In the Capitol: 

The screen door slid open and Crippet emerged. Blaine rose from the piano bench, where he had remained the entire night, unable to sleep as his mind was plagued by nightmares, gruesome memories from his time spent at the arena. Flashes of red and rain, innocent blue eyes and dying brown ones, screams of pain, roaring bears, roiling waves.

He couldn't sleep.

He couldn't dream of Kurt.

He couldn't miss Lizzie.

He couldn't sing.

He couldn't even cry.

He hated this.

He hated it all.

Why wouldn't it just end?

"Let's go Anderson." Crippet calls out softly, aware of what he was feeling as she remembers how she felt when she had won. It didn't feel like winning at all. To be the only survivor while 23 had died.

Where was the victory in that?

Blaine slips out of the room behind his mentor, wincing at the ache of his sore muscles.

Noticing, Crippet remarks, "The doctors will give you some painkillers for that before you go out."

Blaine nods, and the rest of the way to the Prep Centre is silent.

The familiar white doors slide open and as Blaine steps in, there is applause. A few tears. Many cheers. Blaine forces a smile on his face and York greets him with a laugh, patting him on the back.

"Oh splendid job Blaine absolutely splendid. You looked absolutely fabulous! But no time to chat! We need to get you ready for that interview!"

Blaine almost smiles for real at York's classic enthusiasm. Just for the sake of his friend, he asks quietly, "Will I get to wear that bowtie?"

York claps his hand giddily, "Why of course Blaine, of course. I'm going to go and put the final touches to your outfit while the prep team does your hair and makeup. Just the usual procedure." And with that, he disappears, and Blaine is seated, the prep team buzzing about him. Trimming, polishing, painting, coloring, gelling.

Through the blur of white, he notices Crippet standing and watching.

"Why are you still here? Don't you usually leave?"

"Just making sure these crazy people don't eat you. You've been in enough danger as of late." Crippet shoots back sharply, "Not to mention I want to see how the miracle of getting you to look presentable works."

Blaine stares at her reflection in the mirror, blank hazel eyes, void of the twinkle they used to have. "Thank you," he says softly.

"Just doing my job."

The two look at each other, holding each other's gaze for a minute before the corners of their mouths twitch upwards for a fleeting second. An equivalent of a roar of laughter for the pair.

Hours pass, and once again, Blaine is plucked, polished, and prepared, hair gelled and tamed, the bags under his eyes cleverly hidden under careful makeup.

He's led to the room of clothes where York helps him into white silk button down and a graphite suit that shimmers dully in the light at every movement. Once again, the suit is smartly tailored and flatters his every feature. He realizes that there is slight padding added to it, to make up for the weight lost during the arena, just to make sure he looks like he's in pristine condition.

How kind of them.

Blaine watches flatly as York steps away and pulls out a small deep red bowtie, various shades stenciled in. Tiny delicate swirls and lines etched into the glimmering silk. It was beautiful. But as York fastens it to his collar, Blaine doesn't even draw a breath. Or smile. Or care.

It's just a bowtie.

York notices this change, a small frown settling on his face but he doesn't say a word. His eyes blur over a second as he remembers the boy who first came, finding so much joy and wonder in a single bowtie, giddy with excitement, every emotion playing across his face and in his twinkling eyes. Now that boy is back, eyes blank, emotionless. A shadow of what he was.

York wants to cry that the boy he first met is still lost in that arena. Somewhere within the murky water, the towering mountains, and the corpses of the dead. But he can't, he just turns around, making himself occupied by organizing some pins. He clears his throat, "So... Everything comfortable?" He asks the boy.

"Yes. Thank you."

Crippet walks in, with a small bottle and crystal glass of water. "Looking good Blaine. Great work York. As always, your work is appreciated. Congratulations."

York nods stiffly.

"Blaine, I need you to take these pills. They're for the pain." She gives them to the victor and he swallows them while she continues, "Now directly after the interviews we'll board the train and you'll be going home. There isn't going to be a lot of mess with the press because the doctors explicitly explained to everyone that you need your rest so you can heal. So you should have some peace for a couple of weeks."

"So when will I be home?" He whispers softly.

"Tomorrow afternoon." Crippet replies gently. "Now, the interview starts soon. I was thinking that you play a song, the crowd will want to hear..."

"No." Blaine interrupts firmly.

"Excuse me?"

"I won't. I have done every single thing you have asked me to. I've won. I've played their games. But I can't sing."

"But..."

"No. You can't make me. I can't sing."

Crippet stares at the boy before her. A moment passes, and then she clears her throat and turns away. "Fine. York, is he ready?"

"Yes he is."

"Good. Let's go."

Blaine follows his stylist and mentor and freezes outside the elevator. There's no one waiting there.

"Blaine?" Yorks asks hesitantly. "We have to go."

"Wait, shouldn't we wait for Lizzie?" Blaine says confused, looking around for his friend.

Crippet walks over. "Let's go." She pulls him softly into the elevator.

"But what... Oh." He quiets.

"It's okay Blaine." York comforts, touching his shoulder.

Blaine jerks away. "No it's not."

The rest of the way down is silent. No one speaks. The doors slide open and Blaine can hear the crowds cheering already. But his heart doesn't flutter or he isn't nervous. He just walks up to the stage stairs, Crippet encouraging him silently with her presence. She mutters careful pointers: keep your personae, be honest, be grateful, etc.

Blaine nods while Caesar Flickerman spins in his chair greeting the audience.

"Welcome everyone! Here with us, we have the victor of this year's Hunger Games, District 1's Blaine Anderson!"

The crowd explodes as Blaine walks on stage, forcing a small smile to his lips and winking to the cameras. He takes a seat across from the interviewer who shakes his hand.

"Well well well I just knew I was going to be seeing you again! Didn't you?" He looks at the audience, laughing loudly before turning back to Blaine, "But honestly, you were quite a surpise. District 1 doesn't usually win and there were quite a few times when we thought you were done for. How does it feel now that you've won, despite everything?"

Blaine exhales. "Honestly, I don't know. I feel so happy that I get to go home, but it all feels so unreal. I wasn't expecting to win and now that I have... Well, all that matters is I'm going home."

"Yes yes. Now Blaine, tell me." Ceasar asks in his liquid voice, moving closer to Blaine. The Capitol is silent as they all wait to hear the victor's words. "What got you through those hard moments. What got you back on your feet?"

"Just remembering the people I love. Knowing that they were watching me. Knowing that I promised them that I would come home." Blaine says quietly.

"You kept that promise. I am sure they will be proud of you."

"I want them to be."

"Well here in the Capitol we are aren't we?" Ceasar calls out to the audience with his phony laugh. "Aren't we?"

The audience cheers and screams, a wall of sound rising into the dark night.

"Thank you." Blaine looks directly at them and the cameras. "Thank you all. If it wasn't for you sponsors, for your support, I wouldn't be here right now. Thank you."

"No thank you Blaine." Caesar quips. "Thank you for such an entertaining games and such beautiful music. Ladies and gentlemen, I give to you, your victor, Blaine Anderson!"

The two stand and Caesar lifts Blaine's hand in victory as the audience roars its approval. Blaine is marched up to the platform where President Snow sits. A gold circlet is placed atop his dark, slicked curls amidst the continuous applause and President Snow takes his hand with a smile, shaking it firmly.

"Congratulations Mr. Anderson. Quite a performance."

"Thank you Mr. President." Blaine replies steadily, resisting the urge to crinkle his nose at the scent of roses and blood that lingers on the dictator before him.

"You must be excited to go home to the girl of your dreams."

"The boy of my dreams actually. And yes, I cannot wait."