”

Kurt wants to reach out and hold him, but Cinna beats him to it. He shuffles closer to Blaine and encloses him in a one-armed hug. Blaine unfurls from his rigid posture, loosens. It seems to comfort Blaine; the brotherly embrace must remind him of Cooper. Something wordless passes between them.

Kurt forgot Cinna is as much Blaine's stylist as his. Blaine and Cinna seem to have bonded too. Blaine nods at Cinna, takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders, just as the anthem blares from the television again, signalling the beginning of the Gamemaker scores.

The Careers all get predictably high scores. The boy from District 2 who was glaring at Blaine (His name is Cato, Kurt learns), gets an eleven – the highest score you can get. They never award a perfect twelve.

Kurt's heart sinks as he stares at the double-digit score below the boy's smirking portrait.

Everyone else gets moderate to low scores. A few are memorable.

Like a stunningly beautiful dark-haired girl from District 7, who gets a nine. Santana Lopez, her tribute sheet says. She is one of the tributes the vile Capitol women were discussing in the previous segment. Good looks and a high score then – a double threat. And there's one of the boys from District 11 (Thresh) who is so big, he could probably break bones just shaking someone's hand. He gets a ten.

There are others who stand out, for more heart-breaking reasons. Like the emaciated, club-footed kid from 8, who gets the lowest score of one. And a girl who barely looks old enough to be reaped, a tiny wisp of a thing from District 11, who scrapes a score of seven.

Kurt doesn't let himself learn their names.

And then its time for District 12. Everyone in the room tenses, leaning forward in their chairs.

Abbie scrapes a six, Coraline gets eight and Janette scores seven. There are whoops and reassurances thrown around as each score is awarded – all are decent, workable scores.

Jac gets a nine and he preens, snotty bastard that he is. Lory gets the lowest of them all – a four. Portia leans forward to give him a pep talk; the poor boy is shaking, looking pale and scared. Kurt would normally join her.

But the next score up is Blaine's.

His gaze stays fixed forward, he is practically vibrating with tension. He distantly feels Haymitch place a hand on his shoulder.

Blaine's tribute portrait comes up on screen and the announcer reads out his name, his district, offers a few comments. And then his score flashes beneath his portrait.

Eleven.

Eleven.

There is a minute of absolute silence. And then the room erupts.

Portia and Janette are cheering, Abbie and Lory clap for Blaine and Polivia is hysterical with joy.

“But I didn't even do anything that special,” a stunned Blaine says, before disappearing under Polivia's exultant hugs. Clearly she thinks Blaine is her best bet of getting promoted back to District 2.

Kurt can feel his heart soaring. The best score. Blaine is tied at the top for the best score. Everything is lined up to help him win.

Which is why when he turns to look at Haymitch and Cinna, and finds them both looking thoughtful and grim, his heart plummets and settles somewhere around his navel.

“What is it?” he asks tersely, moving closer to them. Polivia's excited voice and the general chatter provides them cover.

“I'm sure Blaine's good,” Haymitch says, frowning. “But a score like that is a little too good for what Blaine said he showed them today.”

“Which makes me think,” Cinna says, face troubled. “At least a few of the Gamemakers want him to come back as Victor.”

“But that's a good thing!” Kurt says, puzzled. “If some of the Gamemakers are on Blaine's side – why is that a problem?”

Cinna looks like he wants to say something more but he and Haymitch share a look and he just shakes his head. “I'm sure I'm just being paranoid,” Cinna says mildly. “From what I've learned of Blaine, he probably really is that good. The boy is kind of amazing.”

Cinna gives Kurt a sincere smile. Kurt narrows his eyes.

He doesn't buy it one bit.

But before he can start drilling them more, Polivia claps her hands and shrills that they all need to get a good night's sleep so they can prepareproperly for the interviews tomorrow. Haymitch and Cinna clap him on the back and scarper before Kurt can so much as turn around.

Oh, there is definitely something they are keeping from him.

But he will wrestle it out of them later. Right now, he is happy and relieved, watching Blaine blush his way through Polivia's over-enthusiastic praise.

Polivia starts to usher everyone out and in the bustle, Kurt walks up to Blaine and gives him a hug before he can start second-guessing himself. Blaine freezes against him, but before Kurt can panic and pull back, Blaine's arms come up. Settle firm around him, fingers clutching the back of Kurt's shirt warmly, securely.

He doesn't pull away.

And Kurt lets himself revel in the closeness, the warmth, the scent. Lets himself revel in Blaine. Blaine feels perfect enclosed in his arms like this and it is with reluctance that Kurt breaks their embrace after a few endless moments.

“Congratulations,” Kurt tells him, his voice comes out breathless.

“Thank you,” Blaine's eyes stay on his, warm and steady, flickering briefly to Kurt's mouth before they snap back up. Kurt can see his mind going down a stupid, stupid path it really shouldn't.

He stammers out a hurried goodnight and flees.

Blaine's smile stays with him as he walks out, warming him down to his toes.

Maybe he'll actually have a good night's sleep tonight. One without nightmares.

*

He is startled awake halfway through the night by someone looming over him with a pillow.

He scrambles back with a wordless scream, scrabbling for his pen knife. But when his panicked eyes adjust to the darkness, all he sees is – Johanna.

“Johanna, what the fuck?” Kurt hisses. At least, that's what he meant to hiss. But Johanna shoved the pillow over his face when he opened his mouth and all that comes out is muffled grunting.

She silently lowers the pillow after a few minutes, making vehement shushing motions at him and glaring till he nods his understanding. With no explanation whatsoever, Johanna unceremoniously yanks him out of bed and gives him a “follow me quietly” glare, before tip-toeing out of his room.

So much for a good night's relaxing sleep.

With a soft sigh, Kurt steals out after her, following her down the corridor to Haymitch's room. Johanna silently opens the door and slips in, sticking her head back out with a frown when he doesn't follow immediately.

Kurt rolls his eyes and heaves another put-upon sigh before following her through the door, closing it softly behind him.

He turns to find six people looking up at him, expressions sombre. The bearers of bad news.

His blood runs cold.

“Is it Dad?” he asks shakily, leaning against the door for support, heart pounding. “Is something wrong with my dad –?”

Haymitch is already shaking his head. “Kurt, no. Your father is fine, boy, take a breath.”

Kurt nods, taking rapid breaths of air, transient relief flooding him. It's not his dad. So long as it's not his dad, he can handle whatever they are about to tell him.

“Then what is it?” he asks, straightening slightly, taking in the silent room.

Beetee, an extraordinarily intelligent Victor from District 3, is sitting on the bed, fiddling with the antenna of something that looks like a small radio. Mags sits next to him, holding up a wire for him – even she doesn't have a smile for Kurt right now. Haymitch is taking large swigs of wine directly from a bottle, avoiding Kurt's gaze. Johanna is curled up on the couch next to a pale and shaky Finnick.

A pale and shaky Finnick, who looks absolutely devastated.

Kurt's heart sinks.

“Finnick,” he asks, the dread in his stomach intensifying. “Finnick did something happen – is it something to do with Annie?”

Kurt realizes what he said a second later and claps a hand over his mouth, horrified.

The Capitol isn't supposed to know about Finnick's feelings for Annie. Kurt knows that the reason Finnick is so exuberant in his affections for the Capitol women is to protect her, turn Snow's attention away from looking too closely at what she means to him. And now here Kurt is, ruining it all by mentioning her in a room that is sure to be bugged. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

“Don't worry,” Beetee pipes up from the bed, still immersed in the little device he's fiddling with. “This little transmitter here sends out waves that will trip all the bugs, re-encode their signals to pre-recorded sound bits. As long as it's here, the bugs will only transmit sounds of Haymitch sleeping. I invented it last summer.”

Kurt lowers his hand, relieved.

“Handy,” he compliments Beetee, before turning back to Finnick. “But I'm sorry for the slip anyway, Finnick.”

“It's not like it matters,” Finnick replies with a quiet, bitter laugh. “Snow's known about how I feel for Annie longer than I have.”

Kurt blinks.

“But,” he stumbles, taken aback. “All those Capitol women you cavort with, you always said you do it to protect her, you said –“

“It all is to protect her,” Finnick says, running a shaking hand through his hair. “Because if I don't do what Snow says, he'll kill her.” His eyes are vacant, haunted. Kurt's never seen him like this before.

None of this makes sense.

“And he threatens you into, what?” Kurt asks incredulously. “Charming his citizens? Flirting with every man and woman in the city? What could he possibly gain from –?”

Finnick looks up at him, tired and wan, impossibly beautiful even so beaten down and broken.

The realization hits Kurt like a freight train.

He collapses against the door, staring at Finnick with wide eyes. Feels thrown so far out of the loop, so far from the world he thought he lived in, so far away from everything he believed to be true. He is a lost and frightened child.

“Finnick,” his voice comes out in a croak. He wets his dry lips. “Finnick, please tell me the people you are with don't – don't pay Snow for your time.”

Finnick lets out a humourless chuckle. “I'm the most expensive toy they'll ever buy,” he says with a grand flourish, giving Kurt that seductive grin which makes the masses faint.

Kurt feels sick.

“Snow – Snow rents you out like, like that –? And the people here don't feel how horrible –?”

“It's part of the whole charade,” Finnick says, looking at the carpet. “He threatens the people we hold dear, we do whatever he says and look like we want to, and the audience clings happily to our deceptions. Just like in the Games, where we make it look like we are competing for the glory, as though being here is an honour.”

He lets out a humourless chuckle, looks up and meets Kurt's eyes.

“It's all one big performance, always has been,” he continues. “Except now, I perform for a much smaller audience.”

He smiles; a small, tired smile. Kurt can't bring himself to return it.

“When,” Kurt starts, clears his cracked throat. “When did Snow – when did you first –“

Finnick has stiffened again, all traces of his temporary attempts at humour disappearing.

“I was seventeen,” Finnick says softly. “That's when Snow likes to start out usually. I'm – I'm not the only one. Victors… we are the ultimate prize in the Capitol. The ultimate thing money can buy. Snow made it so. Not all Victors are roped in. Only those the Capitol desires the most, the ones who get the most interest, the highest offer. Snow maintains a standard for his… collection. Many Victors go free without ever knowing. But the ones who do get chosen though –”

Finnick is shaking again now. Johanna clutches his hand, eyes feral and wild. Something dark and creeping niggles at the back of Kurt's consciousness, a vague darkness closing in on him, but he brushes it off, too focused on Finnick.

“I was one of the unlucky ones,” Finnick continues. “So was Johanna when she won. I agreed when he threatened Annie, but Johanna… didn't.”

“My entire family burned to death while I was on my Victory tour,” Johanna says.  Kurt feels the breath punch out of him.

“Snow made a mistake though,” her grin is vicious, angry. “Now he's got no one to hold over me. I can do whatever the fuck I want, and he has noleash to pull me with.”

Kurt gapes at his two old friends; he never knew. Never knew this horror, they never told him…

“We never thought it'd come to –” Finnick babbles, looking at his clenched fists. “Snow never uses someone who is permanently damaged in the Games, and with your artificial foot, we thought you – we never thought we'd need to burden you with this knowledge, we never –“

Finnick meets Kurt's eyes. Everything about him screams apology.

“We thought we could shield you from all this. But tonight I heard –“

Kurt's body understands before his mind does. He feels his knees give out, feels himself slide down against the door and collapse in a crumpled heap on the floor. Feels Mags rush to his side, holding him like Johanna holds Finnick. Feels it all, but he can't think, because, because…

“I was out there tonight,” Finnick says, his eyes never leaving Kurt's. “On an – assignment. And I always hear things – secrets I'm not supposed to know. And tonight,” Finnick's face twists, “I heard them talking about you.”

“No,” Kurt whispers, shaking his head. He feels made of lead.

“You already have a very high bid,” Finnick continues. “It's expected to go even higher. Snow will summon you to his office once the Games are done and give you the ultimatum.”

“No.” His whole body is shaking in refusal, in terror. This can't, he can't –

He won't.

“I'm sorry, Kurt,” Finnick says, eyes closing in defeat. “If there is any way to stop this I would do it, any way at all –“

And Kurt knows what he has to do.

“I have to die,” Kurt says. Finnick's eyes snap open.

“What?”

“I have to die,” Kurt whispers. He stiffens his spine and lifts his chin. Wraps his trembling arms around himself, holding himself whole.

He can shake apart later.

“One of you has to kill me or I have to kill myself,” Kurt says, shaky voice growing louder with each word, ringing with conviction. “I have to die, it's the only way. I have to, I must –“

He was always living on borrowed time, ever since his Games. It was always coming to this. And he refuses to let his actions harm his dad, refuses to stand in another funeral that was his fault, refuses to let Snow use him like this. So he just has to die, he just has to…

“That is not the only way,” Haymitch says gruffly from where he's sipping wine in the corner.

“Of course it is,” Kurt is practically screaming now. “I refuse to let Snow sell me, I will not let him, I will kill myself before he knows I know, I will not let him threaten Dad again –“

Some part of his brain tells him he's starting to sound hysterical, but most of him is lost in sheer, all-consuming panic. The room blurs into a whirl of colours and noise; he can't stop shaking. He tries to rise to his feet. He needs to move, needs to plan…

“And Snow will just replace you with Anderson,” Haymitch snaps.

Kurt stumbles to a halt; his whirring brain stops. Everything stops and the world crystallizes to a single point. “Blaine?”

“Tell him,” Haymitch orders Finnick.

“All that interest in Blaine,” Finnick says to his knees. “All those sponsors. They all want him to win so they can bid on him. If he wins the Games, he'll be the Capitol's most sought after new toy.”

Kurt flops back on the ground like a puppet with its strings cut. Mags is gabbing something next to him but Kurt can't hear her over the roaring in his ears.

“We have to kill him too,” Kurt chokes out, lifting trembling fingers to his brow. He can't do this anymore, he can't. “I know him, Haymitch, if that happened he – it would destroy him. He will do it to protect his family but it'll destroy everything he is, we have to tell him, and we can't let them have Blaine –“

Bile rises in his throat. He stares up at the room, mouthing wordlessly; doesn't know how to cope.

“Well you're useless I see,” Haymitch's loud voice interrupts Kurt's numb thoughts. He looks up to see Haymitch striding towards him.

“I was hoping you'd not have a neurotic breakdown and come up with something sensible, but since you obviously can't,” he shoots Kurt a derisive sneer, “we'll just have to try out my plan.”

 “What plan?” Johanna asks with a sharp glare.

“The plan to make Blaine and Kurt the biggest love story since Cece and Doran. Even bigger, if we can manage it.”

The room falls completely silent.

Kurt knows of Cece and Doran. They are Victors from District 9 who fell in love while mentoring together and married each other, a decade or so ago. The Capitol goes crazy whenever they come up for the Games. Even when the Games aren't going on, even during the Games they aren't mentoring, there is always some feature or the other about their lives. They are the Capitol's favourite celebrity couple.

And Haymitch wants to turn him and Blaine into them?

He stares at Haymitch, a dull blush working its way up his cheeks despite the terror still pulsing through him and he just doesn't understand.

“I don't understand,” Johanna says, frowning. Kurt mentally thanks her. “How is turning them into nauseating lovebirds gonna help anything?”

“It's gonna help,” Haymitch explains condescendingly, “because then the Capitol audience themselves will protect Snow from touching them.”

Everyone looks at him in blank bewilderment, except for Beetee, who is lost in thought. Haymitch heaves a put-upon sigh.

“It's like Finnick said,” Haymitch explains. “It's all one big charade. So you use the charade against Snow. You sell Kurt and Blaine as a package deal and make the Capitol fall in love with the package deal, and nothing can touch them. If Snow tries to split them up, there will be riots. The Capitol loves its toys. The Capitol citizens are protective of their toys. And we make Kurt and Blaine's romance their new favourite toy.”

There is silence while everyone digests that. Kurt tries to think it through objectively, but his neurons still feel clogged and numb, barely sputtering to life.

“But if Blaine dies in the arena,” Finnick asks, frowning thoughtfully. “Kurt will be left just as unprotected as before.”

“Yes,” Haymitch admits. “But it still buys us time. It buys Kurt at least another year. Snow can't have him working the Capitol streets when he is supposedly devastated over the death of the love of his life. So even if the Anderson kid dies, Kurt'll be no worse off than before and it may put things off by a year. And a lot can happen in a year.”

“But what if the kid dies and Snow –“ Johanna starts, but Kurt's had enough.

“Can we all please stop talking about Blaine dying,” he interrupts weakly, rubbing a shaking hand over his face. A dull headache pounds at the back of his skull and Kurt just wants to lie down and never wake up.

The night has been entirely too much.

There is a pregnant pause.

“What about Blaine in all of this?” Beetee speaks up, his low, measured voice breaking the silence. “He would have to agree to this charade first.”

“Oh he will,” Haymitch says with a confidence Kurt doesn't understand.

“And what of the consequences for him?” Beetee continues gravely, training a piercing gaze at Haymitch over the top of his glasses. “If Snow catches on to the plot and takes preemptive measures before the audience can get emotionally involved, Blaine does not even get a chance. Snow might very well ensure his death. That is a high risk that comes with agreeing to your plan.”

“And taking that risk is entirely up to Blaine,” Haymitch replies, meeting Beetee's gaze steadily. “He will be informed of every event that has led to this, as well as every ramification of agreeing to this plan. But the final say is his. He will have a fully-informed choice, Beetee.”

“And will he also be informed of the long-term impact if you pull this off?” Beetee asks, eyes flickering to Kurt before returning to Haymitch. “Will you prepare them both for that eventuality too?”

Haymitch does not reply, his face inscrutable.

Kurt's tired, drained brain tries to keep up with them (What “long-term” eventuality?) but the night has just been too much. His head feels filled with wet cotton. He just wants to burrow into a warm bed and forget it all, even if just for a few hours.

Mags must've picked up on it because she rubs a soothing hand over Kurt's back and garbles something at Haymitch.

“Yes fine take him away,” Haymitch tells her distractedly, mind obviously on other things. “He knows the important things anyway, I'll hammer out the rest without him.”

Kurt feels Mags pull him up by his arm, feels himself being dragged back to his own room. He follows her with detached acquiescence

Mags shuffles him into bed and drops a warm kiss to his forehead, carding her fingers gently through his hair for a few minutes before leaving on quiet feet.

Kurt lies in the dark, blinking up at the ceiling.

He supposes his mind should be racing right now with a million scenarios, creating plans, imagining fresh horrors. But instead his thoughts stay quiet, locked within him in some white-noised vacuum.

… He is just so tired. 

He closes his eyes and he sleeps.

***

Kurt tries to pay attention but his eyes keep straying to the clock.

He just can't concentrate on Janette's charming monologue about her family when he knows, two doors down, Haymitch is talking to Blaine about everything right now.

He woke up late this morning, crusty-eyed and numb, to Haymitch banging about his room, throwing orders at him in a low monotone before striding out. Kurt had already missed breakfast and by the time he scrambled into his clothes, Polivia was at his door to hurry him into one of the sitting rooms, where he found Abbie waiting for him.

He then proceeded to attempt to help prepare Abbie for her interview, his tired brain whirring desperately to find an angle for her. They finally settled on “sweet but mysterious”, which she managed passably, and after a few encouraging words, Kurt dismissed her. Lory walked in next and the same process repeated.

And now there's Janette sitting opposite him. They don't really need an angle for her, she is effortlessly winsome.  Kurt gave her some generic questions and she has been answering them for the past half hour. It would all be perfectly smooth and neat, if he could just make himselfconcentrate.

“I'm boring you,” he hears and abruptly comes back to the present from his fretting.

His eyes snap back to Janette. “What? No, no you are not boring me.”

“But you keep looking at the clock like you can't wait to get out of here,” she bites her lip, hands wringing in her lap. “So I'm boring you. I'm going to completely tank the interviews.”

Kurt feels horrible.

“No,” he says with a deep breath, leaning forward and meeting her eyes. “No. I promise it's not you. You are very charming actually. It's me, I just have… a lot on my mind right now. I'm sorry. I should be helping you, not letting my crap get in the way of our session.”

He slides back in the chair, exhaling loudly and grimacing.

“I don't know how you did it,” she says, apropos of nothing, eyes flitting away. The cheerful smile with which she has been talking for the past thirty minutes slides off her face. She looks miserable.

“Did what? Win the Games?” Kurt tilts his head, frowning slightly, studying her.

“How you watched your best friend go into the Games.”

Kurt feels like someone threw a bucket of freezing water in his face.

“What?”

“I've known Blaine since I was little. I've always thought of him as my best friend even if I'm not really his. I would have starved to death many times over if it wasn't for him and his brother. My entire family would have.” Her eyes fill with tears. “We owe a debt to the Andersons we can never repay.”

Kurt wordlessly passes her a tissue.

“I even had a crush on him for a while,” she says with a miserable half-giggle, dabbing at her eyes. “It was mortifying when I realized he was gay. He was very sweet about it though. Because that's who he is.” She looks up, meets his eyes. “And after all those times his family helped mine, I just wish there is some way I can help him now.”

Kurt stares at her; her face is earnest, determined.

The beginnings of an idea form in his mind.

“Tell me more about your family,” he tells her, voice deliberately casual. This room is sure to have bugs. He motions at her to comply, searching frantically for a piece of paper and starting to scribble on it.

Thankfully, she catches on, and reverts to her cheerful tone, prattling about her parents, albeit with a puzzled look.

Kurt passes her the piece of paper and gestures to keep talking. Her voice wavers in the middle as she reads the contents but when she looks up, she's nodding.

Kurt feels his breath whoosh out of him. There's one more well-placed act in the drama that shall unfold tonight.

“Are you sure it'll help though,” Janette asks him cryptically, eyes intent.

Kurt holds her gaze and promises, “More that you can possibly imagine.”

*

“Will you please stop goddamn fidgeting?” Haymitch growls next to him, sounding thoroughly annoyed.

“I'm nervous, so stab me,” Kurt snaps back, feet tapping an irregular rhythm on the floor, hands clenching and unclenching on the armrests.

“Oh don't tempt me,” Haymitch grumbles, raising his hand to hail a glass of wine from one of the attendants scattered around the amphitheatre.

They are sitting in one of the front row seats allotted for mentors by the Capitol, waiting for Caeser Flickerman to come out and start the interviews – and Kurt hasn't talked to Blaine once since this whole crazy affair began.

He may be completely freaking out.

By the time he finished up with Janette that morning and rushed to Haymitch's room, Blaine had already been whisked off by Polivia for posture and manners instruction. And after that, all Kurt got was a glimpse before Blaine was shuttled off to his room by the prep team.

Haymitch spent the day reassuring him Blaine was informed of every aspect and every possible outcome to his agreeing to the plan. Kurt doesn't feel the least bit reassured.

It's just.

He should've been there while Haymitch was telling Blaine. He should've been there so he could've seen for himself that Blaine really did understand what he was getting himself into and this wasn't another incidence of Blaine's rampant hero complex kicking in.

From what Kurt has come to know of him, Blaine has a tendency for throwing himself in the way of missiles meant for others.

And Kurt will be damned before he lets Blaine die because of a missile aimed at him.

“Just saw your boy backstage,” Johanna says, sliding into the empty seat on Kurt's right, Finnick and Mags following her. “He's bouncing on the spot and doing breathing exercises while wind-milling his arms. It'd almost be cute if he didn't look like a complete nutjob.”

“Stop insulting him,” Kurt snaps, moving on to his forefinger; his thumb nail is already bitten raw.

“Already defending your future wife? Aw, we have nothing to worry about I see.”

Before Kurt can turn and wring her neck like he wants to, trumpets blare around them and the stage lights up in a dazzling array of lights. Caeser Flickerman waltzes in, maniacal grin in place while the audience roars in excitement.

“Welcome, welcome, to the One-Hundredth Hunger Games!!” He is bright purple this year, his resonant voice booms around the amphitheatre. “One Hundred! The Fourth Quarter Quell. A Games like no other! Are we all excited?”

The audience enthusiasm is deafening. Kurt thinks he might throw up. His stomach is doing somersaults, squeezing in on itself from nerves.

“As well we should be!” Caeser beams. “Seventy-two tributes fighting for the ultimate prize this year! Seventy-two! Oh, this is going to be magnificent, can't you feel it yes? Yes?” Caeser mimes holding behind his ear to hear them better; people a mile away could probably hear the audience roar as one.

“Well!” Caeser exclaims. “Without further ado, let's welcome our… tribuuutes!”

The tributes all file out in a line in the order of their districts, waving and grinning at the audience, some more confident than others. The camera does a quick focus to each tribute as they walk onstage, the audience volume increasing or decreasing in response. Blaine is the last one in the line.

Cinna outdid himself.

Everything about Blaine is glowing. He is dressed in a shiny pale-gold tux, hair neatly swept back and interspersed with gold streaks. Black-and-gold liner frames his eyes, bringing out their rich molten-honey colour. His skin is artfully dusted with shimmery gold powder, lips painted an inviting gold-dusted pink.

He looks like candlelight made human. Kurt couldn't have looked away even if the world was burning around him.

Even the cameras linger a fraction longer on Blaine, compared to the other tributes. Blaine is perfect, his expression the perfect mixture of shy and nervous; excitement and steely determination. Nobody would suspect of any ulterior motive looking at him.

Cinna places a hand on Kurt's shoulder from the row behind and Kurt raises his own to squeeze back his gratitude.

The audience roaring dies down and Caeser begins the interviews.

*

It takes about thirty minutes for the audience to grow restless.

Their usual rapt attention begins fracturing as more and more children scuttle on stage, blurring together in one colourful deluge of breathlessness, fake confidence and enthusiasm, playing their role for all they are worth.

Caeser genuinely tries to make each tribute come across as interesting and unique; he alternates between a girl and a boy within each District, gives them funny anecdotes to build on, asks just the right questions.

But despite his best efforts, there are just too many tributes this year.

The truly interesting ones do manage to make an impression, but most of the rest just slide into insignificance, their one chance of gaining the sponsors' attention gone futile and forgettable.

By the time they get to District 8, Kurt's nerves are at breaking point. On top of everything else, he now has the added worry of the audience not even paying attention by the time they roll around to District 12.

And how is he supposed to sell the Grand Starcrossed Romance story if no one is even listening?

Two of his nails are already bitten to the nub and he is starting on the third when District 11 finally finishes. The tiny wisp of a girl, who barely looks eleven years old (whose name Kurt refuses to let his brain register) is shaking Caeser's hand. The top of her head doesn't even reach his midriff.

Kurt tries to not let it get to him, but he can't stop himself from following her tiny form in her poofy little-girl's dress, so at odds with the ridiculous adult heels. He can't stop his heart panging at the angel wings sprouting from the back of her frock, the delicate tiara.

Abbie is first, followed by Lory. They both do what Kurt asked them to do well enough, but the slightly-bored audience barely responds to them. Kurt feels his stomach knotting even further in worry, but when they glance his way, he feigns an enthusiastic nod of approval.

It is the eve of the Games, there is nothing they can change anymore. No need to bring them down.

Coraline induces marginally higher interest by just being her surly, vaguely dangerous–looking self and Jac, with his cocky confidence and proclamation that he's going to win and have the highest number of kills, gets the audience cheering and clapping again. By the time Jac goes back to his seat and Janette steps forward, the audience enthusiasm is moderately renewed and they are eager and receptive to bring in the last two tributes with a flourish and proceed to the Pre-Games midnight celebrations.

At least that's one thing Jac's existence has been useful for.

Just before she takes her seat opposite Caeser, Janette's eyes flit to Kurt in the front row. Kurt gives her one sharp nod and she nods subtly back at him, face smoothing into a charming smile when she turns back to Caeser.

“My, aren't you a pretty thing!” Caeser exclaims, exaggeratedly taking her right hand in his to plant a kiss on the back.

“If you're flirting with me Caeser, you're going to have to wait your turn in line,” Janette quips, shooting a cheeky grin and a saucy wink at the cameras. The audience laughs and hoots.

Caeser mimes having his hopes dashed and laughs boisterously. “I'm sure, I'm sure. Got a boyfriend at home then?”

“Sadly, no,” Janette pouts. “The one boy I really had a crush on turned out to be gay.”

She turns to the audience with an exaggerated look of suffering and they laugh even louder, clapping and catcalling. That is probably something most of the Capitol people can relate to.

“You have to tell us more! The whole story!”

“Oh no I couldn't,” Janette is blushing now, looking equal parts mischievous and embarrassed. “I wouldn't wanna embarrass him.”

“A little embarrassment back at 12 would do the boy good!” Caeser wheedles.

“Except he's not in 12,” Janette stage-whispers, miming sharing a secret with Caeser. “He's sitting right there behind us and I'll have to see him at dinner.”

There is a moment of silence as the audience realizes what that means and they yell as one, cheering and laughing. The cameras all snap to Blaine looking flushed and embarrassed and sheepish and adorable, and Kurt takes a deep, steadying breath.

So far so good. Everything is going according to plan. Now there's no way Caeser won't ask Blaine about his own romantic life. And there's the added bonus of the audience actually remembering Janette now too.

“Did you arrange this?” Haymitch hisses next to him and Kurt startles.

Oh yeah, he never told Haymitch about his session with Janette. Just like Haymitch never shared the exact details about what exactly he cooked up with Blaine. Oops.

“Yes I did,” Kurt whispers back tersely under the cover of Caeser starting up a chant for Janette to tell the whole story. “I thought it would be a good lead-in.”

“It is,” Haymitch admits, grudgingly. “But a warning would've been nice.”

Kurt starts reply to that with an acerbic lashing, but Janette is talking again and he falls silent to listen.

Janette launches into a hilarious (possibly heavily exaggerated) account of the time she kissed Blaine to inform him of her feelings and he stuttered out that he liked boys in reply. The audience is in stitches by the time she's done and Caeser just has enough time to squeeze in a few questions about her family before the buzzer goes off to signal the end of her turn.

And then its Blaine's.

Blaine hits it off with Caeser right away. He is charming and funny and witty, playing off Caeser perfectly. He shares funny stories about the prep team's first encounter with his eyebrows and curls, pokes fun at Caeser's violently purple shade for the year. He has the audience wrapped around his finger in seconds.

“So Blaine,” Caeser finally starts, when the audience laughter dies down a little. “Quite a story we got from that young lady there. I guess I'll have to alter my initial question.” Caeser winks. “Any special boy waiting for you back home?”

Blaine startles believably and blushes, before letting out an entirely unconvincing “No” with a shake of his head. Caeser and the audience catch on to it immediately.

“I smell a story there, I can smell it!” Caeser exclaims. “Come on, what's his name? We all want to know, yes? Yes?” The audience roars in agreement.

“Well,” Blaine starts, ducking his head with an embarrassed grin. “There's this one boy. I've had a crush on him since we were kids. But… I don't think he ever really noticed me.”

‘It's not true, it's not true, he's just playing the role,' Kurt chants to himself. Blaine's stuttering confession is entirely too believable.

The audience and Caeser make noises of sympathy. Unrequited love is obviously something they feel for.

“Why, he got another fellow?” Caeser's tone is something equivalent to hushed queries at someone's deathbed. Kurt feels a hysterical giggle build in him. Get a grip, Hummel.

“I don't know,” Blaine sighs. “Plenty of boys like him though.”

“Well, I can't imagine any boy not noticing you,” Caeser states, turning to the crowd. “Look at him, isn't he beautiful?” The roar is deafening.

“So is he,” Blaine says, with a shy sweet smile. “He's the most beautiful, passionate and fierce person I've ever seen.”

The crowd sighs in unison, rooting for Blaine already. They are already drawn into the story unfolding on the stage.

Kurt doesn't know how he feels at all – there is a rushing in his ears, his heart beating a drumbeat rhythm. His stomach is in free fall. ‘Not real, Kurt. Not real.'

“Tell you what,” Caeser leans towards Blaine conspiratorially. “I have a plan. You go out there, you win the Quell, and then you ask your boy out as one of the most popular Victors in Panem. He'll be so impressed, he'll have to go out with you.”

“Oh there's one problem with your plan though Caeser,” Blaine jokes, leaning in playfully. “He's already one of the most popular Victors in Panem.”

There is a split-second of silence as that statement sinks in.

Blaine snaps straight, eyes widening as though he just realized what slipped out. It's so convincing, so neatly executed that even knowing it was coming, Kurt is half-convinced himself, blood pounding in his veins.

Whispers ripple out across the amphitheatre, the kind of loaded hush that rumbles while the audience put two and two together. A low roar spreads across the crowd as they realize exactly who Blaine must mean, building and building to a deafening crescendo as every camera in the building turns to focus between Kurt and Blaine.

As Kurt lifts a blushing, overwhelmed face and meets Blaine's gaze across the screaming, cheering theatre, he knows this moment will be the most replayed tonight in all of Panem.*

***

Caeser has barely closed the segment before every camera in the theatre descends on Kurt. He is surrounded, cameras recording his every breath, questions being flung at him from every direction. How does he feel about Blaine? Has he ever noticed Blaine before? Did he know how Blaine felt about him before tonight? What is he going to do now that he knows?

And then there's the audience, surrounding him everywhere, cheering and invasive, yelling his name and Blaine's.

Kurt doesn't even have to pretend to be thoroughly lost and overwhelmed.

Haymitch and Finnick manage to elbow their way in through the throng surrounding Kurt after fifteen minutes of chaos. It takes another thirty minutes to extricate him from the grabbing, demanding crowd. By the time they make it to the Training Centre, over an hour has passed since the interviews and Kurt feels like he just fought his way out of the Cornucopia all over again. Actually, this may have been worse.

“Fucking hell,” Haymitch mutters, nursing his ribs where someone had punched him. “When you two get hitched, I'm leaving you to deal with the crowds.”

Kurt hears high-pitched, hysterical giggling and it takes a few seconds before he realizes its his own. That makes him laugh harder. Strange.

Haymitch and Finnick are staring at him, worry about his mental faculties obvious in their expressions. Somehow, that makes everything even funnier.

“Kurt, buddy,” Haymitch says slowly, placing a cautious hand on his shoulder. Kurt hiccups himself to silence. “Why don't you go to your room with Finnick and clean up a little and then come out to the dining room for some warm milk?”

Kurt nods and walks to his room on autopilot, vaguely puzzled by how Haymitch knew about the comfort offering of warm milk. Oh yes, he and Burt have become friends over the past two years, bonded over their mutual protectiveness of Kurt. He forgets that sometimes.

Finnick helps him out of his grand interview-day suit. Kurt splashes some water on his face, scrambles into comfortable cotton pants. When he turns around, Finnick is still there, expression sombre. Wordlessly, he holds out his arms.

Kurt walks straight into them.

Finnick's brotherly embrace is comforting – warm and solid and there. Kurt breathes, settling into himself after the upheaval of the past two days. With one final pat, Finnick leaves for his own floor in the Training Centre and Kurt makes his way to the dining room.

When he gets there, Haymitch holds out a glass of warm milk (spiced with cinnamon, nutmeg and a dash of honey, just how Kurt likes it) and says abruptly, “You should go up to the roof for some fresh air.”

Kurt blinks in confusion and Haymitch raises an eyebrow in reply.

Oh.

Kurt takes the glass with slightly shaking hands and downs it in one deep gulp. The milk sits warm and fiery in his stomach as he walks up to the roof.

At first glance, he doesn't see anyone there. He thinks he got the message wrong.

And then he sees him.

Blaine is standing in the little roof garden, crouched low, smelling one of the many rose blossoms there. He startles into attention when he hears the footsteps, relaxing slightly when he sees who it is.

Kurt walks up to him, heart pounding.

“Hey,” Blaine says tentatively, obviously nervous. He gestures at the rooftop around them. “Can't believe they let us up here. I'd think they'd be worried someone might just jump off from here. Easy way out.”

“There's a force-field around,” Kurt says. “It just chucks people who try back onto the roof. They wouldn't want to waste time having to choose tributes again. Too much work.”

“There's that plan dashed,” comes the dark-humoured reply, paired with a grin. “Dang.”

Kurt hears himself let out a high-pitched giggle and shuts up quickly. They blink at each other, awkward silence loaded with unsaid words descending between them, broken only by the tinkling wind chimes and the distant sounds of the Capitol crowd cheering somewhere below.

A particularly loud cheer startles them both out of their reverie and they turn as one to contemplate the colourful, churning mass on the streets surrounding the Training centre.

“I can never understand how they can be so excited for this,” Blaine says, staring at the unbridled celebrations. “How can they not realize they are celebrating sending children to die?”

“When you tell someone a lie often enough, they start believing it,” Kurt replies, flashing to all the Capitol propaganda they've had thrust on them for years. “We at the Districts see the truth around us everywhere; see the horror around us everywhere. But at the Capitol where they never suffer, they are willing believe anything told to them.”

He thinks of his affectionate, brainless prep team – such innocents still. “Most of them just don't know any better. But there are others who don't care. Who enjoy it, knowing what it is. People like the Gamemakers –“ He breaks off, gulps, thinking off all the people who plan to bid on him, on Blaine, the people who are the reason he and Blaine are here dodging around talking about a charade they are putting up together. “And the ones like those with Finnick, paying for the Victors… they are the true monsters.”

Blaine is looking at him, compassion transparent in his eyes.

Kurt wonders if tonight will be the last he will ever see them in person. He can't meet them without wanting to cry. He casts around for something to say that isn't burdened with too many emotions to voice and alights on the garden around them.

“Do you like flowers?” he asks, bending slightly to smell a fragrant blossom, avoiding looking at Blaine. “I've seen you back home, tending to the little garden behind your house.”

“I do,” Blaine says, crouching warm next to him. His arm brushes Kurt's as he reaches out to stroke a petal, sending warmth skittering up his spine. “There is little enough of beauty back in District 12.”

Kurt turns despite himself on hearing a sentiment he himself has thought often; their eyes meet. They are so close now, Blaine filling up his entire field of vision, their breaths mingling. That low thrum of electricity that seems ever-present between them rises to the surface again, Kurt feels his eyes flickering to Blaine's mouth. He finds himself shifting ever so closer, the air thickening with a million unsaid possibilities and Blaine is moving closer too, their gazes holding –

And Blaine breaks it, turning away abruptly, huffing out a deep breath. Kurt freezes where he is, heart skipping a beat.

“Did you know,” Blaine starts, apropos of nothing, gesturing jerkily at the rose bushes before them. Rambling. Nervous. “That long before Panem, flowers were given different meanings, to convey different messages? There was a book, Language of Flowers or something, in the room at the Justice Building I told you about? It was fascinating! Lilies symbolised purity, and nightshade was to convey secrets and rhododendron was danger and roses! Roses had a whole slew of meanings based on colour. And depending on the combination of different colours and the number, people used to convey whole messages they aren't able to say to someone with just roses, usually a lover or a friend and –“

“What would you pick for me?” Kurt interrupts, heart fluttering in his throat.

Blaine breaks off abruptly, lifting startled eyes to him. “What?”

“If you wanted to give me a message,” Kurt elaborates slowly, not breaking their gaze, trying to ask Blaine everything he wants to without saying the actual words. He takes the leap, hopes Blaine will catch him. “If I asked you to tell me the truth about how you really feel for me, about everything that's happened today, using just those roses. What would you pick for me?”

Blaine stares at him, looks knocked off-balance, flustered – mouth slightly open and a dull blush creeping across his cheekbones.

Kurt waits, blood rushing in his veins.

Blaine stares at him a second more, breath leaving him in a whoosh, before moving swiftly around the little garden, picking a rose here and snipping another there. When he finally turns to Kurt, blushing and skittery, he is holding out five varicoloured blossoms.

Kurt stares at them, heart in his throat.

“And what do each of these mean?” he asks, voice wavering.

Blaine closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. When they open again, they are clear of all lingering worries. Resolved. Kurt waits.

“The yellow rose,” Blaine says, holding the blossom out, heart in his eyes. “For friendship. And to also say that I care about you and that I hope you will always remember me.”

Kurt takes it wordlessly, stares at the other flowers, waits.

“The pink rose,” Blaine continues, voice rough with nerves or emotion, Kurt can't tell. “For admiration. Appreciation. And to thank you for taking this gamble with everything that happened tonight. For trusting me with this, for going through this to protect me too. To thank you for being… you.”

Kurt takes that too, waits.

“The lavender one,” Blaine drops his eyes, strokes a soft petal with his thumb. “It says I find you… enchanting. That I think you are beautiful. It also indicates,” his voice breaks slightly. He clears his throat, ducking his head and continues, “Its also given to indicate love at first sight.” He holds it out to Kurt, doesn't meet his eyes. Their fingers brush, points of zipping electricity.

“The orange rose,” Blaine rushes on like he can't stop now that he's started, “is for passion and desire. To say I wish for friendship to turn into something… more.”

Blaine pauses, looks at the last rose in his hands. Takes a deep, fortifying breath.

Kurt isn't breathing at all.

“The red rose,” Blaine begins, looking up straight into Kurt's eyes. “The red rose symbolises true love. A promise of everlasting love. A single thornless rose especially,” he picks off the thorns on the flower's stem, “is offered as a confession of love to someone.”

And he holds out the deep red flower to Kurt.

Kurt reaches a trembling hand, fingers clasping around the thornless stem. Blaine's other hand comes up to enclose his, warm and firm and he moves a step closer.

“Kurt,” a pause, a deep shaking breath, “there is a moment – when you see someone and you realize, ‘Oh there you are. I've been looking for you forever.'” The warm fingers wrapped around Kurt's squeeze gently, earnest golden eyes full of emotion. “We were young, barely ten years old then. One day, I was walking past the music room and I heard you sing. And that … I was gone.”

One step closer.

“Watching you sing that day, I had that moment… about you. And I just – you move me, Kurt.” Impossible searing hope, Kurt's heart flips and jumps. “And though I wish I was telling you this when we are both safe and not here like this… A part of me, a stupid part,” he giggles out a breath, “is happy – just because I got to spend time with you.” He lets go of Kurt's hands, blinking at the ground bashfully.

Kurt clutches the flowers to his chest, tries to gather words through the buzzing in his brain.

“So everything you said in the interviews,” Kurt starts, wets his lips. “Everything you said, about liking me forever. And always wanting to be with me. The story we told them today. Everything… is real?”

Blaine looks up, meets his gaze and nods. “Real.”

Kurt breathes. And breathes. A gentle breeze ruffles their hair, wind chimes tinkling, the Capitol crowd cheering. The air is rich with the scent of flowers. The silence stretches between them.

Blaine breaks first, his gaze flits away nervously. He twitches, agitated.  “This was all wrong. I shouldn't have said anything, I'm sorry. I should have just said I was doing what we signed up for. I shouldn't have pushed this on you now, with the Games tomorrow and –”

“Blaine,” Kurt interrupts again, voice hoarse. Blaine cuts off, stares at him in apprehension. His eyebrows are scrunched in distress, as though expecting rejection.

As though he actually believes in a world where Kurt would reject him. As though there is ever a possibility Kurt could say no to him.

Kurt turns, carefully places those precious, precious flowers in an alcove nearby and does the only obvious thing he could to erase that expression.

He takes two quick steps forward and presses his mouth to Blaine's.

Later he'll remember how Blaine startled slightly, eyes widening at the press of Kurt's mouth against his, before they slipped closed and he moved forward to reciprocate. Later he'll categorize how Blaine's mouth tasted – like chocolate and raspberries, the sensation of Blaine's warm soft wet mouth against his, the scent of flowers a tangible cloud wrapped around them. Later he'll remember the feeling of strong, steady arms settling around his waist, the feeling of Blaine's jaw cupped in his palm. Later he'll shiver over remembering long eyelashes brushing against his cheeks as Blaine kissed him back, smiling into the last few kisses, so warm and alive and his.

He'll remember all that later, will commit each touch, each breath carefully to memory later, treasure them like the precious gems they are.

But right now he is swept away, barely holding on while Blaine kisses him back in earnest and all Kurt can think when they finally, finally break apart for air is how this is all he wants for the rest of his life. All he wants is this boy before him.

The boy who holds a lifetime of happiness, who could be dead by this time tomorrow.

“Promise me,” Kurt breathes into Blaine's lips, pecking them once, twice – swift, hard kisses. “Promise you will fight.”

“Kurt,” Blaine starts, his voice already holds a note of apology.

“No,” Kurt says emphatically, his other hand moving up to take Blaine's face in his palms. How can he not understand? “Promise me! You said you won't fight just to save yourself. Well, save me. Fight for me. I love you and I want you back. Promise you will come back. I love you.”

“Kurt,” he is conflicted, heartbroken. “I can only promise to try. That's all I can promise you. And I feel the same way about you too, I lo –“

“Don't,” Kurt whispers, silencing him with another too-feeling kiss. “Don't say it now. Say it to me when you get back as Victor. Say it to me then, when you can be with me.”

“I want to,” comes the throaty reply. “All I want is to spend my life with you.”

Kurt pulls Blaine to him, wraps himself around him as close as he can. They stand like that for endless moments, Blaine's face tucked in the curve of Kurt's neck, Kurt breathing in the scent of Blaine's sun-warmed skin. If he could pause his life right here, right in that moment and never have to leave, Kurt would be content.

Another loud cheer sounds from the distant crowds, jolting them back to reality. They break apart, glance around. The world around them is still the same. It feels like it shouldn't be, like it should have changed in the face of what just happened.

Blaine gathers the flowers from where Kurt set them down. Kurt gives him a quick kiss in thanks, hoarding each brush of their lips like a glutton.

They walk back together, arms brushing lightly, happiness and melancholy in equal parts turning the air bittersweet. Kurt holds onto his flowers tightly, stroking a thumb over their soft petals; as soft as the kiss of their giver.

When they reach Kurt's room, Blaine stops, looks like he is going to say goodbye. Kurt doesn't think he can bear it.

“Stay with me,” he says, pulling at Blaine's sleeve like a child. “Not for anything like… I just want. Just stay with me.” Blaine blinks at him, searching his face before nodding.

When the door closes behind them, Kurt makes his way straight to his little closet, searching through it before his fingers close around cold metal. He turns around, takes Blaine's hand.

“I hope you will wear this as your token,” Kurt says, slipping the little mockingjay pin into Blaine's palm. “You gave it to me to protect me. I want it to be with you now, to protect you. And to have a little piece of me in there with you. If you'd like to.”

“I would love to,” Blaine's mouth curves in a smile, soft and warm. “Thank you.”

They settle for the night in Kurt's bed, fully-dressed and facing each other, legs entwined and knees knocking together. Little points of contact – Kurt's hand on Blaine's solid shoulder, Blaine's thumb brushing the knob of Kurt's wrist. Cold noses brushing against each other, warming quickly in the shared heat of their breaths. Kurt lunges for one more kiss. He refuses to think how each may be one of the last.

“Stay alive,” he whispers against Blaine's mouth, tries to put all his will into those two simple words.

“I'll try Kurt,” Blaine replies, resting his forehead against Kurt's, eyes closed. “I will really, really try.”

Kurt wishes that felt like enough.

***

He wakes the next morning to Cinna gently but hurriedly shaking them awake.

Kurt doesn't remember falling asleep. He had wanted to spend every last second of the night keeping himself awake, committing Blaine's every breath to memory. But somewhere between the gentle kisses and the comfort of Blaine wrapped around him (fitting so perfectly, like he is madefor Kurt), Kurt must have dozed off, lulled into a false sense of peace and security by the warm weight of Blaine safe in his arms.

And now it's too late.

“Blaine, you have to hurry or we'll be late,” Cinna whispers urgently while they both sit up disoriented from sleep and untangle themselves from each other.

Time seems to speed up. Kurt has barely registered the hurried brush of lips, gentle fingertips warm points of contact on his left cheek, breathless promises murmured against his lips, before suddenly he is watching the door close after Blaine, still wrapped in blankets that haven't lost Blaine's warmth.

The last whispered “I love you” falls into the quiet around him, settling like dewdrops on fresh-bloomed flowers and Kurt just wants him back. Wants him back so there will be more hushed mornings with swift kisses, Blaine's hair flat on one end, bodies warm and pliant with sleep, Kurt kissing the pillow creases from his face. Mornings where they have all the time in the world.

Mornings where Kurt won't have to wonder if Blaine will still be alive at nightfall.

“Kurt,” he hears and snaps out of his head to find Haymitch striding up to him, focused and battle-ready. He scrambles out of bed, trying not to clutch to the pillows that smell so wonderfully painfully like Blaine, and stumbles into the bathroom.

“A passing scout-camera caught you and Blaine on the roof last night,” Haymitch speaks through the door while Kurt hops into the shower. “Grainy, low quality video, but it's pretty clear you both are kissing. Splashed across every form of media this morning.”

Kurt's heart rebels at the thought of those kisses, those precious private moments, out in the world for the greedy consumption of a depraved audience. But his mind is calculating; he can see the advantage. He won't have to try to convince the audience he loves Blaine anymore, those pictures would've done the job. Now he'll just have to keep their interest.

“You've been scheduled for four different interviews while the Gamemakers get the tributes transported,” Haymitch continues through the door, voice growing fainter as though he's moving away. “You know what to do.”

Kurt does know what to do. Playing the crowd is second-nature to him now. This is a battle he knows he will win.

He dresses in all-white today – white pants, white shirt, white vest. Armour, all of it. It will bring out the blush in his fair skin. His hair isn't the usual disdainful high coif; he styles it to fall gentler, softer. Innocent. The red rose from last night goes on his lapel, adding a splash of colour – a token of love, of strength.

Kurt meets his own eyes in the mirror – bluer than the skies today – and nods. He is ready.

The interview crews are set up in one of the spare rooms on their floor. Kurt barely has time to squeeze in a slice of toast and some milk before he is thrust in front of the cameras for his first interview.

He talks about kisses in a roof-garden, surrounded by the scent of flowers. He talks about budding feelings realized over the course of a train ride. He talks about a mockingjay pin given long ago, a pin that became a talisman of comfort and steadiness. He even talks about a grieving child who found his voice again after listening to the sweet warmth of another's.

It is all even more compelling because it is true. When Kurt is done, he feels hollowed out, like he carved out pieces of himself to lay them bare in the eyes of millions. But he will do it a thousand times over if it would help save Blaine. And he can see that he has accomplished what he set out to do.

There is not a single pair of dry eyes in the room. The interviewer herself is sniffling into a delicate piece of velvet, throatily exclaiming about how beautiful all of it is.

Next is a quick photoshoot, with him recording quips for them to overlay with pictures and videos of him. Someone asks him about the red rose pinned to the front of his vest. He says Blaine gave it to him the night before, as a symbol of their love.

The whole room sighs.

After about two hours, Haymitch moves in and rescues him. Kurt gives one last blushing smile to the cameras, subtly drops sentences about how the Capitol audience could help him get Blaine back and then follows his mentor out. The tightly coiled knot in his guts finally loosens a little when the elevator doors close, shielding him from everyone.

He slumps, leaning his forehead against the one of the walls, breathing deeply.

“The Games are due to start in thirty minutes,” Haymitch informs him gruffly. “I got a car waiting to take us out to the Gamemaker Tower. There's a lot of paparazzi out there for you.” There's a pause. “You doin' okay?”

Kurt nods, rolling his forehead slightly against the elevator walls. The cool metal feels soothing on his overheated skin.

They fight another battle out through the throng of screaming gossip-mongers to get to the car. Kurt catches glimpses of today's news holograms, static pixellated images of him and Blaine kissing passionately splashed with across the main pages with loud blaring titles.

The ride to the Tower is silent. Kurt stares unseeing at the Capitol streets flashing past them.

The Gamemaker Tower is a massive complex of fifty floors, solely dedicated to the planning and orchestration of the Hunger Games. During the Games, floors one to thirteen are given over to the mentors; the rest is off-limits to everyone but the Gamemakers. Though mentors have their own lodgings in respective floors, most just stay in the Thirteenth level, which is a vast interlocked grid of individual offices, equipped with everything necessary to mentor the Games.

Kurt has heard whispers of the happenings in the Tower, like hushed recounting of horrible nightmares. Whispers of how the floors get more and more vicious as they ascend, with cloning of mutts and experimentation on avoxes carried out in the higher levels. He knows that the topmost floor is where the Gamemakers reside during the Games, pulling strings like the cruel puppeteers they are.

They arrive at the complex and subject themselves to checking by Capitol Peacekeepers before heading up to the Thirteenth floor. Kurt can feel a shiver building in his spine, clenches his jaw to prevent his teeth from chattering.

In an hour, Blaine may be dead. And that's a fact, isn't it? In an hour, he really truly may be dead. Gone forever, even before the flowers he gave Kurt have wilted, even before his scent has left Kurt's sheets.

He can feel his throat clogging up.

Now isn't the time, he hasn't got time for this, he has work to do. Going into a room of Victors is deadly in its own way, a tank full of piranhas who will pounce at the slightest sign of weakness. He can't appear weak, he can't protect Blaine if he can't protect himself. He has to get himself together.

But he can't seem to stop it, that awful wretched burning in his throat tearing his breaths, fear turning blood cold in his veins and twisting his gut in unbearable roils and –

“He isn't an idiot,” Haymitch cuts in sharply, a hand coming up to punch Kurt's shoulder rather painfully. Kurt jolts back to reality. “He isn't going to get himself killed at the Cornucopia, he's better than that. You know he's better than that. He isn't an idiot, sweetheart, and now would be a good time for you to stop being one so you can help him.”

The elevator doors ping open and Kurt pushes the fear forcefully back with everything in him, banishes it to a far corner of his brain and squares his shoulders. He is Kurt Hummel. He can do this.

He settles into himself, chin up, arms loose and strides in tall and confident across the common area, still dressed in all-white, Blaine's rose still pinned to his chest. He registers the stares that follow him (some venomous, some scornful, most a mixture of sadness and pity) but doesn't acknowledge any of them, heading straight for the District 12 control room.

The control rooms are all identical. Each districts room has six different large-screen television sets, at least two displaying their own tributes at any point. There are controllers that let you flip to different cameras all over the arena, buttons that you can press to send in anything at all to the tributes in parachutes, and a display board that continuously feeds in statistics and sponsor details. There is also a small side-room with a bed where mentors can choose to rest if they don't want to go back to their floors.

Kurt settles into the plush leather chair in front of the central mass of buttons and stares blankly at the huge television in front of him. There are numbers flashing across the dark screen, counting down the minutes to the official start of the Games.

10:38:02

Blaine would be in the launching room right now, getting dressed in the Gamemaker-issued clothing, bouncing around a little and stretching like he does when he's nervous…

09:15:06

Cinna would be there with him, helping him get ready. He hopes Cinna gets Blaine to eat and drink something. God knows when he would be able to get anything in the arena. Blaine should store up all the energy he could before entering… 

07:47:01

Kurt vaguely remembers Cinna picking up the little mockingjay pin from Kurt's bedside table this morning. He's thankful. He and Blaine were both too distracted to remember it then; hes glad Cinna was there to do it. Now at least Blaine would surely have a piece of Kurt with him in there, no matter what…

06:32:09

To protect him, Blaine had said when he gave him that pin two years ago. Kurt hopes it'll protect Blaine too…

05:17:00

He wishes he could be there protecting Blaine…

04:49:03

Haymitch settles in on Kurt's right, clapping a hand on his shoulder. Murmurs something about taking over mentoring the other kids. Kurt should feel bad about it, should pay attention...

He barely even registers it.

03:21:05

The Capitol anthem is playing across one of the televisions. The one that displays the footage broadcast live to the general populace. It shows flashes of excited Capitol audience throwing glitter and cheering.

He feels sick.

02:01:04

Blaine would be on the launch pad now, straightening his spine and making himself look cold and strong for that first glimpse from the cameras. He hopes Blaine will be cold and strong when the need arises. He wants Blaine to win. He wants Blaine to come back.

00:32:07

…He just wants Blaine.

00:00:00

The screen flashes white and Caeser Flickerman's voice blares through the speakers.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, let the Hundredth Hunger Games begin!”

***