Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Hey guys, if you’re reading this because I mentioned I was writing it on my Tik Tok, I appreciate you for wanting to read this! My Haikyuu obsession has overtaken me yet again and I’ve recently been rereading the Hunger Games books, so of course that gave me the idea of writing this! I thought I’d give you all some information first so you have a better understanding on how this story will work, but you’ll still understand it as you read on.

TRIBUTES & DISTRICTS:

District 1: Oikawa and Andrea (ORIGINAL CHARACTER)

District 2: Kuroo and Saeko

District 3: Kenma and Yoko (ORIGINAL CHARACTER)

District 4: Atsumu and Jessie (ORIGINAL CHARACTER)

District 5: Bokuto and Yukie

District 6: Nishinoya and Kiyoko

District 7: Yamaguchi and Eri

District 8: Akaashi and Kaori

District 9: Hinata and Yachi

District 10: Sugawara and Michimiya

District 11: Tsukishima and Misaki

District 12: Tobio and Miwa

MEMBERS OF THE CAPITOL:

Tendou as the games host

Sakusa as the Head Gamemaker

Yaku as Kuroo’s fashion designer

Lev as Kenma’s escort

Udai Tenma (Tiny Giant) as Hinata’s & Yachi’s  mentor

Aran as Atsumu’s mentor

Suna as Atsumu’s fashion designer

Ukai as Tobio’s & Miwa’s  mentor

Takeda as Sugawara’s fashion designer 

Daichi as Suga’s mentor

This fic really has no main character. Its just about all of them, SO if you’d like you can just vote for your winner! If there’s anymore information you would like to know, please do feel free to ask and I’ll be sure to answer! Enjoy!!

Chapter Text

A tremor ran through Tobio Kageyama, not from the cold, but from a deep-seated unease that settled heavy in his bones.

Despite its worldwide renown and annual recurrence across the twelve districts, the event still managed to shake him to his core. Each year, a designated time and place brought all of District Twelve together, packing them side by side until arms brushed and personal boundaries blurred. During the selection process, maintaining one's own bubble was impossible. This dreaded occasion was known as the Reaping.

Tobio's fears of being selected seemed to intensify with each passing year. The very idea of knowing what was ahead, of feeling already bound by fate, was unsettling. And he felt a grim certainty that every single boy and girl standing here, beneath the ever-present gaze of each year's female escort, harbored the exact same terrifying feeling.

He knew his sister Miwa shared his fear, without a doubt. By the time Tobio reached the age of twelve, his older sister had almost resigned herself to the nightly ritual of lulling her younger brother to sleep. His nights were haunted, plagued by terrible dreams of the games. Each night, he would awaken with stifled screams, burying his face in his hands, rocking back and forth, muttering, ‘Please don't make me go,’ over and over again. She would respond with gentle reassurance, running her thin fingers soothingly through his dark hair, hushing him with that uniquely calming voice of hers. She would steadfastly remain by his side until he eventually drifted back to sleep, ensuring he felt her presence.

She made sure he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he wasn't alone in his fear, that he was safe and protected under her watchful eye.

Miwa, too, was no stranger to nightmares. She shared the same haunting dreams as Tobio, yet he was convinced hers were a lot worse. Far worse. She would often wake up in a cold sweat, her body shaking and trembling, desperately trying to force herself back to sleep without any form of solace.

The Kageyama siblings lived in dread of the games, a fear shared by nearly everyone. All save the Capitol, who reveled in the horrific, never-ending carnage, finding entertainment in the suffering of others.

The Hunger Games, a creation of the self-absorbed Capitol, was a brutal euphemism for a death-filled battle. From each of the twelve districts, one male and one female between the ages of twelve and eighteen were offered as tributes. Delivered into the Capitol's custody, they were thrust into a public arena to engage in death-defying combat until only a single victor remained.

That was the point of the games..

Kill, or be killed.

The sole purpose of these games was to amuse the Capitol—the wealthy and selfish, utterly indifferent to the harm inflicted upon the defenseless citizens of the twelve districts. And for those not chosen as tributes, they were forced to watch.

Tobio felt like he couldn't breathe, but he chose to maintain his composure. He told himself he was getting worked up over nothing, as the odds were ever in someone else's favor; he was never selected. Despite this, it didn't deter him or his sister from their constant preparation. Year after year, they trained together, honing their skills. They practiced not just fighting, but mastering weapons, devising traps, and learning the essential skills to survive. Try as they might, it was difficult enough to survive in District Twelve. They were alone in the world, without parents to guide them, without the support of aunts or uncles—they only had each other.

Even knowing his name was in that glass bowl, that Miwa's name was mixed in as well, a sliver of possibility still remained. You never truly knew.

There was something deeply unsettling about considering how many times the escort, a vision of neon, makeup, and gravity-defying hair, had touched the folded paper that held his name. But that was nothing compared to the dread of imagining her actually drawing that paper—the one with 'Tobio Kageyama' printed on it—and hearing her voice boom his name through the microphone.

Even as the woman lowered her hand into the glass bowl filled with the girls' names, a wave of nausea washed over Tobio. She stirred the folded papers with a deliberate, taunting motion, as if savoring the suspense. Her long, maroon nail traced circles inside the glass, her bottom lip caught between her teeth in mock contemplation, until finally, with a soft hum of decision, she plucked out a single slip.

Tobio shuddered, his gaze fixed on her as she swayed back towards the microphone, each step of her towering heels echoing ominously through District Twelve. The silence was thick, broken only by the sharp, incessant clack of her heels against the stage. Everyone waited, suspended in the awful anticipation of hearing which terrified kid would be summoned, likely never to return.

It was utterly sickening.

The sound of the woman's heels ceased abruptly, the final 'clack' of her shoes echoing like the last beat of a dying heart.

Tobio sucked in a breath.

The woman from the Capitol began to unfold the slip of paper with a flourish, as if eager to unveil the names of this year's sacrificial lambs. She mouthed the name to herself, a cruel smile playing on her lips, then cleared her throat, her voice amplified by the microphone.

With sickeningly exaggerated enthusiasm, she announced, "Miwa Kageyama!" and Tobio's blood ran cold as his sister's name echoed through the square.

Instantly, every gaze snapped to his sister. Children her age recoiled, creating a stark path for the ashen-faced girl. A wave of pity rippled through the crowd. They all knew the horrors that awaited her.

Miwa moved through the crowd as if in a trance, barely registering the Capitol woman's impatient urging. "Come now, dear," she chirped, "don't be shy!" Her feet carried her forward without conscious thought, a fact not lost on Tobio, even as his own mind struggled to catch up. His sister, barely eighteen? The female tribute for District Twelve in the 69th Annual Hunger Games?

Tobio’s mind screamed for action. He had to say something—anything. He wanted to beg, to plead, to offer himself in Miwa's place, to let her live. The tremors returned, shaking him from the inside out. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the rising tide of impossible thoughts and swirling confusion. He hadn't been listening, not really, until,

"Tobio Kageyama!" The woman's voice cut through the chaos.

Tobio froze, the sound registering, yet failing to fully penetrate the fog in his mind.

"Oh, how wonderfully dramatic!" the woman gushed, her smile widening. "Either a remarkable coincidence, or these two are related! How delightful!"

So engrossed was Tobio in the chaos raging within his mind that he failed to register the woman's announcement of the male tribute. The reality of the situation crashed back down onto him when he saw Miwa already standing on the stage, appearing ghostly. Her breath hitched in her throat, the tremors that wracked her body intensifying as her brother's name was yelled over the speaker.

In an instant, all of Tobio's carefully constructed thoughts and desperate plans evaporated. He found himself moving, almost without conscious volition, walking alone down the path towards the stage. The female escort, all forced smiles and manicured nails, urged him forward, her grip surprisingly firm as she guided his numb feet onto the wooden platform. He scanned the crowd, his eyes instantly drawn to the blank, almost vacant faces of the people of Twelve. He saw a mix of emotions. Relief that they had been spared this year's Hunger Games, and a detached, almost clinical sympathy for the Kageyama siblings' impending doom.

"Tell me, Tobio!" The Capitol woman's voice sliced through his daze, dragging him back to the present (though just barely). "Are you and Miwa truly related?"

She thrust the microphone towards his pale, terrified face, holding it inches from his lips, shaking it slightly in a grotesque parody of encouragement.

"Yes," he managed, the word barely a breath.

"She must be your sister, correct?"

“Yes.”

Finally, she snatched the microphone away, her smile gleaming as she surveyed the 'already-doomed' siblings. They wore matching expressions of stark terror, pale and still struggling to grasp the enormity of their fate.

She exhaled theatrically. "Ah, like brother, like sister, wouldn't you say?" Her voice dripped with false cheer.

The audience remained silent, a sea of impassive faces. Per usual.

She cleared her throat, the sound amplified and echoing in the unnerving silence. Deciding to cut her losses, she opted to finish the reaping swiftly, eager to get the Kageyama siblings transferred to the Capitol. Or, to put it more bluntly: District Twelve's official tributes for the 69th Annual Hunger Games, now bound for slaughter.

She gestured for the two to move to the center of the stage and face each other. When they reached that point, the siblings locked eyes, a complex mix of emotions swirling between them. Miwa, older and trying to be strong, attempted to mask her fear for Tobio's sake, but the sheer terror she felt threatened to spill over. It bubbled just beneath the surface, dangerously close to betraying her. She couldn’t bear the thought of him seeing her afraid, not now.

Tobio, on the other hand, made no attempt to conceal his fear. Miwa noticed his pallor was even more deathly than usual, his pupils pinpricks of darkness, and his brow furrowed in abject terror. When he shakily extended a hand for her to take, his entire body trembled. Miwa's heart ached with the urge to comfort him, to pull him close and whisper empty assurances that everything would be alright, that somehow, impossibly, they would make it through this.

But if Miwa was being completely honest with herself, a cold knot of dread tightened in her stomach. She wasn't sure things would turn out alright.

She banished the rising tide of fear, swallowed hard, and reached out to take Tobio's trembling hand. Usually, this handshake was a ritual, a gesture of good luck before the challenge ahead. But the squeeze Miwa offered was far from a promise of fortune. It was a silent offering of comfort, a secret reassurance from the only family he had left. And Tobio understood.

‘It will be okay,’ she squeezed his hand. ‘We will be okay.’

Chapter Text

Kei Tsukishima paced the sterile floor of the Justice Building.

A torrent of questions flooded the tall blonde's mind, each one more disorienting than the last. How had I ended up here? Why was I here? And most of all,

I shouldn't be here.

He couldn't help but be struck by the stark contrast of his surroundings. He hadn't paid much attention at first, but now he observed the room's opulent details, the luxurious appointments that spoke of power and privilege. It was a world away from the dilapidated house he shared in District Eleven, a place where his mother struggled to keep her head above water, his older brother tirelessly trying to hold their family together.

The room exuded a dark, opulent richness, gold patterns tracing the elegant lines of the navy blue couches and chairs. Tsukishima's gaze drifted towards the single window, the idea of escape flickering through his mind. He knew, though, that such attempts were impossible. The peacekeepers were relentless, their reach inescapable. Once chosen as tribute, there was no turning back.

Officially, Kei Tsukishima had been chosen to represent District Eleven in the 69th Annual Hunger Games.

Just as Tsukishima was on the verge of succumbing to the desperate urge to jump out of the window, the door burst open, and his mother and older brother, Akiteru, rushed into the room. A stern peacekeeper followed, announcing that they had only one minute. One minute to say their goodbyes.

The announcement propelled his mother forward, her arms wrapping around Kei in a desperate embrace. He immediately felt her tears soaking through his threadbare, dirt-stained blouse. But what did it matter? Would he even survive the games, return home, and have the chance to wear it again?

Normally, eliciting any sign of affection from Kei was a challenge, a task met with his usual stoicism. But in this moment, he found himself craving it, a deep, unfamiliar need rising within him.

Tsukishima's height allowed him to almost completely envelop his mother as he returned her embrace. Though tears threatened to spill, he held them back. His mother, trembling and fragile, clearly needed his strength more than he needed to succumb to his own fear. She needed reassurance that her sixteen-year-old son would return home unscathed, a promise Tsukishima couldn't honestly make. He was untrained, unprepared, and about to face twenty-three opponents who would stop at nothing to survive. He couldn't bring himself to utter the comforting lie that everything would be alright.

Despite his own doubts, he held his mother close, murmuring words of ‘It will be okay’ and ‘I will be okay.’ She tried to find solace in his words, but each repetition only seemed to tighten her grip around his tall frame. The reality of her son being forced into a deadly spectacle was a weight too heavy for her to carry.

Shortly after, his mother released him, raising a hand to his face. Her palm gently cupped his cheek, her thumb tracing soothing circles on his skin. Kei leaned into her touch, cherishing what could be his last moments of connection with her.

As his mother stepped away, it was Akiteru's turn. Forgoing a hug, he went straight to the point, placing both hands firmly on Kei’s shoulders. Their heights were similar enough that he didn't have to reach up much, though Kei still held a slight advantage of an inch, despite being younger. Akiteru's serious demeanor couldn't quite mask the underlying worry in his eyes. As the elder brother, he bore the responsibility of appearing strong and composed, knowing that he, of all of them, couldn't afford to break down.

Gripping his shoulders, “Alright, Kei, listen to me,” he began. “Whatever you do when you’re in that arena, don’t back down, don’t go easy, and don’t be afraid to prove how strong you are.”

“But I’m not strong,” Kei said. “I have no skills, I can’t fight like the others—“

"But you're smart," Akiteru added, tapping his own forehead. "Unlike some, you've got the brains. Everyone in that arena will think brute strength is everything, but that's not true. Because strength isn't the only thing, you have a distinct advantage over the other tributes and can become one of the most successful players. You have a real chance of winning this."

Kei looked uncertain, yet he made an effort to understand Akiteru’s meaning. It was true, he had a point. But even though Kei possessed intelligence, he still lacked the physical ability of the competitors he would soon face.

Seeing his younger brother's hesitation, Akiteru's expression softened. "Hey," he began again, his grip on Kei's shoulders easing. "You're going to be okay, alright? Use your intelligence as a weapon. Don't hold back against these people, because they certainly won't hold back against you."

This time, Kei didn't hesitate. He let out a quiet breath and managed a slight nod to show he understood. As time ticked by, Tsukishima was increasingly aware that their minute was almost up. He wasn’t ready—not yet.

At last, Akiteru released Kei's shoulders and pulled him into a firm embrace. Kei immediately hugged him in return without hesitation, which almost brought Akiteru to tears. But, he didn’t; he wasn’t going to.

And then, silently, “You’re going to win,” Akiteru whispered in assurance. “You’re going to come back home.”

Tsukishima wanted to agree. He longed to confidently declare he would win the 69th Hunger Games, but that feeling of uncertainty lingered. He was scared, he could silently admit to himself, and unsure if he would survive. But would he ever admit that out loud? Of course not. Tsukishima was not one to express or acknowledge emotions. Sharing, feeling.. it made him feel vulnerable.

"Here." When Akiteru broke the hug, he held something out for Kei to take.

Tsukishima took the small object from his older brother, quickly examining it. "But I've already got glasses?" he questioned, looking up from the regular black pair in his hand.

"These are better," Akiteru explained. "These will stay put and won't fall off during combat. It will make your life a little easier."

Tsukishima wasn't entirely convinced until he examined the glasses more closely. They mirrored his current pair: rectangular lenses framed by thick, black rims. Unadorned, as the Tsukishima family, typical of the agriculture district, wasn't wealthy. However, unlike regular glasses, these had arms that connected, designed to wrap around the back of the head. They almost looked like goggles, Tsukishima thought.

After a closer look, "Thanks," Kei said, managing a faint smile.

Just then, the door opened. "Time's up," the Peacekeeper announced tersely. Kei’s mom ended up embracing him one last time, repeating the word ‘no’ as she sobbed, having to be physically pulled away from the boy when she refused to leave his side. The Peacekeeper showed no sign of empathy. He firmly took hold of his mother and brother, pulling them out of the room and shutting the dark wooden door with a resounding slam. And suddenly, the room fell silent, and Tsukishima found himself alone again.

He could feel the sting of tears welling in his eyes for the first time, because this was it. Though he had understood the situation intellectually for several minutes, the finality of the moment, the fact that there was no turning back, was beginning to truly sink in.

This was it. He was to be sent to the Capitol with the other tribute from Eleven, destined to fight to the death. He had no say in this, for this was the established order of the Capitol and the twelve districts.

Watch the games, play the games, kill, or be killed.

Chapter Text

Stepping onto the train felt like entering a gateway to heaven. However, given that it belonged to the Capitol, Hinata and Yachi were sure to find it overflowing with extravagant wealth.

Upon entering the main carriage, the two tributes from District Nine paused, awestruck. A large bar table and a polished wooden table gleamed under the natural light streaming through the windows. Atop these tables, laden with what must have been hundreds of dollars' worth of expensive materials, sat meals valued at thousands. Warm scones topped with cream and jam, meticulously sliced fruit sculptures, and delicate sponge cakes in a variety of flavors—strawberry, chocolate, vanilla, even red velvet—were artfully arranged. A towering stack of sugar-coated doughnuts stood beside endless lines of precisely shaped sandwiches filled with everything from ham and lettuce to cheese and tomato. As if that weren't enough, a small chocolate fountain flowed continuously, with heart-shaped strawberries encircling the warm, tempting liquid.

Hinata's stomach rumbled so loudly he had to hug himself. The redhead was almost perpetually hungry; his family's recent crop failures had forced them to be incredibly frugal with their meals—three meager portions a day for three people in District Nine.

However, despite his stomach's insistent demands, Hinata couldn't bring himself to eat. Since being selected at the reaping, he had lost all appetite for food and any other courtesy extended to him and Yachi, the girl tribute. If anything, the rumble in his stomach felt more like a desperate urge to relieve himself of the anxiety churning within.

Eventually, after the two admired the opulent carriage, their female escort gently urged them forward. Hinata and Yachi hesitantly sat on one of the forest green couches facing the table laden with an endless array of food. The escort smiled, hoping they would indulge, but the two remained silent and still.

Clearly dissatisfied, she hummed, her red matte lips tapping discreetly as she chewed the inside of her cheek. Her striking aqua eyes flicked back and forth between the girl and boy. Finally, with a sharp click of her heels, she turned and headed back towards the carriage door.

Opening the door, she turned back to them, a bright smile on her face. "I'll go get Tenma," she announced. "As your mentor, the three of you will have a lot to discuss." With that, she exited, the carriage door clicking shut behind her.

Suddenly, the room was silent, save for the rhythmic rocking and creaking of the speeding train, a sound that was quickly grating on Hinata and Yachi's nerves. The two hadn't exchanged a single word, a common occurrence among tributes. One reason for this silence was the risk that casual conversation could lead to friendship and a potential alliance—a bond that would become a painful liability when only a few remained in the arena. The prospect of having to kill a friend was something neither of them wanted to consider.

Hinata's eyes were drawn, yet again, to the staggering array of food before him, and the fragile silence of the carriage shattered. A loud rumble emanated from his protesting stomach, causing the redhead to instinctively double over, clutching his arms tightly around himself. A flush crept up his neck as he muttered quietly under his breath.

A soft voice broke through his embarrassment. “Are you okay?” Yachi, the girl asked with genuine concern.

Hinata opened his mouth to reply, but the words caught in his throat. Instead, he found himself scrambling to his feet, propelled by an urgent need to escape the carriage. He vaguely recalled the impeccably dressed woman from the Capitol as she detailed the arrangements for him and Yachi. Each tribute, she had explained, would have their own private chambers. Within those chambers, they would find a bedroom, a dedicated dressing space, and, blessedly, a private bathroom.

Hinata navigated the corridors with surprising ease, and before he knew it, he was inside his private bathroom. A pang of guilt struck him for leaving Yachi without a word, but he quickly pushed it aside, reminding himself that she was still a potential competitor. Why reveal his weakness, a weak stomach, when she could exploit that knowledge against him in the arena?

Once finished, Hinata washed his hands under the running water. The moment he turned on the faucet, the water flowed, transitioning smoothly from cold to warm with such ease that his lips parted in amazement. Some might say he was overreacting—that it was just a regular sink. But in District Nine, where they primarily relied on cold water that had to be boiled for warmth, this felt like a genuine miracle.

Suddenly, Hinata's warm, wet hands were rubbing across his face. He splashed more water on himself, reveling in the soothing sensation as the warm liquid caressed his skin. If he had to describe it, he would say it felt like receiving gentle morning kisses from the sun.

Hinata smiled softly, then exhaled. Opening his eyes, he found himself gazing into his own reflection. The mirror before him seemed quite costly, with its delicate golden trim catching his eye. Yet, Hinata paid little attention to the mirror's ornate appearance. Instead, he simply stared at himself.

He watched as his expression visibly crumbled. His once-bright smile faded, his eyelids drooped, and the color seemed to drain from his wet face, leaving it devoid of joy. It was as if his features had not just deepened but also darkened.

Suddenly, it all crashed down on him. The stark reminder that he had been chosen as the boy tribute for this year's Hunger Games, ready to be shipped off to the Capitol, where he would be trained to amuse, only to be slaughtered in that damned arena. The brutal realisation that he was now separated from his mother and sister, his only family, with the very real possibility of never seeing them again. Suddenly, his stomach plummeted, and that fresh wave of longing washed over him all over again.

As Hinata felt the sting in his eyes intensify, he reached up, his hands clenching into fists as he pressed them against his eyelids. Don’t cry, he told himself fiercely. Mom wouldn’t want you to cry. Natsu wouldn’t want you to cry.

He inhaled deeply, allowing his hands to fall and rest against the cool, white marble sink. Opening his eyes once again, he stared at his reflection. His eyes were lightly reddened and shadowed, mirroring the darkness of his expression.

He was acutely aware of the challenges that lay ahead, and with foresight came a certain detachment. To allow feelings to take over would be to compromise himself. Emotions were a burden, slowing his pace and weakening his resolve, turning him into an easy target.

And, knowing Hinata, the short redhead was far more capable than many realised. Was he emotional? Undeniably. Was he prone to letting his feelings cloud his judgment? Absolutely.

However, despite these traits that might give the impression of weakness,

Shoyo was the one who would make you feel like you were the one in the crosshairs.

…

As Hinata re-entered the main carriage, he found Yachi and the female escort already there, sitting alongside their mentor.

Tenma Udai.

The three had been seated together on the forest green couches, patiently awaiting Hinata’s arrival. And as the sound of the sliding door echoed throughout the carriage, the trio paused their previous conversation, turning their full attention to the redhead who had just walked in.

“Hinata!” The lady said enthusiastically. “We were just waiting for you!”

Before Hinata knew it, the female escort was already pulling him along by the wrist, guiding him with cheerful encouragement, until he found himself seated next to Yachi once again. Tenma, their supposed mentor, sat across from the tributes.

The first thing Hinata noticed about Tenma was his height, or lack thereof, even while seated. He was roughly Hinata's height, definitely less than 170 centimeters, possibly shorter, which surprised Hinata, who rarely encountered men his height unless they were in elementary school. He'd even met fourth graders taller than him before. Yet, this guy looked to be in his mid-twenties.

Aside from his height, Tenma possessed a gentle face that hinted at both kindness and a subtle danger, which was understandable given his past participation in the games. A single, small mole just under his right, dark grey eye accentuated his diminutive features. His dark hair was unruly, suggesting he was nearing time for a haircut. However, the length seemed intentional, as if he kept it long by choice, and it suited him well.

Tenma extended a hand. "Hinata," he said with a smile. "It's a pleasure to properly meet you after watching you during the reaping. Among all the tributes, you've truly captured my interest the most. And I'm not saying that because I'm your mentor and I need to tell you what you want to hear."

After snapping out of his daze, Hinata finally shook Tenma’s hand. It was a rough, calloused hand, a stark contrast to his gentle face. It felt as though Hinata wasn't merely shaking hands with his mentor, but also with the ghosts of those he had killed with those very hands. The strength in his grip was unsettling, and the history it implied sent a shiver down Hinata's spine. In all honesty, the handshake was more than a little intimidating.

“You seem interesting to work with. I look forward to it,” Tenma continued, glancing from Hinata to the blonde girl. “With the both of you.”

Yachi offered a kind smile, and Hinata released Tenma's hand. "I recognise you," the redhead muttered, squinting as his face furrowed in thought until realisation dawned. "Tenma Udai, also known as the Tiny Giant."

Tenma chuckled, a hint of nostalgia in his voice. He glanced down, shaking his head slightly. "I haven't heard that name in a hot minute." He scoffed softly, a wry smile playing on his lips.

"You won the sixty-second Hunger Games. Being noticeably smaller than the other tributes, many wrote you off as an easy target before the arena even opened. People underestimated your abilities, focusing more on your appearance, which allowed you to take them all by surprise. That's when you earned the title of both champion and the Tiny Giant."

Tenma had to admit, he was genuinely impressed by Hinata’s grasp of his mentor. For someone of his stature, Hinata possessed a sharp and insightful mind. That intelligence was a definite edge, something Tenma keenly appreciated.

Tenma leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms and casually crossing one leg over the other. "You really know your stuff, kid," he said with a grin. "I wasn’t aware District Nine paid so much attention to past victors."

"Only to the ones who really earned the win," Hinata replied, a smile lighting up his face. "But honestly, I've always looked up to you. If I ever got reaped, I always hoped you'd be my mentor. And, well, here we are."

Hinata was being completely honest. Tenma, the Tiny Giant, had always been an inspirational figure in his life. Though he fervently wished he would never have to experience the horrors of the Hunger Games firsthand, he found himself surprisingly at ease with Tenma as his mentor. Hinata felt a profound connection and understanding towards Tenma, perhaps born from shared experiences. Hinata's short stature had made him a target for bullies and the subject of misunderstanding at school. Classmates often teased him about his height and appearance, which made it challenging for him to form proper friendships. He was seldom given the opportunity to demonstrate his true potential, when in reality, he possessed a level of capability that far exceeded their assumptions.

He saw a reflection of himself in Tenma. The Tiny Giant. They had both faced similar struggles: a lack of friends, constant misunderstandings, and relentless bullying. These shared challenges forced them to relate to one another, which is why Hinata felt a sense of relief upon learning that the Tiny Giant would be mentoring him and Yachi. Tenma was someone they could trust, someone who deserved to be believed in and given a chance, rather than being dismissed because of his height. Hinata and Yachi understood Tenma’s capabilities, and they were determined to leverage their advantages with that knowledge in mind.

Hinata leaned forward in his chair, crossing his arms on the table, a spark of eagerness in his eyes. "So," he began, "when do we start?"

Chapter Text

They arrived at the Capitol early the next morning. Following the substantial breakfast they had been provided before departing the train, the boy tribute from District Ten, Sugawara, and the girl tribute, Michimiya, were quickly separated to begin their preparations. Soon, they would hopefully meet their stylists.

Daichi, Sugawara's mentor, had assured him there was nothing to worry about during the Remake Center preparations, that the staff would simply ensure he looked his best. But as Sugawara was ushered into a cramped room and forced to lie flat on a table, an extravagantly dressed prep team in pale blue nurse uniforms swarming around him, he began to have serious doubts. This was going to be anything but simple.

They did their best to make him appear presentable, as that was their job. They washed him from head to toe with soap that possessed an overwhelming lavender and vanilla fragrance, a scent so intense that Sugawara was overwhelmed, being unaccustomed to such sensory richness. Back in District Ten, he merely used a bar of soap and warm water, while these individuals scrubbed him with lotions, loofahs, and an array of items Sugawara had never even seen before. By the time they finished scrubbing the grime from his skin, he was cleaner than he had ever been in his life. He had never imagined it was possible to be this clean.

They meticulously brushed and trimmed his light gray hair, taking care not to cut it too short but rather evenly trimming the layers to preserve its wavy style. They insisted that keeping the hair out of his face would accentuate his best features. They also subtly enhanced the small beauty mark beneath his right eye, claiming it added a unique touch of character.

They waxed his eyebrows, legs, arms, underarms, and any remaining fine hairs on his face until he felt completely smooth. He wasn't the only one subjected to the shaving and waxing; all twenty-four tributes were expected to look pristine and presentable. After all, once you stepped into that arena, you were free to unleash your wild side. Get dirty, get messy, get bloody.

Once the prep team had finished, Sugawara was left alone in the small room. He sat up slowly, a wave of lightheadedness washing over him, and he instinctively rubbed his temples. He then began to take note of the subtle changes the prep team had made to his appearance.

He ran a hand through his hair, surprised by how soft and short it felt. His bangs were neatly swept away from his face, a definite improvement. His skin was smooth and velvety, utterly devoid of stubble. It felt deeply moisturised; layers of products had banished any trace of dryness. It was an unfamiliar sensation, yet undeniably pleasant, Sugawara thought. He had always strived for cleanliness and hygiene, but life in one of the poorest districts made it a constant struggle. Now, though, he felt truly clean. Capitol clean.

Just then, Sugawara heard the door open. His stylist entered the small room, and Sugawara took in his appearance. He seemed kind and presentable, almost polite—unlike many of the Capitol's citizens. He looked remarkably normal, with short brown hair, fair skin, and freckles peeking out from beneath his glasses. He wore a white blouse tucked into dark slacks, topped with a pale green sweater over his collared shirt.

The only things that hinted at his Capitol affiliation were the brown leather shoulder bag, embellished with sparkly decorations, slung over his right shoulder, and the tool belt around his waist, filled with styling tools: scissors of various sizes and a few pencils.

Halting in front of the seated Sugawara, he extended a polite hand. "Hey, I'm Takeda, your stylist," he said, his voice gentle. "And you must be Sugawara."

"Well, one would hope so, otherwise you'd be making someone else look all pretty," Sugawara quipped.

Takeda smiled at the remark. "Witty," he replied. "I can work with that."

As Takeda began to take in Sugawara’s appearance, Sugawara stood, allowing Takeda a better view. He felt a touch self-conscious in the thin blue robe but reminded himself that he’d likely be in something far more uncomfortable later. Each year, the tributes were dressed in extravagantly fashionable attire for the opening ceremony, outfits that either made them look spectacular or utterly ridiculous. Sugawara also had to remind himself he'd only be wearing the ensemble briefly; the moment he returned to his room, he’d be ripping off the beautiful—or idiotic—outfit.

Takeda hummed as he circled the young boy. "You've certainly got an appealing look, Sugawara," he said, lifting Sugawara's left arm to examine it. "Attractiveness has always been an advantage in the Games; it's how you gain sponsors. And fortunately for you, you're in luck."

Takeda released his arm. Sugawara replied, "You think so?"

"No," Takeda stated. "I know so."

Takeda was a breath of fresh air compared to the others. He was neither loud nor rude, nor did he possess that artificial exuberance so common among those vying for attention. What struck Sugawara most was Takeda's lack of reaction to his District Ten scent. Others recoiled, subtly or not, but Takeda remained unfazed.

Within the Capitol, Takeda was almost unrecognisable, easily mistaken for a resident from one of the twelve districts rather than someone who belonged in the Capitol itself.

He seemed kind, and his gentle demeanor towards the boy did not go unnoticed. That was what Sugawara valued most in others—reciprocity. If someone treated him with kindness, Sugawara returned the respect tenfold. Takeda, with his inherent decency, had officially earned Sugawara's respect.

"You know, I don't think I've ever seen you before," Sugawara said. He made a point of watching the Games every year, and Takeda was a new face. "Are you new to this?"

"I am," Takeda confirmed. "But don't worry. I'm fully trained in styling, so I promise to make you look amazing, alright?"

Sugawara crossed his arms, raising an eyebrow in skepticism.

Takeda chuckled. "Last year's outfits for District Ten getting to you, are they?"

"I'd be lying if I said otherwise."

Last year's tribute presentation for District Ten was an unmitigated disaster. The stylists, in a misguided attempt at collaboration for the chariot ride and pre-Games interviews, had dressed the tributes in garish farm animal jumpsuits. The girl was burdened with a white and brown patchwork jumpsuit, topped with a bovine-inspired headband. The boy was forced into a raven black jumpsuit meant to evoke a masculine bull, complete with an absurd horned headpiece.

The interviews were an even greater spectacle of poor taste. The stylists, for reasons unknown, had decided to dress them as scarecrows. The straw hats, as it turned out, were unbearably itchy, causing the tributes to scratch incessantly during the interview. Removing the hats only provided temporary relief. Given that previous years had seen them dressed as cowboys and cowgirls, Sugawara couldn't fathom where the scarecrow concept had originated.

Sugawara shivered at the thought, dreading the prospect.

Sensing Sugawara’s apprehension, Takeda offered reassurance. "Don't worry," he said. "I won’t dress you in anything overly dramatic."

Thank god, Sugawara thought, relieved.

"The way some stylists dress the tributes is consistently overdone," he continued. "The coal mining outfits for Twelve, the scales and fishy odor for Four—it's the same predictable routine every year. How could anyone possibly remember the tributes dressed like that?"

Sugawara nodded in agreement. It was true. He couldn't recall a single instance where District Twelve's tributes wore anything other than coal mining jumpsuits. They were invariably clad in a mining hat with a headlight, and their suits were always coated in layers of coal dust. Sugawara wouldn't be surprised if this year's tributes from District Twelve were once again decked out in coal mining attire. And god, Sugawara couldn’t even begin to fathom the nauseating stench of rotting fish that permeated the air whenever he walked past the District Four tributes.

Takeda reached out, his hand gliding through Sugawara’s light hair. It was soft, recently washed by his prep team, leaving a delicate fragrance of coconut and vanilla from the shampoo and conditioner.

Takeda smiled softly. “I want them to remember you," he said, his voice gentle. "Not for a silly outfit, but as someone truly special,” he paused, his gaze intent. “Someone important.”

Finally, he released Sugawara’s hair, adjusting his glasses as he crossed his arms over his chest. He paused, taking in Sugawara’s appearance once again before a grin spread across his face.

“So, ready to get started?”

Sugawara nodded, his trust firmly placed in Takeda’s hands. As long as he didn’t end up looking worse than the tributes from District Twelve, he had no room to argue.

…

The opening ceremony unfolded in a way that was nothing like what Tobio had envisioned.

Of course, he'd seen the opening ceremony countless times, broadcast live into his living room. He knew the sequence by heart. The grand chariot procession, the meticulously groomed horses prancing in formation, the thunderous applause of the audience, the ridiculous opening music that seemed to burrow into your brain, and Tendou—always Tendou—roaring with excitement, hamming it up for the cameras, fully embracing his role as the games' flamboyant host. It always played out the way on screen.

Yet, standing here now, within the Capitol, inside the Remake Centre, experiencing it all firsthand, the atmosphere was entirely different—almost unbearably nerve-wracking.

Barely an hour ago, Tobio had been trapped in a room with his eccentric prep team, enduring the agonising pluck of stray hairs and the abrasive cleansing that seemed to strip away layers of his very skin. Tobio hated every second of it, forced to lie still as three overly enthusiastic Capitol residents fussed over him, determined to transform the sixteen-year-old into something presentable. He despised the entire process. But, in truth, he knew he should be grateful. He looked and smelled infinitely better than he had before, a clear signal that potential sponsors would likely take notice.

Immediately after, he was ushered to his stylist, who presented him with his costume—thankfully, not a coal mining outfit. To his surprise, he looked amazing. The stylist was new this year, which might have accounted for the unexpected improvement.

He was clothed in a long-sleeved turtleneck top of the deepest black, which hugged his form before flowing seamlessly into matching dark denim pants, tailored to perfection. Over this, he wore a baggy, yet impeccably structured, green jacket—a reimagining of the classic aviator jacket, but infused with a distinctly Capitol look. The jacket featured elaborate stitching, asymmetrical pockets, and a high, sculpted collar that framed his neck. On his feet were dark leather boots, polished to a gleam and rising to mid-calf, and around his waist, a brown leather belt cinched with subtle golden accessories that caught the light with every movement. Lastly, the makeup artists had applied dark, smudged eyeliner along his waterlines. Splatters of black were artistically applied across his face, mimicking the look of falling coal dust.

Tobio remembers a moment of hesitation when his stylist produced the familiar fake coal dust, typically reserved for the tributes' attire each year. His apprehension, however, quickly dissolved as he watched the stylist artfully apply the product to his face instead. This was an unprecedented use of the material—fake coal dust had never been incorporated into makeup before. Surprisingly, Tobio found himself intrigued rather than repulsed. It was unconventional, daring even, and he couldn't help but wonder if the audience would think the same.

Once dressed, Tobio reunited with his sister, Miwa, and was struck by their coordinated appearance. Their stylists, having collaborated closely, had outfitted them in nearly identical ensembles. The idea of presenting them as mirror-image siblings clearly appealed to the stylists.

Miwa mirrored her brother's striking appearance, donning the same black turtleneck and trousers, aviator-style jacket, leather boots, and belt. The same splatters of coal dust adorned her face, and her eye makeup was equally bold, a striking black that accentuated her eyes, lending her a fierce and courageous air. Her short hair was intricately styled, with two delicate braids framing her face before being tied together at the back, creating a half-up, half-down style. Tobio wouldn't have been surprised if she'd styled it herself; she'd always possessed a knack for hairstyling, both for herself and others, and genuinely enjoyed the process.

It was difficult to hold a conversation with Miwa amidst the excited chatter of their prep team, who were squealing and giggling in their posh accents as they admired their handiwork. Despite the noise, Tobio managed to give his sister a look that conveyed his concern.

'Are you okay?' his expression telegraphed.

Her calm eyes met his, offering reassurance. 'I'm okay. What about you?'

'I'm okay. Just not looking forward to whatever our stylists have planned.'

'If you're talking about the chariot ride, I say we cause a scene and make a run for it.'

'Sounds like a plan.'

A smile flickered across their faces as they exchanged a secretive fist bump.

Finally, they were led to the Remake Centre's bottom level, where the sheer volume of the spectacle awaiting them beyond the massive doors was almost overwhelming. They were surrounded by the other tribute pairs, all dressed in equally extravagant attire as they prepared to board their chariots, each drawn by two horses. District One, naturally, had chosen pristine white horses, while District Nine opted for caramel brown, and District Twelve, coal black.

Tobio and Miwa were barely registering the moment. The opening song had already begun, and the enormous doors were sliding open to reveal a wide path reserved for the tributes and their chariots. Large, screaming crowds lined both sides, eagerly awaiting the appearance of their favorite district. There had to be hundreds of them, if not thousands, all vying for a glimpse of the tributes.

As tradition dictated, the tributes from District One were the first to ride out in their chariot. Their stunning, snow-white horses pulled them along with grace, and the two tributes were already eliciting enthusiastic shouts from the audience.

Was it because District One was the Capitol's favourite, or was it simply because the pair was exceptionally beautiful?

Probably both.

Oikawa, the male tribute, stood tall and striking, with a refined complexion and flowing chestnut hair. He looked as though he conditioned it with L'Oreal daily, which was fitting, given his origins in the luxury district—the Capitol's favored district. Additionally, rumors suggested he was the Mayor's son. God only knew what advantages that kid had as a District One resident and the Mayor's son of the most well-known district. He was probably a spoiled brat, and that toothy smirk seemed to confirm it.

Oikawa waved at the crowd, his smile widening, and the crowd responded with an even louder roar.

Tobio wanted to kill him.

In contrast to Oikawa, the female tribute, Andrea, appeared sweeter and more gentle. She seemed slightly stiff and a bit awkward as she waved alongside Oikawa. Her skin was a beautiful shade of brown, and her hair was the color of rich chocolate. Her curly hair was styled into a high bun, with curls cascading gracefully around her gorgeous face.

Tobio felt less determined to kill her. She was beautiful.

Following them came the tributes from District Two, each bearing the hardened look of those raised with combat in mind. The male tribute, Kuroo, immediately commanded attention with his intimidating presence. He possessed a tall, imposing physique, honed from years of rigorous training. His sleeveless attire revealed the impressive musculature of his arms, hinting at the strength he possessed. Piercing, cat-like eyes, narrowed and intense, scanned the crowd. A wide, toothless grin stretched across his face—as if he didn’t give a single care in the world about the spectacle or the danger that awaited him. His dark, raven hair was styled in a deliberately casual manner, with the fringe falling long enough to partially obscure the left side of his otherwise handsome face.

He didn’t bother with a wave. Instead, he offered a smile, the corners of his lips curving into a knowing grin that compelled many in the audience to blow kisses, hoping to capture his attention. He remained unfazed, simply gazing in their direction with that same enigmatic smile.

That was precisely what the Capitol adored: confidence.

Atsumu, from District Four, appeared flawlessly composed, almost too perfect to be real. He was a tall, striking blonde with a strong, athletic build. His handsome face showed no trace of hesitation or discomfort as he confidently waved at the audience, occasionally flashing a charming smile and a playful wink. The crowd erupted in screams, chanting his name and tossing red roses in the hopes of receiving some form of recognition.

This was typical when it came to the tributes from the fishing district. They were consistently, frustratingly attractive, boasting sun-kissed skin, finely toned muscles, dazzlingly white smiles, and an air of unwavering confidence that seemed to captivate the Capitol.

Tobio loathed everything about tributes like that—the ones who feigned confidence as if they weren’t about to be thrust into an arena of blood and death, where their lives would be reduced to a spectacle.

District Five, there was Bokuto.

Bokuto was an imposing figure, defined by his well-built muscles and towering height. His light skin contrasted with his spiky, silver hair, the dark roots gradually growing in, adding a touch of edgy style that complemented the electric theme of District Five. Despite facing what could be his death in a matter of days, he exuded a happy-go-lucky personality. His bubbly demeanor seemed to gloss over the grim reality of being sent out to kill or be killed. He flashed a bright, wide smile and waved with the enthusiasm of a newborn puppy wagging its tail. Perhaps this was all part of his strategy—to appear friendly and kind now, only to unleash a ruthless, deadly side in the arena.

District Six, there was Kiyoko.

Kiyoko was breathtakingly gorgeous, almost majestic. She resembled a Greek Goddess, as if sculpted by the hands of an ancient artisan. It was no surprise that Nishinoya, the boy tribute, couldn't take his eyes off her in the chariot—after all, who could blame him? Her skin was flawlessly smooth, and her long raven hair cascaded down her back. She wore small, rectangular spectacles and had a delicate beauty mark just under her lip. Unlike the others, she didn't wave or smile. Instead, she fixed her gaze forward with an impersonal expression, her face appearing dark and enigmatic, accentuated by the navy blue makeup.

Then there was Tsukishima from District Eleven, undoubtedly the tallest male tribute. Towering at approximately 6 feet 2 inches, he was lanky in build. His short, blonde hair and spectacles framed a face that seemed perpetually sour. His lengthy arms remained still at his sides, making no effort to wave. Whenever his image appeared on the screens, he would scoff or twitch his face in annoyance, making no secret of his disdain for the games. Tobio couldn't help but respect him for that. However, despite their shared dislike for the games, there was no doubt that each of them was determined to win.

He wasn’t trusted, Tobio decided.

Suddenly, the black horses began to pull the chariot carrying Tobio and Miwa, slowly dragging them forward. They came to a halt before the imposing doors, poised and ready.

Tobio and Miwa's stylists each presented them with a medium-length staff. Crafted from sturdy wood, it tapered to a thinner point at the bottom and widened towards the top. Tobio noticed something perched atop the thicker end of the staff, but he couldn't quite make out what it was.

The moment Miwa’s stylist revealed a lighter, Tobio understood the purpose of the staffs. He held out the end of his wooden staff to the stylist, who ignited it, setting the top aflame. She then did the same for Miwa. The two tributes carefully studied their now-flaming torches, ensuring they didn't look too closely to avoid any potential burns to their faces.

Suddenly, the horses surged forward, resuming their pull of the chariot. Tobio and Miwa exchanged a reassuring glance. Miwa then raised her flaming torch, prompting Tobio to do the same. Seeking comfort, Tobio took his sister's hand, and together, they lifted their torches high into the air, mirroring each other's resolve.

Miwa nodded, a silent acknowledgment of their shared readiness. Tobio returned the nod, his grip firm on both the torch and his sister's hand.

They were ready.

The siblings were swiftly paraded before the audience, eliciting screams of surprise and amazement. Tobio and Miwa stared around, dazed by the sheer number of spectators. The rows upon rows of faces seemed to stretch on endlessly, an overwhelming sea of eyes fixed upon them.

A wave of cheers and shouts erupted from the audience, a mixture of excitement and awe as they called out the siblings' names. Lost in the spectacle, Tobio and Miwa momentarily forgot their next step. Miwa squeezed Tobio’s hand, a silent reminder, and he returned the gesture. In perfect synchronicity, they both lowered their flaming torches towards the reins connected to the horses.

‘The fire is harmless’, Tobio’s stylist had said. ‘The horses won’t feel a thing.’

Tobio could only hope they were right, because in the next instant, he was setting the reins ablaze.

He tensed as the fire crept dangerously close to the horses' skin, but to his relief, they showed no reaction. They continued trotting, pulling the chariot along as if nothing were amiss, while the audience erupted into an even louder frenzy. The crowd was going wild for the siblings.

Tobio felt a wave of relief wash over him, his heart rate slowing. He managed a faint smile and raised his torch higher. If this display wasn't enough to attract sponsors, Tobio couldn't fathom what would be.

Finally, all twelve chariots came to a halt before the President's mansion. The Capitol's cheers died down, and the music faded into silence. The President began his address, a speech so familiar that Tobio could scarcely pay attention. Instead, he scanned the faces of the other tributes, taking in their appearances and adding names to his mental kill list based solely on his immediate dislike.

Take Hinata, for example. The boy tribute from District Nine bore an uncanny resemblance to Bokuto—far too cheerful and spirited for an event designed to entertain the Capitol. Such enthusiasm was more suited to District One, certainly not District Nine. This event was for the Capitol's amusement, a spectacle where they were not the ones facing death in the arena. It was people like Hinata who were destined to be killed, likely among the first to fall.

Watching the redhead, Tobio grimaced, his lips pursed in distaste. Hinata's smile seemed unwavering. From the moment he rolled out into the crowd on his chariot, he wore that same excited expression—the very expression Tobio looked forward to extinguishing.

Once Tobio was through with him in the arena, Hinata would regret ever seeing this torturous game as anything more than a fun holiday to smile about.

…

Following the President's cheerful ‘Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favour’ speech, Kuroo and Saeko were wheeled back into the building, along with the eleven other chariots. The massive doors then slammed shut behind them, cutting off the audience's cheers.

Kuroo hopped off the chariot with practiced ease, offering to help Saeko down, but she simply sneered and smacked his hand away. Since yesterday, she had been keen on demonstrating her independence and fierce attitude. She was quite threatening, but Kuroo was equally so.

Kuroo merely shrugged it off and watched as his stylist and prep team swarmed him, their excitement almost manic.

"Magnificent! You were absolutely magnificent!" gushed the man with the aqua green afro.

"Stunning, darling! Positively stunning!" corrected the lady with the long, golden lashes, her eyes wide with exaggerated delight. "The word you should be using is stunning!"

"Oh, and let's not forget so strikingly, devastatingly good-looking," added the other girl, dressed head-to-toe in vibrant pink, punctuating her words with a playful wink.

Kuroo smiled, not because of the hollow compliments, but at the sheer absurdity of his prep team. He had to suppress a laugh at their over-the-top enthusiasm, finding their Capitol-bred exuberance absolutely ridiculous.

Eventually, his stylist, Yaku, approached. Unlike the rest of the prep team, he carried himself with a composed, professional air. He made no secret of his satisfaction with his own work, of course, but his demeanor was far more collected than the other, more flamboyant members of the Capitol entourage.

Kuroo actually liked Yaku, likely because he was marginally less insufferable than the others. Yaku simply spoke to Kuroo, efficiently fitted him into his costume, and provided clear instructions. Kuroo appreciated his stylist's straightforward approach and collaborative spirit. Plus, Yaku was honest; he wouldn't hesitate to push Kuroo to improve next time.

Yaku stopped in front of him, meticulously adjusting Kuroo's outfit. "Next time, hold your head higher. Don't be so stiff. Offer the crowd something—a smile, a wink, a wave—they'll eat it up. Other than that, you were perfect, and they loved you."

Yaku adjusted Kuroo's hair before patting his shoulder in a gesture of congratulations. "Yes, sir," Kuroo muttered jokingly, earning him a sharp tug on his raven hair from Yaku.

Kuroo snickered. So temperamental for such a little guy.

"Ah, here we go again," chimed in a new voice. "New year, same arrogant and domineering Yaku."

Yaku pinched the bridge of his nose, cursing under his breath. He didn't even need to turn around to know who it was.

Still, "Good to see you too,” he turned around, his tone laced with ice as he bitterly said, “Lev.”

Of course, there stood Lev, those menacing snake-green eyes fixed on Yaku. Given his enormous height and Yaku's smaller stature, Lev virtually towered over him, smirking down with a mischievous, almost malicious glint. His silver hair was meticulously styled with gel, framing bright green eyes that were impossible to ignore. He wore a vibrant suit in multiple shades of green, perfectly matching his striking eyes.

Kuroo recognised him instantly. Lev was District Three's escort, a role he'd held for the past five years, ever since Kuroo was about thirteen. Having watched the games for years, Kuroo knew all the key players. And Lev—well, Lev already seemed like a pain in the ass. At least, that's what Yaku thought, for reasons Kuroo couldn't quite fathom.

Lev propped a hand on his hip, a sly grin spreading across his face. "You've got yourself some good tributes this year." He said, punctuating his words with a low whistle.

"And so do you," Yaku retorted, his gaze shifting from Lev to the two tributes standing beside him. Yoko, the girl, and Kenma, the boy. Yaku studied them carefully before adding, "It's a shame they've ended up with an escort like you, though. They seem like a friendly pair."

"Oh, you wound me," he drawled, feigning hurt with a dramatic hand gesture to his chest. "I didn't realise you cared so much about my tributes' well-being, Yaku. So considerate."

Yaku grumbled, annoyed.

The two tributes didn't strike Kuroo as friendly at all. Yoko, in particular, seemed quietly intimidating. At twelve years old, she was the youngest tribute this year, her skin as white as snow, her hair a striking platinum blonde, and her eyes a surreal, almost menacing violet purple. Despite her youth, her gaze held a fierce intensity that belied any notion of friendliness.

Not friendly in the slightest.

Kenma, the boy, was equally reserved. Short and slender, he had straight, long hair that just grazed his shoulders. His bleached locks revealed the gradual return of his natural brown roots. His stylist had arranged his hair in a half-up, half-down style, showcasing a meticulously clean undercut. Whether he'd shaved it himself back in District Three or had it freshly done by his prep team, the look had clearly resonated with the audience, eliciting enthusiastic screams throughout the opening ceremony.

He was undeniably attractive, a fact that definitely seemed lost on Kenma. Kuroo recalled that during the ceremony, Kenma barely acknowledged the audience, yet they adored him simply for his beauty. His expression was almost indifferent, his face devoid of emotion. And the Capitol reveled in it. They were completely captivated by him.

Startled out of his daze, Kuroo finally registered that Kenma was looking at him. He had been so deeply immersed in his own contemplation that he hadn't realised he was staring directly at Kenma, who had quickly caught him in the act.

Kenma's expression remained unchanged, his cat-like eyes fixed on Kuroo in a silent stare. His eyelids were adorned with dark, smoky makeup, accented with a blend of red and gold eyeliner. He wore the makeup effortlessly, enhancing his already striking features and adding an intriguing allure to his appearance.

Kuroo knew he should have felt intimidated, perhaps even threatened, but he didn't.

Kenma was just so beautiful.

Kuroo simply returned Kenma's gaze while Lev and Yaku's argument faded into background noise. All Kuroo could manage was to focus his entire concentration on the boy tribute from District Three, the rest of the world falling away around them.

A sudden sense of intrigue washed over Kuroo. He knew Kenma had to be skilled, even though they hadn't yet been assigned to the gymnasium. That intense expression spoke volumes. Alliances were critical in the games, significantly increasing one's odds of survival. Kuroo had been watching the Games for years, and each year, at least one group formed an alliance, making them the dominant force. These alliances typically lasted until the members inevitably turned on each other, with a member of the original alliance often emerging victorious.

A subtle grin played on Kuroo's lips, a gesture that Kenma met with an unchanging, expressionless face. Kuroo resolved to keep a close watch on Kenma throughout their training, willing to give this intriguing tribute a chance.

Yaku began steering Kuroo and Saeko away from Lev, his frustration evident. "Alright, Lev, we're done here," he stated, his tone sharp. "I sincerely hope we never cross paths again."

"Oh, we both know you don't mean that," Lev grinned, unfazed. "You'll miss me."

Yaku's only response was to glance back, offer a silent middle finger, and then continue leading his group towards the elevator, leaving Lev and his companions behind.

Kuroo glanced at Yaku, noting his obvious irritation and anger for Lev. A smirk played on Kuroo's lips. "So," he began with a whistle. “What’s the history between you two?"

"It's a long story.” Yaku muttered, clearly unwilling to delve into the details.

Kuroo chuckled, then turned back to observe Lev and his group already heading in the opposite direction, Kenma among them. Kuroo watched the boy for a moment longer before diverting his attention, a secret smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Kenma turned his gaze towards Kuroo, watching his retreating back. A subtle narrowing of his eyes betrayed a hint of suspicion. Kuroo was proving to be difficult to decipher, a stark contrast to the more transparent tributes Kenma had already encountered.

A sense of intimidation stirred within Kenma, though he masked it well, revealing no outward signs of feeling threatened. Despite his current reservations, Kenma couldn't shake the feeling that his path and the boy from District Two were destined to intertwine in ways he couldn't yet foresee.

Chapter Text

As the tributes filed into the training room, the head trainer wasted no time, launching into a brisk explanation of the gruelling schedule and the skills they'd be forced to master.

The tributes stood in a circle around the head trainer, a sea of identical red, black, and white training uniforms. The only break in the monotony was the numbers emblazoned on their chests and backs. Akaashi stood out subtly, bearing the number eight—a nod to his district, while the rest wore their own district number.

With the basic regulations out of the way, the tributes scattered to begin their training. Predictably, most gravitated towards the knives, swords, and anything sharp attached to metal—the obvious choices. Akaashi, however, had other plans.

Most of the tributes scanned the training room, their eyes glossing over everything beyond the immediate gleam of weaponry. Knives, spears, bows—the room had it all. Tucked away, however, were the less glamorous but potentially life-saving stations: knot tying, fire starting, hunting. Skills most figured they could learn later, if at all.

Akaashi gravitated towards the plant identification station, where a middle-aged woman greeted him with a smile that suggested he was her first student of the day. He returned her warmth with polite nods, a reflex honed over years of being a quiet, respectful boy. But ever since arriving in the Capitol, that easy charm felt strained. The Capitol's inhabitants, with their casual cruelty and indifference to the fate of the tributes, made being nice feel impossible. As a result, his escort, prep team, and stylist now saw him as simply quiet and distant.

Back in District Eight, Akaashi had already earned a reputation for being quiet and unsociable. It was a consensus shared among the children his age, his teachers, and especially the women who ran the orphanage where he lived. Life in District Eight hadn't been kind to Akaashi. He had spent his entire life without parents, living in a dusty, dilapidated building alongside other children who seemed just as isolated as he was. Without friends or a real family to speak of, Akaashi's early years were marked by hardship and loneliness.

To say Akaashi had an easy childhood would be an understatement.

Of course, Akaashi and the other children were provided with the essentials for survival. Food, including luxuries like bread and meat, which were formerly uncommon with meals. They had access to drinkable water, beds, and bathrooms equipped with showers and bathtubs. While Akaashi sometimes had to endure the shock of washing in cold water, he knew that having any water at all was a blessing in itself.

Though Akaashi was grateful for the provisions he received, he often found himself sneaking out, especially after school, and heading straight for the woods. There, he would hunt animals, cooking his catch over an open fire. He was usually successful in bagging squirrels and rabbits, but on luckier days, he managed to catch larger game, like deer.

Returning to the orphanage late was the norm for him, usually meaning he missed dinner and went straight to bed like the others. Some nights, Akaashi came back empty-handed from his ventures in the woods, forced to face the discomfort of an empty stomach as he tried to sleep. Those nights were always particularly brutal, his hunger gnawing at him.

Sometimes, when he’d try to go to sleep, a familiar sting would prick at his eyes, tears threatening to break free. But Akaashi stubbornly held them back. He remembered a time when he was younger, when he'd sob himself to sleep, consumed by a deep-seated loathing for this place. He resented what happened that left him without a family to return to, forcing him to live among strangers who barely acknowledged him.

Over time, Akaashi grew accustomed to the orphanage; he had no other choice. He no longer cried like the little boy he once was. He no longer cried himself to sleep, nor did he shed a tear when his name was called during the reaping. Fear, of course, gnawed at him, but he masked it well. He had become adept at projecting an image of courage, a facade that served as a subtle, yet effective, form of intimidation. It was an advantage he couldn't afford to relinquish.

Besides, what purpose would tears serve when there was no one to mourn him? He had no parents, no friends, no family to grieve his potential fate. If anything, Akaashi reasoned, he should be grateful that someone with a loving family hadn't been chosen for this year's Hunger Games. He could only imagine the anguish that would grip their home that night, the sleeplessness born of knowing their child was being sent to fight to the death. No such sorrow awaited Akaashi; no one would be shedding tears on his behalf.

The middle-aged woman, with her vast knowledge of botany, had proven an invaluable resource for Akaashi. Being from the textile district, he was already familiar with plants like cotton, linen, and bamboo, all essential to the production of clothing and fabrics. These plants were harmless, of course, and he knew he wouldn't find them in the arena. So, his prior knowledge was essentially useless. The information he was now acquiring, however, promised to be far more beneficial.

He was already well-acquainted with the dangers of poison ivy; the woods of District Eight were full of it. Akaashi knew this firsthand, having once fallen into a patch, resulting in two weeks of agonising swelling and itching all over his body.

If the arena turned out to be a simple forest, Akaashi was certain he would encounter poison ivy and other dangerous flora. Some tributes had met their end by unknowingly consuming or touching toxic plants. Now, having learned about these potential dangers, Akaashi knew better than to touch anything without careful consideration.

Each year, the arenas were different. For all Akaashi knew, his newfound knowledge of white snakeroot and water hemlock could be rendered useless if he ended up in a landscape of snow and ice, where most tributes would simply freeze to death. But the arenas were chosen at random, and Akaashi wouldn't know what awaited him until he was actually inside.

Akaashi headed towards the weapons next. The plant identification lesson had consumed more time than he'd anticipated, and the majority of the tributes had already dispersed to other stations. While some were still occupied with throwing knives at dartboards and hacking limbs off plastic dummies, a few tributes had begun to familiarise themselves with the obstacles.

Akaashi meticulously examined each weapon, carefully considering his options. He found himself drawn to the bows and arrows, but his mentor's words echoed in his mind, giving him pause.

‘Don't reveal your strengths during training. Save that for your private session with the Game Makers. The goal is to impress Sakusa.’

Akaashi bypassed the bows and arrows and reached for a spear. He was intelligent enough to heed his mentor's advice; after all, gaining insight from a games victor was the wisest decision anyone could make. Besides, there would be plenty of time to showcase his skills once he was inside the arena.

Akaashi practiced throwing spears at the dartboard for a while. He quickly got the hang of it, consistently hitting the red center. It felt similar to using a bow and arrow, except with a larger projectile and no bow required.

Akaashi threw again and again, each spear hitting its mark. The boy from District Five watched him. Akaashi didn’t notice at first, too occupied to see Bokuto, but soon felt his eyes on him. Still, Akaashi didn't turn to look.

With his arms crossed firmly over his broad chest and his body leaning casually against the nearest wall, Bokuto watched the boy from District Eight, a grin slowly spreading across his face. Akaashi possessed a remarkably precise aim, maintained an excellent posture that spoke of discipline, and displayed a patience that seemed almost unnatural for someone like him. He was quiet, almost reserved, but his skill with the spears was undeniable.

Bokuto found himself wondering what kind of strategy Akaashi had up his sleeve to capture the notoriously difficult-to-impress Game Makers' attention.

"Not bad with those swords," a new voice drawled from behind Bokuto.

Bokuto turned to see Kuroo, the boy from District Two. The raven-haired dude was mirroring Bokuto’s stance, arms crossed, head tilted, those cat-like eyes of his smirking right at him. Bokuto puffed out his chest a little more at that, trying to look bigger. It was an instinctive reaction, an attempt to mask the slight intimidation he felt under Kuroo's intense gaze with a show of dominance. He knew it was transparent, like trying to hide behind a thin curtain, but he couldn't help the reflexive need to assert himself, to project an image of confidence even when he felt a flicker of unease.

Kuroo noticed it, of course. A sly snicker escaped him, a sound that was both amused and knowing. "I'm impressed," he said, all casual. "Don't puff up too much, you might run out of air, tough guy."

Bokuto's cheeks flushed a light pink, a blush he quickly batted away with a grin. His hands landed on his hips after he placed his sword down. "Well, ten other tributes were swingin' swords,” he said. “and they were all probably ten times better at it."

Kuroo drawled, "True, true," with a lazy smirk. "But out of those ten.. I noticed you, didn't I?"

Bokuto's eyes narrowed. "Or did you just pick the first tribute your eyes landed on so you could, what? Make small talk?"

Clicking his tongue, “Not quite.” he said.

Kuroo took a slow step closer, and Bokuto watched him, a flicker of caution in his golden eyes. Physical violence was a big no-no during training, so Bokuto wasn't exactly worried. If Kuroo tried anything, Bokuto was like, ninety percent sure they'd just vaporize him and drag in some fresh-faced newbie from District Two.

Bokuto, never one for patience, crossed his arms. "Cut to the chase, dude,” he urged. “We got, like, three days to practice, and chitchatting with you might be a total waste of my time. I don't have all day."

"Straightforward and strong, huh? A guy like you..” Kuroo took a step closer, examining Bokuto carefully. “..I could definitely use on my side."

Bokuto squinted. "You’re suggesting an alliance?"

"An alliance, a team, a partnership—whatever you wanna call it."

Bokuto paused, considering. He always knew he wouldn't be working alone in the Games. His primary objective was to form an alliance—if not a team of reliable tributes, then at least one individual he could trust to collaborate with until only a handful remained.

Now that Kuroo had suggested a partnership, he was an open possibility. More than that, he was a good choice for an ally. Kuroo hailed from District Two, one of the three Career districts known for their strength in conflict, thanks to wealth and training similar to Districts One and Four. With a high number of victors, they were a popular district. Plus, the Capitol's Peacekeepers trained in Two, giving them a distinct advantage for years.

Kuroo definitely looked the part. He towered over Bokuto by a few inches—though who knew if that was just the hair? Muscular arms crossed his broad chest, the training suit practically painted on, highlighting a physique that screamed 'fit.' Those suits were uncomfortable for pretty much everyone, and the sweat definitely didn't help with the weird material.

Bokuto hummed, loud enough to snag Kuroo's attention. "So, am I the first one you're hitting up for an alliance?" he asked.

"Yep," Kuroo admitted. "But I'm planning on roping in a few others too. That is, if you're even interested?"

Bokuto hummed again, eyes darting everywhere but Kuroo's. He could practically feel those cat-like eyes boring into him, that intense stare making him a little antsy.

He'd definitely mulled over the upside of forming an alliance, but had he really dug into the potential downsides? Alliances, more often than not, have a nasty habit of falling apart when the player count gets low, which, let's be real, is always towards the tail end of the games. Usually, what happens is a bunch of alliance members get picked off one by one, leaving some sneaky so-and-so from the inside to snatch the victory.

But, sometimes alliances are just a recipe for a toxic disaster, a breeding ground for mistrust and backstabbing. There's always that one person who can't resist the urge to turn on their teammates, waiting for the perfect moment to strike—usually when they're catching some Z's. Bokuto always thought that was a dirty move, plain and simple. Where was the honour in that kind of gameplay?

Bokuto hadn't known Kuroo for long, but he was curious to learn more. Could he be trusted? Bokuto would find out. Was he toxic and unfair, like so many others? He sure hoped not.

Kuroo fixed Bokuto with a stare, holding it for a beat before speaking up again. "Alright, I'll let you chew on it for a bit," he said, catching Bokuto's obvious hesitation. "If you figure things out, come find me."

Bokuto didn't respond, his expression still clouded with thought as he looked back at Kuroo. He began to slowly walk off, but before he could get far, Kuroo's voice rang out again.

"In the meantime I'll be keeping my peepers peeled for any other tributes who look like they've got the right stuff for a team. If you're serious about this, I'd suggest you do the same. Unless you've already got someone in mind, that is?"

The moment he finished speaking, the distinct sound of a weapon striking a dartboard reverberated through the training room. Bokuto turned around to see Akaashi, still in the same spot, launching spears at the target. The latest one buried itself dead center, but Akaashi's face remained an unreadable stone.

He stood there, lost in thought for a beat too long, before snapping back to reality and remembering Kuroo was still watching him. Turning back around, he met Kuroo's knowing grin. "See ya around, Bokuto." Kuroo said, before turning on his heel and walking away, leaving Bokuto alone with his thoughts.

The sight of the District Two boy tribute walking away nearly solidified Bokuto's decision. He pictured himself forging an alliance with Kuroo, but a nagging doubt remained: could he truly trust him? Yet, even as he considered this alliance, he knew in his heart that if he were to commit, the boy tribute from District Eight had to be a part of it too.

…

Atsumu threw his first knife. It landed dead center in the dummy's red circle. He tossed another, burying it straight in the dummy's chest. His final knife flew, striking the dummy squarely in the head.

Atsumu smirked, and the boy beside him gasped.

"Wow," Hinata breathed, his voice full of amazement. "You're really good!"

The boy from District Four smiled, a hint of pride in his eyes. "Thanks," he said, heading over to the dummy to retrieve his knives. Returning to Hinata, he added with a playful nudge, "Y'know, yer not too bad yourself."

"That's saying something, coming from a tribute from District Four," Hinata replied, impressed. "I doubt I'll ever master it as well as you have."

Atsumu shrugged, a glint in his eyes. "Growin' up in the fishin' district gives ya a shit ton of experience," he explained, casually twirling one of the knives between his fingers. “Yer learn a lotta aim an’ concentration. I suppose that ain’t somethin’ ya learn in Nine?”

Hinata's face was an open book, answering Atsumu's question with a clear no. There wasn't much opportunity for learning back in District Nine. Hinata had grown up on a small property with his mother and sister, cultivating crops like corn and wheat, learning to help and provide for his small family. His days were filled with chores, a constant struggle for survival like everyone else in his district. He couldn't help but wonder what his mom and sister were doing at this moment. Probably sorting and packaging grains, carefully labelling each with their brand name.

In his rare moments of free time, Hinata would venture into the woods to hunt. Driven by fierce independence, his sole intention was to provide for his family, even if it meant taking the lives of the forest's inhabitants. Each kill, whether a rabbit or a squirrel, weighed heavily on Hinata's heart. He'd often close his eyes as he ended their lives with his knife, sometimes unable to even look at his prey on the walk back home, consumed by guilt. It forced him to wonder how he was going to kill anyone in the arena without feeling guilty for it.

If the death of a singular rabbit brought him to tears, how could he ever survive taking a humans life?

Atsumu hummed, his lips curving into a smile. "Y'know," he murmured, twirling the knife between his fingers before extending it towards the small redhead. "I've gotta few tricks up my sleeve I'd be willin' ta share. Happy ta teach ya, if you're interested?"

Hinata's gaze flickered from Atsumu to the offered knife. A smile brightened his face as he accepted the weapon without hesitation. Atsumu gestured for Hinata to try, and he eagerly stepped into Atsumu's place, assuming the stance. He raises the knife, squints, aims, and then,

"Ah, man." Hinata's brow furrowed as the knife misses the dummy's center.

"Yer not gonna nail it on the first try," Atsumu chuckled, giving Hinata's shoulder a reassuring pat. "But by the end of today, I'm sure you'll be nearly as good as me!"

"Really?"

Atsumu clicked his tongue thoughtfully. "Okay, maybe not quite as good as me, but ya get the idea."

Hinata's face splits into a wide smile, and he laughs. Over the next few hours, Atsumu patiently teaches Hinata the proper techniques for knife throwing. He provides numerous demonstrations, each throw hitting the mark, earning an amazed ‘wow’ from Hinata. After each demonstration, Hinata eagerly tries, failing several times. Atsumu offers gentle guidance, pointing out areas for improvement. With Atsumu's mentoring, Hinata quickly learns to focus and aim. When he finally hits the center, Hinata jumps up and down in victory, and Atsumu celebrates with a series of enthusiastic high-fives.

After that, Hinata was practically a natural. Each knife he threw found its mark. He released his last knife, and it struck the dummy squarely in the head.

Atsumu grinned. "A natural now, huh?" He said, nudging Hinata's shoulder.

"Still not as good as you?" Hinata nudged him back playfully.

"Ah, that'll take a lot more practice, kid."

Once they were done, the two carefully returned the knives to their place among the other weapons and considered their options. They proceeded to the knot-tying station, spotting that the previous tribute had just finished up and moved on to something else. For Atsumu, tying knots was second nature. Growing up in District Four, where he spent his days making nets and securing ropes for fishing, he had been tying knots practically every day of his life.

The two settled in at the station, working on the same length of rope, each tying one end while offering tips and suggestions. Eventually, their conversation took a different turn. Atsumu's fingers, like Hinata's, moved steadily with the material. While he was slower, it was simply because he wasn't as skilled at knot tying. Plus, he found it hard to focus on both the knots and the conversation at the same time.

"You know," Hinata started to say. "what you did back there at the reaping... that was incredible."

Atsumu's expression shifted instantly, a shadow of sadness crossing his face, which Hinata immediately noticed. He frowned, instantly regretting bringing it up.

"Sorry," he quickly apologised. "I'm sorry—I shouldn't have said anything—"

"No, it's okay," Atsumu responded with a weak smile. The forced smile only deepened Hinata's own frown. "Thanks, I really do appreciate that. Really."

Atsumu's mind raced back to the reaping, a mere two days ago. The memory washed over him, every detail surfacing painfully. He recalled the oppressive heat, the nervous sweat slicking his palms as he stood squished between boys his age—a position he'd been relegated to for the past five years, each year dreading this moment more than the last. He remembered the Capitol escort, her garish makeup and absurdly elaborate hairstyle featuring what looked like a bejeweled fish, as she theatrically plucked a slip of paper from the glass bowl. The name she read wasn't his, not initially. Someone else was meant to be the male tribute from District Four in the 69th Hunger Games, but in a split-second decision that defied reason, Atsumu found himself pushing through the crowd, his heart pounding against his ribs, and walking onto that fateful stage.

He then recalled the pleading screams and sobs of someone behind him, dragged away by Peacekeepers who clearly disapproved of Atsumu's impulsive act of volunteering. The memory became unbearable, and Atsumu abruptly shut it down. His face tightened, and he inhaled sharply, forcibly shoving the haunting images back into the recesses of his mind.

For the entirety of today's training, Atsumu fiercely suppressed the memories of the reaping and the bleak days that preceded it. Instead, he laser-focused on the present, on what truly mattered in that moment. He couldn't afford to let those thoughts consume him, to jeopardise his chances of survival. He knew that wasn't what he would want for Atsumu. Winning was his singular, desperate plea, the one thing he had begged him to do.

‘Win,’ he had said. ‘Win and come back home, or I’m kickin’ yer ass.’

Atsumu had no desire to face that particular consequence, so winning was no longer just an option—it was a necessity.

He would ensure it.

Chapter Text

That night, after their first training session, Kuroo, like everyone else, returned to their assigned level in the training centre. Saeko, though, retreated directly to her room. She needed to carve out some solitude before supper, knowing she'd have to endure the company of Kuroo and those Capitol sycophants—a prospect she found far from comforting.

Kuroo took a quick shower to wash off the training grime, then threw on the clothes and nightgown Yaku had thoughtfully laid out on his bed. He headed to the dining room, where most of the others were already seated, piling their plates high with food. Kuroo was relieved to see Yaku, his stylist, was there too. Yaku was probably the only sane person in the whole Capitol, which made him good company in Kuroo's book.

Kuroo slid into the seat next to Saeko, who barely even registered his presence. The only acknowledgment he got was a brief, icy glare that seemed to promise his days were numbered. Saeko clearly wasn't a fan of Kuroo—or, really, anyone, it seemed. Sure, back in District Two he'd notice her around with a few friends who were nearly as intimidating as she was. Mostly, though, she stuck close to her younger brother, who was pretty intimidating in his own right.

Kuroo's dinner was a hearty spread: roast beef swimming in gravy, a generous pile of mashed potatoes, and a few token carrot and celery sticks. He also grabbed a bowl of steaming chicken noodle soup and a couple of freshly baked meat buns. Impatient, Kuroo bit into one of the buns and immediately scorched his tongue, so he chugged a huge glass of flavored ice water, which only succeeded in giving him brain freeze. Champagne and red wine were on offer, but after the day's training, he couldn't imagine drinking any. As soon as he finished eating, his head was going straight for the pillow.

For dessert, there was chocolate cake—a slice so huge and rich that Kuroo couldn't even make it halfway through. Another bite, and he was pretty sure he'd explode, which definitely wasn't how he wanted to go out before the games even started.

With a long exhale, Kuroo pushed back his chair. "Alright, I'm done," he announced, setting down his utensils and dabbing his mouth with a napkin. "I'm heading to bed."

But as Kuroo stood, his mentor, Nekomata, snapped his fingers. "Not so fast," he said, his voice firm. "Sit back down; we have something to discuss." He snapped again as Saeko started to rise from her seat, earning a grumble of annoyance from her.

Both Kuroo and Saeko reluctantly settled back into their seats, glancing at Nekomata with questioning looks. Saeko, however, made no effort to hide her impatience, her expression silently urging their mentor to get to the point. It was clear she was exhausted and eager to call it a night.

Noticing their looks of perplexity, Nekomata began, slicing a bread roll with his knife as he spoke, "We're reaching the stage where you'll be interacting with the other tributes more frequently. This means you'll be gathering information about them—about the people you'll be competing against.”

Kuroo and Saeko remained silent, listening intently. Nekomata continued, knowing he had their full attention.

"You got a good memory?"

"I think so," Kuroo replied.

"District One?"

Though Nekomata hadn’t been specific, Kuroo immediately understood. "Oikawa and Andrea,” he answered. “Careers, just like us."

"Good," Nekomata nodded. "Know much about 'em yet?"

"I know Oikawa's the Mayor's son.”

"And he's treated like a king, unlike the rest of us.” Saeko added bitterly.

"And he’s a snotty bitch.” Mumbled Kuroo.

“He may be the Mayor's son, but I can assure you he doesn't receive any special treatment," Yaku interjected from beside Nekomata. "He still worked hard and volunteered, just like you two. Sure, he had a slightly smaller chance of actually being chosen, but he was still required to do exactly what everyone else did."

Saeko scoffed, a hint of mockery in her tone. If she weren’t so exhausted, she'd have retorted with a sarcastic, 'Doesn't receive any special treatment, my ass.'

"Alright, let's skip to District Three." Nekomata said, pausing mid-bite of his bread roll.

“Ah,” Kuroo smirked. "Yaku's favourite district."

Yaku glared at Kuroo from across the table, raising the remains of his chocolate cake in a threatening gesture. Kuroo knew the mere mention of District Three was enough to provoke him.

Nekomata exhaled, a loud sound of disappointment. "Don't tell me," he sighed, "You're still holding that grudge against Lev?"

Yaku didn't answer, his fingers drumming a restless rhythm against the table, a look of mild displeasure etched on his face.

Nekomata rolled his eyes. "It's been two years, Yaku," he said. "Two years you've been nursing this thing!"

"Huh, guess I'm consistent, if nothing else."

"Seriously, you didn't even try to patch things up. You used to be so happy and—"

"Kuroo. District Three. Go." Yaku interrupted, deliberately steering the conversation away.

Nekomata shook his head, deciding to ignore Yaku's silence on the matter. Clearly, there was some history between Yaku and Lev; Kuroo knew it, too. But he wasn't about to pry. He'd piece it together eventually.

Answering Yaku's question, Kuroo said, "District Three is Kenma and Yoko."

"Good," Yaku said, pointing to Saeko. "What do you know about Yoko?"

"That she's the youngest tribute for this year's games." Saeko answered with a hint of boredom.

Yaku turned back to Kuroo. "And what about Kenma?"

Not much came to mind right away. Kuroo paused for a moment. He needed to actually think about this. Kenma.. right. Okay, first impression: the dude had that unmistakable bleached blonde hair, long and straight, with that hidden undercut that gave him an edge. Then there was his build—short and slim, almost fragile-looking. And let's not forget that quiet, almost unnerving aura he carried around. But who was Kuroo to judge? He hadn't even exchanged words with the guy yet.

But those eyes. Those were something else. Almost cat-like, intense, and yeah, a little intimidating. But somehow, they also managed to perfectly complement his gentle, almost delicate face. It was a strange combination, and now Kuroo was just rambling to himself about how Kenma was beautiful and completely missing the point of the question.

Focus, Kuroo, focus.

What was the question again?

He couldn't exactly tell Yaku that all he remembered was Kenma's appearance and those little quirks, and definitely couldn't say he was somewhat attracted to the guy. Kuroo wasn't attracted to him. At least, he didn't think he was. Sure, they had that brief moment of... something, without actually exchanging any words, but that was just Kuroo trying to figure out what kind of person Kenma was. He was studying every reaction, trying to get a read on him.

The thing was, Kenma didn't react at all to Kuroo's intense stare. His expression hadn't shifted even a fraction, proving he wasn't intimidated in the slightest. And that, that complete lack of reaction, was exactly what had piqued Kuroo's interest that day.

Finally, a spark ignited in Kuroo's eyes. He had an answer.

After a deliberate pause, he spoke, "I can't say I know a whole lot about him," Kuroo admitted, a grin spreading across his face. "But I do know I want Kenma on my side."

The moment those words left his lips, every eye in the room was fixed on him. Saeko shook her head, her expression screaming, 'Allies? Seriously?' Yaku rubbed his forehead, probably because Kuroo was dead set on picking an ally from District Three. But he didn't have much say in the matter, so he kept his thoughts to himself. Nekomata, on the other hand, seemed rather pleased by the declaration.

"Already strategising about allies, eh?" Nekomata chuckled, a fond look in his eyes. "Perfect, because that leads me right into my next topic." He finished off his bread roll, then clapped his hands together with a resounding smack, exclaiming, "Alliances, everyone!"

Kuroo couldn't help but snicker at his mentor's sudden, almost childlike enthusiasm for the topic. Kuroo wasn't around when Nekomata competed in the Hunger Games, but he was willing to bet his mentor had a few allies during his time. Allies must have been instrumental to his victory, given his candor on the matter. After all, he did win the games.

"Alliances are a game-changer when it comes to the Hunger Games," Nekomata continued, his voice taking on a more serious tone. "Hardly a year goes by without at least one alliance forming. They can be massive, small, or even just a simple duo. Either way, alliances are something the two of you should seriously consider. They could very well be your golden ticket to victory."

With a delicate sip of champagne, Yaku chimed in, his tone laced with annoyed chiding, "Seems Kuroo's already marked that off the 'things to consider' list, hasn't he?"

Yaku's displeasure was palpable, and it was all directed at Kuroo's interest in the boy from District Three. Seriously, what was Yaku's obsession with Lev, anyway? Kuroo needed to figure it out, fast, before Yaku's disapproval manifested in the form of some disastrous outfit choice for the upcoming interview. He couldn't afford to scare off his sponsors.

"Actually," Kuroo interjected, deciding to reveal his strategy. "I've already approached one of the tributes about teaming up. Bokuto, from District Five. He's considering my offer, and I'm positive he'll agree. He was a little prickly at first, sure, but that was just him being cautious—like the rest of us."

Yaku placed his nearly empty glass back on the table. “And if he says no?”

“He won’t.”

Yaku's brow arched at Kuroo's confident declaration. His voice took on an even deeper tone than before, drawing out a pregnant silence that settled over the large dining room. Kuroo wasn't entirely certain that Bokuto would accept his offer, but he desperately wanted to believe the tribute was still actively considering it. Bokuto was one of the first tributes to truly capture Kuroo's attention. He possessed a rare combination of power, speed, and strength. An ally like him would be an incredibly valuable addition to his upcoming alliance, and Kuroo knew he needed him to jump on board.

Yaku's expression remained unchanged, his index finger delicately tracing the rim of his wine glass as his gaze bore into Kuroo. He seemed to be searching for something beneath the confident facade—a hint of doubt, perhaps, or a flicker of worry. Kuroo, however, maintained his own grim composure.

After a moment, Yaku leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. "Alright," he said, a hint of inquiry in his tone. "So, you've got Bokuto from District Five, and you're planning to ask Kenma from District Three. Who's next on your list?"

Kuroo paused, his gaze shifting to Saeko. But before he even could speak,

"No." Saeko snapped.

"Oh, come on," Kuroo scoffed, a hint of playful frustration in his voice. "We could seriously use someone like you on our team. You're strong, aggressive, and terrifyingly intimidating. You'd be a great asset to this alliance."

"Great. Awesome. Thanks for pointing out all the skills I'll be using to survive in that arena on my own." Saeko retorted, her tone laced with sarcasm.

"You're not even going to consider it?" Kuroo pressed.

Saeko's glare intensified. "Why should I when I've already made up my mind?"

Kuroo's face fell slightly, a hint of disappointment flickering across his features, but Saeko's glare remained unwavering, a clear warning in her eyes. She was trying to intimidate him, but he had grown too familiar with her intensity to feel even a flicker of fear.

Nekomata spoke softly, yet his tone was serious. "Saeko, please consider this," he began. "I've been teaching you both together, so you're learning the same skills. Alliances can be incredibly beneficial when it comes to winning. Don't you want to win?"

"I will win," she answered, a touch of defensiveness in her voice. "And I plan on doing it without anyone's help. I'm more than capable of handling myself."

"I don't think you're quite grasping the point here, sweetheart." Yaku interjected.

"No, I don't think you are.” Saeko growled, a warning edge to her tone.

Yaku seemed slightly taken aback by her response. She clearly didn't appreciate the nickname.

Silence hung in the air between them as Saeko continued.

"Alliances are nothing more than a burden, a heavy weight that slows you down in this stupid game. We're all thrown into this arena, expected to fight, to kill, to win. Yet, here you are, overlooking the very purpose of this competition. You think alliances and friendships will better your chances of victory? Why not kill yourself now and spare yourself the agonising death you'll face when your so-called ally inevitably betrays you? This isn't an opportunity to make friends. It's a brutal struggle between ruthless tributes who refuse to yield because they all share the same objective: winning."

A silence fell over the entire table as she spoke. Saeko was not one for emotional displays, nor was she known to make grand pronouncements. Yet, on this day, she broke her mold. She spoke without pause, not a single stutter disrupting her train of thought. It was clear to everyone present that she was completely serious about what she was saying.

She eventually continued, her voice cutting through the silence. “But only one victor remains in the end,” she stated, her gaze unwavering. “Not two, not three—just one. So try and keep that in mind before you go off making friends.”

As she delivered her final words, she cast a pointed glance at Kuroo. Then, without another word, Saeko rose from her seat and headed towards what they assumed was her room, leaving a palpable silence in her wake.

Yaku took a measured sip of his champagne, an action that betrayed his familiarity with 'dramatic' tributes. Nekomata sighed, shaking his head in clear annoyance at Saeko's apparent misunderstanding of the strategic necessity for alliances in the game. Meanwhile, Kuroo remained fixated on his half-eaten chocolate cake, the dessert sitting untouched on his pristine, white plate.

Kuroo couldn't decipher her. From their very first meeting, he had tried to make a favorable impression, yet he consistently fell short. She met his efforts with glares, casual insults, and even outright scolding for his attempts at politeness. Now, as if to underscore their strained dynamic, she had delivered a thinly veiled threat, making no effort to conceal her animosity.

‘You think alliances and friendships will better your chances of victory?’ her words rung in his mind. ‘Why not kill yourself now and spare yourself the agonising death you'll face when your so-called ally inevitably betrays you?’

Kuroo pursed his lips together tightly.

A heavy sigh shattered the silence. "Thanks for the food," Kuroo said, his tone dry and devoid of genuine gratitude. "I'm turning in for the night."

Kuroo pushed himself up from his seat, the legs of his chair scraping softly against the floor as he turned to leave. If Saeko was determined to maintain this hostile attitude, then so be it. He refused to be intimidated or dissuaded by her words; they were, in his estimation, inconsequential. He would prove her wrong, definitively, when they faced each other in the arena. Kuroo had no intention of taking it easy, of holding back in any way. Not now, not after spending his entire life meticulously preparing for this very challenge.

So,

If Saeko was unwilling to be a trusting and collaborative member of his alliance,

then she would become Kuroo's primary target.

Chapter Text

“You took my knife?”

“I didn’t take your knife!”

The sudden sound of raised voices drew the attention of all the training tributes, including the guards, who swiftly moved towards the source of the commotion. Recognising the escalating tension between the girls, they intervened to prevent the situation from devolving into violence during the day's training session.

"I put my knife right here!" Saeko shouted, shoving the girl from District Four. "Right next to you!"

Jessie retaliated with a shove of her own. "Don't touch me."

This only served to further enrage Saeko. She grabbed Jessie by the shirt tightly, unleashing a torrent of angry words as the two male guards struggled to separate them. Saeko proved to be a formidable obstacle, clinging stubbornly to Jessie, but the guards eventually managed to pry her off the other girl.

From the elevated stands encircling the gymnasium, the Gamemakers had been observing the unfolding scene.

Sakusa, the one with an air of unsettling intimidation, had his gaze fixed on the two girls. Leaning back in his plush purple seat, one leg crossed over the other, he held his wine glass with a gloved leather hand. His dark, wavy hair partially obscured his eyes as he tilted his head, watching the situation with a silent, almost clinical fascination. As his hair shifted, the two moles on the right side of his forehead became visible, adding a peculiar, if not entirely unsuited, detail to his face.

After Saeko's barked threat of ‘You're the first one I kill, bitch’, the girls were separated. Even as she walked away, Sakusa continued to observe the District Two tribute, lost in his own thoughts.

"What's on your mind?" one of the Gamemakers beside Sakusa inquired.

Setting his glass aside, Sakusa replied, "That girl,” he didn't break contact with her until she was out of his line of sight. "If I could offer these tributes a piece of advice, I'd tell them to watch out for her."

The man chuckled in agreement. "She's certainly aggressive, isn't she?"

Sakusa's gaze swept across the gymnasium again, idly observing the tributes until his attention was caught by one in particular. His usual impassive expression remained, though a subtle smirk threatened to betray itself—a smirk usually concealed by the face mask he habitually wore. Today, without the mask, he maintained his composure, his eyes unwavering from the quiet tribute.

“She is aggressive, and that aggression makes her a formidable contender," Sakusa remarked in his characteristic dry tone. "Her lack of restraint will instill fear in others. I've observed her strength, and it's undeniable. With such violence and power, she stands a high chance of winning. And I'm not alone in recognising this. Many of the tributes will understand the kind of player she is, forcing them to steer clear of her from now on."

The Gamemaker beside him remained silent, recognising the unspoken 'but' that lingered in Sakusa's assessment. He'd witnessed this pattern before: Sakusa would acknowledge a tribute's strengths, detailing their qualities and positives in that familiar, dry tone, his expression unchanging, only to then introduce the inevitable 'but,' highlighting their disadvantages.

Adjusting his leather gloves, "However,” Sakusa continued. “While she possesses the strength and aggressive nature of a ruthless player—the very qualities that captivate the audience—her strategic thinking is clearly lacking. Her thought process is slow. She attacked that girl simply because she was the nearest to her knife at that moment, leaping to conclusions and blaming her without any evidence."

The man listened intently as Sakusa spoke. While Sakusa's description of her weaknesses was intriguing, he initially failed to grasp its relevance. That is, until he followed Sakusa's gaze, quickly spotting the boy from District Three, Kenma. It was only when he noticed what Kenma was manipulating in his grasp that understanding dawned upon him.

"Her anger and rash accusations will prove detrimental in the arena," Sakusa explained. "Certainly, she'll unleash her frustration and lash out, resulting in kills. However, if she fails to maintain awareness of her surroundings, she'll ultimately become the one who gets herself killed."

Unbeknownst to the others, Kenma was secretly twirling a knife between his fingers—the very same knife Saeko had accused Jessie of stealing. In the brief moment Saeko had turned away, Kenma had swiftly and stealthily taken it. It seemed no one had noticed his actions, except for one person.

Kuroo watched Kenma from afar with a knowing smirk. He couldn't suppress a smile as he observed the entire scene unfold, from Kenma's surreptitious theft of the knife to Saeko's explosive reaction after accusing that innocent girl. Kuroo wasn't sure if he was alone in recognising Kenma's cunning instincts, but regardless, Kenma had successfully gotten away with it.

Kuroo observed as Kenma smoothly slid the knife into his suit pocket, concealing it before casually strolling away with an air of calm. Kuroo's assessment had been spot-on; Kenma was indeed as skilled as he'd anticipated. His quiet nature stemmed from his cleverness, and his calm, composed demeanor now made perfect sense to Kuroo. Kenma skillfully employed his silent and secretive abilities to deceive and outwit his opponents, all without uttering a single word to anyone.

He was akin to a shadow, a formidable figure who lurked in the darkness, unnoticed by individuals like Saeko. While he may not be able to confront Saeko in direct combat, he maintained a low profile for that very reason. He deliberately avoided drawing attention to himself, as doing so would hinder his ability to showcase his skills and abilities effectively under scrutiny.

Kuroo admired this particular tribute. He appreciated Kenma's quiet demeanor coupled with his remarkable skill. He knew, without a doubt, that he didn't want to be on the receiving end of Kenma's abilities in the arena. He wanted him as an ally, firmly on his team. That much was certain in Kuroo's mind.

Kuroo's gaze had been locked on Kenma for a while, but he swiftly redirected his attention to the tribute across the gymnasium. Just as Kuroo had expected, Bokuto was already looking his way. Upon realising that he had Kuroo's attention, Bokuto subtly nodded and grinned. Kuroo returned the smile, understanding the meaning behind Bokuto's expression.

Bokuto was on the team.

With one tribute accounted for, Kuroo now needed to secure Kenma's allegiance. He was confident that persuading Bokuto would be a straightforward task. Despite Bokuto's sour and indifferent behavior the previous day, Kuroo recognised it as a facade. He had witnessed Bokuto's true nature before: a cheerful and lively tribute, despite being thrust into a deadly game made for killing. Kuroo had even noticed Bokuto's joyous laughter yesterday after successfully hitting a bullseye with a spear. In reality, Bokuto was simply just an overly enthusiastic simpleton.

However, persuading Kenma would be a far greater challenge. Unlike Bokuto's feigned indifference, Kenma's detached and apathetic demeanor appeared genuine. He wasn't putting on an act; it was simply who he was.

Kuroo glanced at Bokuto and nodded in Kenma's direction. Bokuto followed Kuroo's gaze and immediately understood the unspoken words: he was to approach Kenma about forming an alliance. Kuroo's expression conveyed a silent ‘Wish me luck.’ Bokuto responded with a thumbs up. He certainly needed it.

Kenma was making his way to the fire-starting station when he felt an unexpected presence brush past him. "I saw what you pulled back there," a deep voice said, as the figure halted in front of Kenma. "Gotta say, pretty slick."

Suddenly, Kenma found himself face-to-face with Kuroo, the boy tribute from District Two. Kenma was momentarily thrown off by his sudden appearance, though he didn't show it. Of course, his expression was as unreadable as ever. He narrowed his eyes almost imperceptibly, a slight warning, but Kuroo just grinned, unfazed. Kenma should've expected that swagger after their first meeting at the opening ceremony. The guy just oozed confidence.

Kenma hated his type.

Kenma went to walk past Kuroo, muttering a, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” but he was quickly paused in his tracks with Kuroo’s following words.

Spinning an object between his fingers, Kuroo drawled, “You sure?”

The moment Kenma's eyes landed on the knife twirling between Kuroo's fingers, his carefully neutral expression cracked. It was Saeko's knife. His eyes flickered open in a rare display of surprise. How the hell did Kuroo get his hands on that? Kenma had just slipped it into his pocket, even double-checking to make sure it was there. And now, unbelievably, it was gone.

Kuroo had plucked the knife from Kenma's pocket with a skill that bordered on the absurd. Like he was some kind of seasoned pickpocket. As if, though. In the Career districts, where resources flowed freely, stealing was pointless. They already had everything they wanted.

Kuroo smirked, offering Saeko's knife, handle-first, to Kenma. Kenma's face smoothed back into its usual impassivity as he snatched the knife, silently praying Kuroo hadn't caught a glimpse of his earlier surprise.

Slipping the knife back into his pocket, Kenma leveled Kuroo with a stare. "What do you want?" he asked, already knowing Kuroo wasn't here just to taunt him and prove that he was better.

Kuroo stuffed his hands in his pockets, a lazy shrug ruffling his shoulders. "I dunno," he said. "Can't two guys ever just talk anymore?"

"You snuck up on me, stole my knife without me noticing, and now you want to just ‘talk’?"

"Well, technically, it's not your knife."

Kenma's patience was wearing thin, though his voice remained even. "What do you want?" he repeated, a sharper edge to his tone.

The barely perceptible shift in Kenma's tone didn't escape Kuroo's notice, and he found himself quietly amused. Irritating people for his own entertainment was practically a pastime for him. Even back at the academy, he'd been known for his relentless teasing. It was probably the reason he didn't have a girlfriend.

A grin stretched across Kuroo's face. "I want you, Kenma."

Kenma's head snapped up, a surprised "Huh?" escaping his lips.

"I want you," Kuroo repeated, his grin widening. "To consider an alliance."

"An alliance?" Kenma scoffed. "With you?"

"Well, yeah. Who else is gonna ask?"

Kenma's gaze flicked sideways, eyeing something—or more accurately, someone. "District Five kid's been lurking over there,” he said. “Probably wants in."

Kuroo's brow furrowed in confusion before he realised Kenma was subtly nodding towards something behind him—or rather, someone. Turning, Kuroo spotted Bokuto lounging near the fire-starting station a short distance away. The problem? He wasn't actually doing anything. He was just staring intently at Kuroo and Kenma, exactly as Kenma had pointed out.

Caught in the act, Bokuto visibly flinched, snapping his attention back to the fire-starting demonstration. He began rubbing the pieces of wood together with exaggerated enthusiasm, desperately trying to look busy. He even started whistling, as if that would somehow deflect suspicion.

Kuroo rolled his eyes. Subtle. Real subtle, Bokuto.

As Kuroo turned back to Kenma, the shorter boy continued, "I've seen you two in action. I know you're teaming up anyway," he stated flatly. "So if this 'alliance' means babysitting you two idiots, I'm not interested."

Kenma started to walk away, and Kuroo's eyes narrowed. No way was he letting him off the hook that easily.

"Hey, now, wait a sec," Kuroo called out before Kenma could get too far. "A little quick to judge, aren't we? I mean, tell me, do you even have a plan?"

"Survive. kill. Win. The game's pretty self-explanatory.” Kenma replied, not missing a beat.

"And you plan on doing all that solo?" Kuroo countered.

"Just 'cause you swiped my knife without me noticing doesn't mean I can't win this thing.”

"Didn't say that," Kuroo shrugged. "Just think having you on the team would benefit everyone, including you."

Kenma paused, his expression shifting subtly. Kuroo could practically see the gears turning in his head.

Finally, Kenma said, "Elaborate." and Kuroo smirked.

Time to seal the deal.

"Think about it," Kuroo began, leaning in slightly. "You're quiet, you're sneaky. You've clearly got a knack for messing with people's heads. No one sees you coming. And Bokuto?” he whistled. “Bokuto's a powerhouse. He can smash through anyone, no problem. Big guy, experienced fighter—he's a tank. Knowing he's on our side? That's a serious advantage.”

Kuroo folded his arms across his chest, a gesture that seemed almost calculated, Kenma thought. Up close, Kuroo's size was even more imposing. Even from a distance, it was obvious that Kuroo would tower over Kenma's smaller frame, but now? Kenma was able to take in every detail. He started with Kuroo's height, the way it commanded attention, then moved to the way his hair was styled, adding even more perceived height. But it wasn't just his physical presence that Kenma noticed; it was the subtle eagerness in his eyes, a desire to persuade and, perhaps, to please.

And the worst part? Kenma found himself far more interested than he should be.

Kuroo took one last step closer with measured confidence. “And me?” he grinned, a flash of teeth that was both charming and predatory. “I'm quick on my feet and quick with my brain. I've got the speed, the reflexes, and I can pick apart anyone's weaknesses. Back at the academy, I was known for outsmarting everyone. That's where my strength comes from. I'm not just strong because I can fight; I'm strong because I can think,” he paused, tilting his head with a subtle, almost feline grace, as he cooed, “Isn’t that what everyone wants in a team?”

Kenma crossed his arms, his gaze intense as he studied Kuroo. He pursed his lips, lost in silent contemplation. Kuroo fought to suppress the triumphant smile that threatened to break across his face. He sensed that everything was unfolding precisely as he'd envisioned.

Kenma shifted his weight, a subtle sign of his unease. “Why are you telling me all this?” he asked, his tone dry, almost indifferent.

Kuroo met his gaze, a knowing glint in his eyes. “Because I have every confidence that you won’t be turning me down.”

Silence descended yet again. Was Kenma actually weighing the proposition? Regrettably, he was. Prior to this encounter with Kuroo, Kenma hadn't formulated a concrete strategy. His initial concept involved seeking refuge on elevated surfaces, eliminating opponents from a superior vantage point, and engaging in ground combat only when unavoidable. From these higher positions, Kenma intended to leverage his knife-throwing skills and, ideally, a crossbow, rendering himself a more elusive and challenging target.

However, Kuroo's proposition of an alliance now presented an even greater prospect of victory. With Kenma's stealth and deceptive prowess, Bokuto's raw strength, and Kuroo's agility and reflexes, they had the potential to form a formidable team. They could compensate for each other's shortcomings, enhancing their overall capabilities, which was precisely why Kenma was giving the matter serious consideration.

Kenma's lips remained pressed in a thin line, his cat-like eyes locking onto Kuroo's. Arms still crossed, a single index finger tapped rhythmically against his arm as he formulated his response. "You got anyone else in mind?" he finally asked.

Kuroo shrugged, skillfully masking his victorious smirk. “Bokuto’s got his eye on someone,” he replied. “And I might have a certain sneaky strategist in mind who could really round us out.”

Kenma continued to tap his finger, falling silent once more as his gaze darted anywhere but into Kuroo’s eyes. They held a similar feline intensity to his own, yet Kenma found himself growing less intimidated, especially since…

His eyes snapped back to Kuroo's. And then, simply, "I'm in." Kenma agreed to the alliance.

This time, Kuroo didn't bother to conceal his victorious smirk, making no secret of his delight at Kenma's agreement. He had been confident in his ability to sway Kenma, despite the latter's reserved and quiet nature. Kuroo knew he’d be capable to force the quiet boy on his side.

"Awesome!" Kuroo grinned, the intimidating edge vanishing as he casually slung an arm around Kenma's shoulders, as if they were the closest of friends. "Bokuto's gonna be ecstatic!"

Bokuto had already been watching as Kuroo wrapped an arm around Kenma, a bright smile spreading across his face. He leaped up from his seat, already charging towards them. He stood up too quickly and stumbled, but he recovered instantly, continuing his sprint as if nothing had happened.

Kuroo snickered at Bokuto’s clumsiness, while Kenma sighed, a silent 'what have I gotten myself into' escaping his lips.

He knew there was no turning back now.

Chapter Text

As the tributes' training session neared its end, the intensity ratcheted up.

Oikawa shot bows and arrows with a seemingly casual ease, while Kuroo meticulously severed the limbs off of plastic dummies with unfailing accuracy. Atsumu, with unrestrained power, sent spears hurtling through the air at full velocity. Kiyoko, in a display of graceful precision, swung her pair of swords like a seasoned samurai warrior. Meanwhile, Tsukishima, with focused concentration, threw knives that landed unerringly on the dartboard.

Few tributes bothered with the training stations; nearly all were absorbed in a final weapons practice before the games, and the looming private sessions with the Gamemakers. Even the obstacle courses were deserted, save for Yamaguchi, whom Tsukishima observed from a distance, unnoticed.

The boy tribute from District Seven, Tadashi Yamaguchi, was laboring on the monkey bar obstacle. Tsukishima watched from afar as the boy strained with visible effort, reaching for the next bar. His teeth were clenched, beads of sweat trickled down his forehead, and his arms trembled with exertion. It was unclear to Tsukishima whether Yamaguchi's shaking stemmed from an inherent lack of the necessary arm strength to complete the obstacle, or from the paralysing fear of the potentially tremendous fall that awaited him should he fail.

Predictably, Yamaguchi's grip failed him; his hand slipped as he reached for the next bar, sending him plummeting to the floor. He gasped sharply, clutching his left shoulder, clearly injured from the awkward landing. This was far from ideal—sustaining an injury before the games even began. Perhaps the medics would intervene, unless the injury was deemed minor enough to ignore.

Tsukishima observed the groaning boy with his usual disdain. His gaze lingered, almost piercing, as he scoffed softly under his breath. He was weak, he thought dismissively. With that frail physique, he was destined to perish in the initial Cornucopia bloodbath. He was someone Tsukishima would avoid associating with, just like everyone else here.

Tsukishima had no intention of forming an alliance. He was determined to win this entirely on his own merit.

However, that resolve faltered when the boy from District Two approached, a smirk plastered across his face.

…

Akaashi relentlessly pummeled the boxing bag, channeling all his strength into each strike. Though hand-to-hand combat wasn't his forte, he possessed a competent fighting ability, even unarmed. Of course, Akaashi's primary strategy revolved around utilising a bow and arrow to eliminate his opponents. However, he understood the precariousness of relying solely on weaponry. He acknowledged the possibility that he might not even be able to secure a bow or any weapon from the Cornucopia at all.

He had to be prepared for any scenario, even if it meant engaging in combat unarmed.

Akaashi's hands and legs began to ache, but he pressed on relentlessly. He continued to punch the boxing bag until his fists were flushed red. He persisted in kicking until his legs felt like jelly. He was determined to exhaust himself to the point of collapsing into bed that night, completely spent.

Akaashi was already tired, but he disregarded it. Ignoring his body's desperate cries for rest, he persisted in delivering even more forceful blows to the boxing bag. He punched it repeatedly before unleashing a powerful kick, fully anticipating its immediate return swing. However,

"Jesus," someone said, seizing the bag to halt Akaashi's next assault. "Save your strength for the arena, dude. From over here, it kinda looks like you're wasting all your energy on this poor ol' thing."

Akaashi gasped for air, wiping the beads of sweat from his forehead with a swipe of his forearm. He even found himself bending over, hands resting on his knees, face directed towards the floor as he breathed heavily, trying to steady himself enough to respond. It took him a moment, but he finally managed to lift his gaze and focus on the person who had intervened and was now holding the boxing bag steady.

Quickly, he recognised Bokuto, the male tribute from District Five, peering out from behind the boxing bag, a wide smile on his face as he gestured towards the 'poor ol' thing'—the boxing bag.

Akaashi straightened up, his shoulders still rising and falling with each breath as he attempted to regain his composure. This prompted Bokuto to speak again.

"Actually, I totally get why you're going at it with this thing," Bokuto said. "It's super helpful if you're planning on going hand-to-hand in the arena! I had something kinda like this back in District Five. Except, uh, not as fancy. It was just a big ol' bag of flour hanging from a tree. It used to be inside, but one time I accidentally popped it and flour went everywhere! Me and my older sisters had to clean it all up before our parents got home. Total disaster! Now I gotta use it outside so I don't make a mess everywhere."

Akaashi's eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. What was Bokuto even going on about? What made him think Akaashi was interested in some rambling story about a flour-filled bag? Did it not occur to him that they were potential adversaries in the arena? Would he still be so chatty then, with their lives on the line?

Akaashi decided to ignore him, hoping he would take the hint. Eventually, Bokuto released the boxing bag, allowing Akaashi to resume his practice. However, the moment Akaashi threw his first punch, Bokuto decided to join in, hitting the bag as it swung his way, sending it back towards Akaashi in a strange, impromptu game.

Akaashi didn't appreciate Bokuto's sudden and uninvited intrusion into his training, but he chose to remain silent. Bokuto was clearly up to something, a motive Akaashi would undoubtedly uncover in due time.

Akaashi punched the boxing bag, sending it swinging back towards Bokuto. "I spend most of my time training without weapons back at home," Bokuto said, throwing another punch at the bag. "Everyone here seems to rely on weapons, but I think they're totally overrated! Sure, having a weapon increases your chances of survival, but I'd rather rely on what I'm actually good at. My strength!" He paused, then asked, "I'm sure you're good at something too, Akaashi. Tell me, what do you rely on the most?"

Akaashi's expression subtly shifted. He didn't like the way Bokuto had asked that question, the way his name had been spoken. Perhaps it was the way Bokuto's tone had taken on a deeper, almost threatening quality as his name rolled off his tongue so easily, as if trying to unsettle him with a simple question. In any case, Akaashi did find it unsettling.

Akaashi punched the boxing bag again, continuing to ignore Bokuto. Somehow, this only seemed to elicit an even wider grin from Bokuto—if that were even possible.

"You're awfully quiet," Bokuto observed. "You remind me a lot of my sister, actually. She's super quiet and awkward when she's around other people, but when it's just us and my other sister, she's the loudest person I know!"

Speaking for the first time, Akaashi mumbled, "I'm sure she thinks the same about you." He couldn't help but note how loud Bokuto was. Even amidst all the punching and kicking, Bokuto managed to be the loudest person in the entire gymnasium.

"Hm?" Bokuto smiled. "What was that? I couldn't quite hear you."

Akaashi responded by punching and kicking the boxing bag with renewed force.

He'd had enough of this.

With one final, powerful kick, the boxing bag went flying towards Bokuto, who had to quickly catch it to keep it from hitting him. He gripped it tightly, his expression shifting from eagerness to confusion in a heartbeat.

"Harsh." Bokuto frowned.

Akaashi turned to Bokuto, his expression tinged with annoyance. "Alright," he huffed, "I see what's happening here, and I can assure you that the answer you're waiting for isn't going to change. You're about to suggest an alliance, aren't you? Well, to make things easy for you, the answer is no."

Bokuto's face lit up with surprise. "Hey, how did you know I was going to ask you that?" he exclaimed, beaming. "You catch on quick."

"Because that's what people like you do," Akaashi stated flatly. "You start with small talk, which eventually leads to an alliance suggestion. Although, I wouldn't exactly describe your conversation style as small talk. You talk a lot."

"So I've been told." Bokuto winked.

Akaashi rolled his eyes. This guy was unbelievable. It was unbelievable how that smile never faltered on Bokuto's face, and that's precisely what grated on Akaashi the most. Bokuto beamed with an almost sickening joy, acting as if the Capitol was treating him like royalty simply out of kindness. He was clearly overlooking the harsh reality that the Capitol had brought him here to participate in a death arena, just like everyone else. Bokuto had been ripped away from his family—his mother, his father, his two older sisters. Yet, judging by his wide, happy smile, one would think he couldn't care less.

Why did he look so excited? Because he was excited. Akaashi couldn't afford to entangle himself with someone who didn't grasp the gravity of their situation, nor was he going to get involved with anyone, period. Akaashi would navigate these games alone, emerging victorious through his own strength and strategy. He didn’t need anyone. Never did.

Akaashi finally brushed past Bokuto, deciding to walk off and end the conversation. But it was no use, because Bokuto started walking alongside Akaashi.

"So, you thinkin' about my suggestion?" Bokuto asked, his voice still annoyingly cheerful.

"Did you not hear what I just said?” Akaashi scoffed, disbelief lacing his tone. “I told you, the answer is no. Now stop following me."

"I still think you should think about it!" Bokuto insisted. "Just imagine it! The two of us working together, side by side, eliminating those who stand in our way, and winning this thing. Together!"

"I think you're forgetting there's only one winner, Bokuto. There won't be an 'us'. It will be me."

"Ooo, so much confidence!" Bokuto said, grinning widely. "But how can you be so sure? I mean, do you even have a plan?"

"And what makes you think I'd tell you?" Akaashi retorted. "Then you'd know how to stop me from killing you in that arena."

Bokuto stopped dead in his tracks, and Akaashi continued to walk, hoping that Bokuto had finally gotten the message and would leave him alone. Akaashi didn't bother to glance back at Bokuto's expression, but he could already picture the crestfallen look on his face.

He seriously couldn't expect everyone he asked to jump at the chance, could he? Not everyone in this gymnasium is desperate for an alliance when they already have their own winning strategy. Akaashi thinks those who join alliances are fools. They blindly put their trust in strangers, expecting unwavering loyalty. But when the numbers dwindle, they're betrayed as soon as they're no longer useful.

Akaashi couldn't bring himself to do that. He couldn't trust anyone, not when everyone here had the same singular motive...

Winning.

Continuing to walk, Akaashi said, without a backwards glance, "Sorry, Bokuto, but my plan was never to go easy. So you better watch yourself in that arena."

…

Miwa bit down on her lower lip, a deep furrow in her brow as she concentrated. She and Tobio were at the fire-starting station, each focused on their own separate fire. Initially, they hadn't given this station much thought, confident in their fire-starting skills honed back in Twelve, but they decided one final practice before the games was necessary. After all, today marked their final day of training.

Finally, Miwa coaxed her fire to life, a proud smile gracing her lips. Tobio grumbled in an obvious ‘you always beat me’ tone, which only widened Miwa's pleased smile.

Tobio continued his attempts to start the fire, and Miwa observed him intently, asking, "I know we've discussed this before, but what's our plan once we're in that arena?"

"I've told you already," Tobio replied, not looking up from his fire. "Stick together and hide, kill if necessary. Easy."

"No. I mean what's our real plan, Tobio?"

"But that is the real plan." He finally looked at Miwa with a frown, clearly offended.

Miwa worried her cheek, her gaze sweeping thoughtfully across the tributes. Curiosity flickered in her eyes until they snagged on a specific individual.

For days, an idea had been brewing in her mind, but she was unsure how Tobio would react. Her brother had made his feelings about the other tributes abundantly clear. Oikawa was a stupid, bratty pretty boy; Kuroo, a conceited jerk with ridiculous spiky hair. He'd said worse about the others, words better left unspoken.

Tobio didn't like anyone, really. It was no wonder he didn't have any friends back in District Twelve. And Miwa knew that Tobio's aversion to friendship would be a significant disadvantage in the games. That's why they needed to start making smarter decisions now.

Her gaze still fixed on that one tribute, "You know,” Miwa began. “it's our last day of training, and we still haven't made any allies."

Tobio scoffed. "We were never planning on making any allies, Miwa," he said. "We'll be fine."

"I know we'll be fine," she retorted. "But I think our chances of surviving might increase if we at least had one person watching our backs."

"Uh huh. So, you got someone in mind?"

Miwa didn't say anything, instead simply gesturing toward the person she'd been eyeing. Tobio followed her gaze, his eyes darting around until they finally landed on the target. Immediately, he scoffed in disagreement.

"Atsumu?" Tobio laughed, shaking his head. "Absolutely not."

"What? Why not?"

"Why not? Just look at him."

With a roll of her eyes, Miwa did exactly that. From their vantage point near the fire-starting station, she kept her focus trained on Atsumu. He was currently showing off at the spear-throwing station, twirling the massive weapon in his hands with impressive dexterity. He practiced a few quick jabs, testing its weight and balance, before confidently approaching the dartboard. Then, he began throwing the spear, each throw more precise than the last, hitting the center of the target with deadly accuracy.

Miwa turned back to Tobio. "I still don't get your point."

Tobio shook his head, scoffing under his breath.

"He's obviously skilled," Miwa continued. "He's strong, and we could use someone like him on our side. Plus," she mumbled, eyeing Atsumu carefully. "..he's kind of hot."

She was definitely thinking about the sponsors that man would attract.

"Yeah, he's skilled and strong. Which is exactly why he's untrustworthy.” Tobio said.

"How?"

"Because for all we know, if we put our trust in him in the games, he could turn on us and strike the moment we let our guard down."

Miwa crossed her arms, her patience wearing thin. This kid was unbelievable. If she hadn’t made a solemn promise to their parents on their deathbeds not to kill him, she would have gladly ended his existence right then and there.

Tobio's outright rejection of an alliance was completely unfair, even though Miwa couldn't deny the validity of some of his concerns. He was undeniably paranoid, jumping to conclusions about tributes, but she knew it all stemmed from a deep-seated place of protectiveness. Above all else, Tobio was concerned about her safety.

Ever since the reaping, Tobio had become almost suffocatingly protective. A seriousness had settled over him, bordering on dangerous, one might say. He was a constant shadow at Miwa's side, never letting her out of his sight, even before, when they were weeks away from the arena. It made Miwa wonder how things would be once the games actually began. Would her brother continue to hover like a mother hawk? Would he insist on them being tethered together, hip to hip, at all costs?

Miwa was torn between annoyance and frustration at his overbearing actions, and a darker impulse to simply tear his head off if he didn't snap out of it soon. But beneath the irritation, she understood the root of his behavior. He was afraid—terrified, even—of losing her to another tribute, someone driven to desperate measures for survival.

Miwa felt a similar weight pressing down on her. The thought of entering that arena, knowing her brother could die, was unbearable. Above all else, they both desperately wanted to survive, clinging to the hope that they could make it out of the games with their bond intact. The idea of a future where they still had each other was the only thing keeping her grounded.

But still, there was only ever one winner.

Miwa knew, with a chilling certainty, that one of them wouldn't make it out alive. It was a thought she had been desperately trying to suppress, a dark cloud that had settled over her mind since their first night in the Capitol. Despite her best efforts, the grim reality kept resurfacing, haunting her every moment.

There could only be one victor. And Miwa had already made her choice: it would be Tobio.

As his only sister, his oldest confidante, she was prepared to sacrifice everything for him, even her own life, if it meant he would see the sun rise again.

Miwa sat with her arms crossed, her gaze shifting between Tobio, who remained focused on tending his fire, and Atsumu, who continued to practice his spear throws. Though she was not one to disobey Tobio's direct instructions, the urgency of the situation was undeniable. If she truly wanted to ensure her brother's survival, she knew she had to take matters into her own hands, regardless of his wishes.

In a swift, decisive motion, Miwa pushed herself to her feet, catching Tobio off guard, his confusion evident in his eyes. Without a word, she began walking away from the fire starting station, heading directly towards the spear throwing area. Tobio immediately called out to her, his voice laced with concern, but she pressed on, ignoring his calls. She kept walking.

Tobio, realising the futility of his calls, gave up and began chasing after her, muttering a string of profanities under his breath. He knew exactly what she was up to, and frustration gnawed at him. Why couldn't she just listen? Just why? He had explicitly warned her against forming alliances, yet here she was, casually approaching Atsumu, completely disregarding his logic and concerns.

Tobio finally caught up to Miwa, his breath coming in ragged gasps as they stopped in front of the spear throwing station. "Idiot," he huffed, pinching her arm in frustration. "What do you think you're doing?"

Miwa remained silent, ignoring his question. Instead, she stepped forward, approaching Atsumu. He raised his spear, ready to throw, but Miwa's voice cut through the air, halting him in his tracks.

"Hey," Miwa greeted, her tone warm. "Atsumu, right?"

Atsumu turned to face the two, his eyes meeting Miwa's kind gaze. "That's me," he replied with a smile. "An’ yer one of the Kageyama siblin’s, yeah?"

"Yep," she confirmed, extending her hand in a friendly gesture. "But please, call me Miwa."

Atsumu smiled as he clasped her hand, giving it a gentle shake. He murmured her name softly under his breath, already familiarising himself with the sound of it. He knew that her request to be called by her first name was no accident. People didn't offer such familiarity without a reason, and he had a feeling he knew where this was headed.

As she released Atsumu's hand, Miwa gestured towards her scowling brother. "And this is the other Kageyama sibling," she announced. "My little brother."

Tobio shot her a glare. "Little?" he scoffed, clearly annoyed by the endearment.

Atsumu then extended his hand towards Tobio. "Ah, Tobio, isn' it?" he asked, a hint of polite confusion in his voice.

Tobio refused to shake his hand, his expression icy. "Kageyama." He stated curtly.

Miwa rolled her eyes, shaking her head in exasperation. Atsumu, sensing the shift in atmosphere, casually tucked his hands into his pockets. He quickly deduced that Tobio was the more 'serious' sibling. Miwa cast Atsumu an apologetic look, but Tobio's coldness didn't faze him. He was used to such attitudes, his own brother being cut from the same cloth.

Cutting to the chase, “So,” said Atsumu. “I’m guessin’ yer not here ta talk for the fun of it. What’s up?”

As Atsumu steered the conversation towards the main topic, Miwa's cheerful demeanor shifted to a more serious one. "I'm sure you can imagine why we're here," she began. "We've been considering forming an alliance. With the games drawing closer, it's best we start making some strategic moves, don't you think?"

Atsumu clicked his tongue thoughtfully. "Hm," he hummed. "Well, I do like ya."

Miwa's cheeks flushed pink.

"But I'm not so sure about this one." He added, glancing at Tobio.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Tobio scoffed, irritation evident in his tone. "There's no separate deal here. We're siblings, remember? And we plan to survive this together. So, if you have a problem with me, then there's no alliance, got it?"

Atsumu crossed his arms, a playful glint in his eyes. "I don' recall ever sayin’ I was choosin’ yer sister over you." He countered.

Tobio remained silent, allowing Atsumu to continue.

"I'm happy ta work with ya both," Atsumu said, his tone earnest. "But if this is gonna work, you'll have ta put a lil’ faith in me, yeah? Kageyama, you're strung tight, so try ta loosen up. I get why yer on edge, an’ it's good ta have someone keepin’ a sharp eye out for trouble. You'll need that caution out there," he paused, stepping closer to Tobio, his expression serious. "I'm putting my trust in ya. So, if I can trust you, then you can trust me."

Tobio shot a suspicious glance at Atsumu, searching for any hint of deceit. But Atsumu simply met his gaze with unwavering seriousness, as if every word he'd spoken was genuine. And it was. He was being truthful and honest, promising to be a devoted ally, but only if Tobio could bring himself to trust him.

Tobio felt a flicker of doubt, quickly suppressed. Never had he imagined that forging alliances would be a necessary part of his and Miwa's strategy in the Games; he'd always believed they could manage on their own. Yet, here they stood, engaged in a conversation with the boy from District Four, attempting to gauge his trustworthiness while simultaneously trying to earn his.

Even with Atsumu's earnest demeanor, Tobio struggled to fully believe him. He found it difficult to trust anyone; everyone was vying for the same victory, so what made Atsumu so different? Was he truly trustworthy, loyal, honest? Those were just words, the same ones they all used.

Tobio's gaze shifted from Atsumu to his sister. Miwa looked back at him, her eyes offering reassurance. 'It's okay, Tobio,' her expression seemed to say. 'We can trust him.'

How Tobio hated it when Miwa looked at him like that.

Tobio let out a loud, exasperated sigh. "Alright," he said, "I trust you. Happy now?"

Atsumu scratched his chin, a sly grin playing on his lips. "Nah, not really," he drawled. "I'll be needin' a more sincere response than that if we're gonna be workin' together."

Tobio groaned inwardly. This guy was unbelievable.

"We just started talking, so I'm not gonna immediately trust you," Tobio explained, his tone laced with annoyance. "Until you prove yourself trustworthy in that arena, then we'll work things out from there."

Atsumu opened his mouth to retort, but Tobio cut him off.

"And we'll be proving ourselves trustworthy to you as well," Tobio assured him, already beginning to walk away. "Don't you worry about that."

Miwa couldn't help but roll her eyes at her brother's over-the-top reaction. Shooting Atsumu one last, apologetic smile that conveyed her embarrassment, she quickly jogged to catch up with Tobio. With a playful shove, she punched him lightly in the arm, causing him to yelp in exaggerated pain. Atsumu, watching the siblings' interaction, couldn't help but suppress a snicker that he subtly masked with a cough.

These two were going to be an interesting dynamic to navigate, Atsumu mused, and honestly? He looked forward to it.

A few moments later, Hinata, the tribute from District Nine, bounded over to Atsumu's side. He stood beside him, head tilted inquisitively as he eyed the retreating Kageyama siblings. Crossing his arms, he finally spoke, "What was that all about?" He'd been watching the entire exchange from a distance, his curiosity piqued.

Atsumu remained silent for a moment, his gaze fixed on the bickering siblings until a smirk crept onto his face.

Turning to Hinata, he let out a low whistle. "Say," he began, a glint in his eyes, "how do ya feel about acquirin’ a few new allies?"

Chapter Text

Sugawara's stomach was a knot of nerves. Today was the day—the day of the performances.

He woke in his purple silk sheets, a subtle discomfort making him wriggle. He still wasn't used to the feel. Rising, he took a warm shower and washed his face, another Capitol luxury that felt strange. Back in District Ten, water was precious; his family conserved every drop with a single daily shower. Here, it was almost as if water wasn't treasured at all. Sugawara still treasured every single drop anyway.

He pulled on the training clothes—the same set he'd worn for the past three days—a slight grimace twisting his lips. He detested the rough material; surely Takeda could have found something more comfortable. The other garments left on his bed each evening had been amazing, a stark contrast to this awful chosen outfit. Sugawara harbored a deep-seated dislike for everyone in the Capitol. Everyone, that is, except Takeda.

Sugawara entered the dining room to find the others already seated, their cheeks bulging with breakfast. Michimiya, the other tribute, seemed particularly ravenous, seizing every opportunity to eat. Sugawara wondered if she, too, came from a place of scarcity.

The thought brought a frown to his face.

Sugawara took the seat beside Michimiya, offering a polite 'good morning' to her and the others. The gesture was partly to mask his nerves, but also reflected his genuine nature. He was pleased to see Takeda seated across from him. The stylists rarely joined the tributes for meals, making Takeda's presence at dinners and breakfasts a welcome surprise. Again, Sugawara genuinely liked his stylist.

Daichi, their mentor, was also a company Sugawara enjoyed. He ambled over to the dining table, nursing a cup of dark coffee, the caffeine a desperate attempt to ward off his exhaustion. He settled in next to Takeda, offering a nod of acknowledgement to him and Sugawara, though he looked mere moments from collapsing. He was still in his pajamas, for heaven's sake.

Sugawara poured orange juice into his cup, a chuckle escaping him. "Wow, Daichi," he said, "And here I thought I'd be the one running on fumes."

Michimiya giggled, pausing as she buttered her toast. "Rough night?" she asked.

Daichi simply nodded, "Rough night."

He spoke with a smile, and Sugawara didn't pry, assuming he had a valid reason for his late night. He was simply relieved that Daichi wouldn't neglect them out of exhaustion. Unlike some mentors, Daichi was genuinely invested in their training. And the fact that he was one of the youngest mentors here? That only underscored how exceptional he truly was.

Sugawara smiled at him before turning his attention to the buffet. His stomach churned with anxiety, a clear sign that a heavy meal was the last thing he needed. He opted for a small bowl of fruit and a few pastries, hoping it would be enough to settle his stomach rather than aggravate it.

Daichi rubbed his eyes, stifling a yawn. "So," he began. "How are we feeling about the performances today? Confident, I hope?"

Michimiya sipped her juice. "I'm a little nervous." She admitted.

Daichi nodded, turning his gaze to Sugawara.

Sugawara shrugged, scratching his cheek. "I can't lie, Daichi, I'm pretty nervous too." He confessed.

"That's typical," Daichi said. "But you're not doubting yourselves, are you?"

Sugawara made a face, shrugging again.

Daichi tilted his head, prompting a light laugh from Sugawara. "Alright, maybe just a little,” he admitted. “But can you blame me? Can you blame any of us?"

"Of course not," Daichi replied. "I've been in your position before. I was twelve years old and riddled with self-doubt throughout my time in the Capitol and in that arena."

Sugawara's brow furrowed slightly at Daichi's remark. The thought of the Capitol's cruelty sent a shiver down his spine—how utterly disgusting they were to allow children to die for entertainment. Children as young as twelve, barely grasping the concept of death, thrust into a brutal arena. It was a sickening realisation that Daichi had been sent to the Games at such a tender age, forced to fight and kill, only to emerge traumatised. Sugawara couldn't begin to fathom the horrors Daichi had witnessed, the challenges he had faced. No child should ever endure such torment. Daichi certainly shouldn't have.

Despite the harrowing ordeal, Daichi emerged victorious from that year's Hunger Games, becoming one of the youngest victors in history. This distinction led him to become a mentor. He began teaching at sixteen, allowing himself a few years to experience some semblance of a normal life before being summoned back to the Capitol. However, even after the Games, the childhood he longed for remained elusive, forever tainted by his experiences.

The trauma haunted him relentlessly, often waking him in a cold sweat, plagued by nightmares. He would shake and cry over the lives he had taken. At times, he imagined seeing the faces of his victims in his daily life, the visions so vivid they bordered on hallucination. There was a point where he feared he was losing his mind, teetering on the brink of schizophrenia, so bad was the torment.

But when he turned sixteen, the intensity of his trauma gradually subsided, and life became more manageable. He and his family relocated to the Capitol, where they experienced a life beyond their wildest dreams. They were consistently provided with food and essential supplies, essentially winning the lottery with the luxurious house they now owned. Life in the Capitol was undeniably better, but that didn't erase the deep-seated resentment they harbored towards the Capitol for subjecting their child to such profound misery.

Fortunately, Daichi found contentment in his new life. While he knew he would never fully recover from the trauma of the Games, nor would he ever condone the Capitol's brutal tactics, he would forever resent them for the torturous ordeal and the stolen childhood. However, he found solace in knowing he was now safe, and his family was thriving, healthy and free from the constant struggle for survival in District Ten. They owed their improved circumstances to Daichi's victory. Had he perished in the arena, his family would have remained trapped in their cycle of hardship, forever struggling to make ends meet.

This is why Daichi now resides in the Capitol, dedicating himself to mentoring each year's tributes. He strives to maintain his family's newfound security and spare the future tributes of District Ten from enduring the same horrors he faced.

Daichi gradually began to shake off the lingering fog of sleep, prompting him to take another hopeful sip of his coffee, willing the caffeine to take effect. He then piled his plate high with fresh bacon and scrambled eggs.

"Alright," Daichi announced, finally feeling more alert. "Let's get down to the important stuff."

Sugawara and Michimiya looked up at him, signaling their attention. Seeing that he had captured their interest, Daichi continued.

"Okay, listen up. The performances are huge. You're gonna have almost fifty Gamemakers watching your every move. You've seen them during training—pretty intimidating, right? These are the people you gotta win over. Impress them, and you'll get those high scores. High scores translates to more sponsors, and that's what we're aiming for, got it?"

Sugawara nervously fiddled with his fork and knife. This was precisely what he had been doubting. Higher ratings meant more sponsors, and Sugawara wasn't sure he possessed the skills to impress them.

He felt a wave of nervousness wash over him, but he masked it well. Daichi continued, unaware of Sugawara's internal struggle.

"They'll start with District One, so you guys have some time," Daichi explained. "Guess the good thing is you're not District Twelve. By the end, those Gamemakers get bored and totally lose focus on the last tributes."

Michimiya crossed her arms, frowning. "That's completely unfair," she said. "I get they have to watch twenty-four tributes, but come on! They should at least give the last few of us a chance."

Sugawara nodded in agreement, and Daichi joined in. "I know, it's messed up," he said. "But that's not gonna stop you two from giving it your all, right?"

They both shook their heads, and Daichi smirked.

"Good," he leaned back in his chair. "So make sure they remember you."

…

Sakusa was already over it, and the first tribute hadn't even started their performance.

It wasn't the thought of enduring twenty-four tributes parading their skills that grated on Sakusa; it was the confinement in this elevated room, surrounded by a cacophony of loud, obnoxious Gamemakers. Sakusa, with his serious demeanor and preference for silence, found himself in the company of individuals he almost universally despised.

Sakusa was the Head Game Maker, a role he'd held for two years. Did he enjoy it? Well, the chance to assess and manipulate the tributes in the arena was definitely the highlight, especially given his rather unsympathetic approach to these kids. He knew they wouldn't appreciate what he had in store for them this year. But Sakusa wasn't one for sympathy. Hopefully they'd catch on to that quickly once they were in the arena.

He relished making survival a true challenge. If a tribute planned to hide throughout the games, Sakusa would swiftly put an end to that strategy. Too close to the edge? He'd ignite a fire to drive them away. Too isolated from the other participants? He'd unleash wild animals to hunt them down until they were forced into a confrontation with another player.

Perhaps his actions were a bit harsh, but he just wanted the games to conclude with a swift finish so he wouldn't be constantly preoccupied with devising ways to eliminate these tributes. Sakusa wasn't particularly concerned about fairness, though. Again, he wasn't one to be swayed by sympathy.

Sakusa leaned back in his opulent seat, his dark eyes fixed on the elevator doors across the gymnasium, patiently awaiting the arrival of the first tribute. It would be Andrea, the girl from District One. He held high expectations for the tributes hailing from the Career districts.

"Sakusa!" a man called out from behind, his large hand landing on Sakusa's shoulder with a firm squeeze. "They've just brought out some lunch. Come grab some before it's all gone!"

Sakusa's pupils narrowed with irritation as he eyed the hand on his shoulder. This was, without a doubt, his least favourite aspect of the job: socialising. Dealing with people like this man, who seemed to have no concept of personal space or the art of speaking without spraying food everywhere. He'd hoped that by now, some of these people would show a bit more respect. And he thought they would know that Sakusa valued avoiding human interaction and germs above all else.

Sakusa's face tightened. "Yeah," he muttered dryly, his eyes never leaving the hand on his shoulder. "No, I think I'm fine. The first tribute should be here soon. Thanks."

"Ah, well, the food's there if you change your mind," the man said, finally releasing his shoulder. "I could grab you a plate if you'd like?"

And have all the food in your mouth fly into my meal? No thanks.

"I'm not hungry," Sakusa replied. "I'll get something when I'm ready."

"Well, suit yourself. Later, Sakusa!"

The instant the man had turned to leave and strike up a conversation with someone else, Sakusa was already wiping his shoulder with his gloved hand. In case you were wondering, clothes also contain bacteria. Now his tuxedo and leather glove were contaminated with human pathogens. Fantastic.

Sakusa grumbled under his breath, not wanting to make a scene. He couldn't abandon his post to wash his clothes right now, no matter how much he longed to, seeing as the first tribute had just arrived.

As the elevator doors slid open, all eyes turned to watch Andrea walk to the front. She appeared apprehensive, staring at the sea of Gamemakers, acutely aware of the many eyes scrutinising her every move. It already felt like she was in the Games, watched like she was their prey.

Sakusa noticed the subtle gulp that betrayed her nerves as she rummaged through the weapons before selecting a simple knife. He crossed one leg over the other, watching her approach the dartboards, her nervousness palpable.

Sakusa was already harboring doubts, especially after she'd chosen a single knife. In his experience, tributes who relied solely on a knife weren't always as skilled as they believed. Of course, he'd encountered tributes who knew their way around a blade, but given the sheer number he'd seen fail miserably with one, it always planted a seed of doubt when a tribute selected that particular weapon.

Andrea seemed to confirm his point when her initial throw missed the center of the dartboard by a wide margin. A ripple of snickers spread among the Gamemakers, adding to the girl's obvious embarrassment. However, she didn't let the initial failure deter her. Resolutely, she retrieved the knife and threw it again, and again, each time hitting the bullseye with precision. It became clear that her first miss was solely due to her initial anxiety.

Next came Oikawa, who, in stark contrast to Andrea, exuded an air of unwavering confidence. He grabbed a bow and arrow, his expression calm and self-assured, barely acknowledging the Gamemakers, as if he were the only person of consequence in the world. How annoying, Sakusa couldn't help but think to himself.

He meticulously placed his arrow in the bow, assuming a poised stance while discreetly observing the dartboard. Sakusa's eyes immediately noticed him taking a deliberate series of steps backwards. It was evident that he intended to shoot from a significantly greater distance, a move that hinted at either exceptional skill or excessive confidence.

Predictably, Oikawa's arrow struck the center of the dartboard with flawless precision. His calm demeanor allowed him to maintain unwavering focus, suggesting he had a serious chance of surviving the games. Sakusa wouldn't be surprised if he emerged as the victor. After all, tributes from the Career districts typically dominated the arena, with last year's victor hailing from District Two.

Saeko was next, striding in with a fierce attitude, her glare fixed on Sakusa as if he were her next target. Sakusa's expression remained unchanged, his dark eyes boring into her as if she were just another tribute he intended to manipulate in the arena. Knowing her tenacity, she would likely survive whatever he threw her way. That's precisely why Sakusa had no intention of taking it easy this year. These tributes were dangerous and in need of a little challenge.

Saeko's selection of two tiger hook swords piqued Sakusa's interest considerably. These weapons were undeniably lethal, yet their presence in the Games was rare. This was likely due to the specialised skill required to wield them effectively. The tiger hook swords, with their uniquely sharp, hooked blades, demanded a mastery that few tributes possessed; their use required not only strength but also exceptional precision and agility. The learning curve was steep, making them a risky choice for most. However, the menacing glint in Saeko's eyes suggested a hidden confidence, hinting that she either possessed a unique familiarity with these unconventional weapons or was audacious enough to believe she could quickly master their intricacies, regardless of the danger.

Wielding the swords with brutal efficiency, she demonstrated their lethal potential on the dummies. With swift, decisive movements, she hooked the blades around the dummies' wrists, severing the limbs with a single, forceful pull. She repeated this process with ruthless precision, systematically dismembering the dummies' arms, shoulders, legs, ankles, and even the head.

Her speed was remarkable. She moved with a swiftness and precision that suggested an innate understanding of her weapons, barely pausing to aim. Her feet danced across the ground as her hands moved with deadly purpose; it was clear she knew exactly what she was doing. As a Career tribute, such proficiency was expected, yet Sakusa sensed something distinct in her approach.

This girl was, without a doubt, the most vicious tribute he had ever seen.

She continued her display, dismantling dummy after dummy until she realised she had decimated the entire training room. Her eyes flicked towards the Gamemakers, and she recognised the unmistakable glint of impressed interest in their expressions. A secret smirk played on her lips as she carefully returned the tiger hook swords to their place among the other weapons. With a simple bow, she was then dismissed.

Following Saeko was Kuroo, who made a distinct choice by selecting daggers. However, he bypassed the standard-sized options, instead opting for larger blades that closely resembled machetes. These weren't just any machetes; they featured a saw-like pattern running along the edge of the blade, similar to the jagged teeth of a wood saw. These sharp, protruding points transformed the daggers into exceptionally dangerous weapons.

Kenma demonstrated a natural aptitude with the small throwing knives, launching them with incredible speed and nonchalant ease. Each knife found its mark with unwavering accuracy, a testament to Kenma's sharp focus and keen aim. His clear intelligence and unwavering concentration made Sakusa wonder about his potential with other weapons. With such remarkable precision, speed, and focus, Kenma could master virtually any weapon he chose.

It came as no surprise to Sakusa that Atsumu selected a weapon closely tied to his district's identity. He chose a long, golden trident and wielded it with remarkable skill. Sakusa had observed Atsumu throughout the training sessions and noticed his proficiency. While spears shared similarities with the trident, the trident offered a broader range of possibilities. It demanded more power, skill, and patience to effectively utilise in the arena. Sakusa believed that Atsumu, as a tribute from the fishing district, possessed the necessary experience and understanding to excel with this particular weapon.

Akaashi was the second person to wield a bow and arrow, and to Sakusa's astonishment, he demonstrated a far greater proficiency than Oikawa. Despite not being a Career tribute who had trained his entire life, Akaashi handled the weapon with an expertise that suggested otherwise.

When Akaashi took up his bow and arrows, he slung the entire quiver over his back, a departure from the typical tribute strategy. Most tributes would carefully select only three arrows, attempting to make the most of their limited shots. Akaashi, however, had a different plan in mind.

Akaashi stepped forward, settling into a composed stance that spoke of practiced precision. He nocked an arrow, drawing back the string with a fluid motion, and took aim. As the arrow sped towards its mark, he already had another arrow settled and ready, releasing it in a seamless motion towards the next target, intercepting it before the first could even graze the red center. He repeated this sequence, each time drawing and shooting with increasing speed.

Sakusa couldn't deny his admiration. Akaashi's focus was razor-sharp, his mind calculating each move with impressive speed. Judging by the unerring accuracy and rapid pace of his shots, it was clear he had honed his skills through relentless practice back in his district. Perhaps he casually shot at trees for sport, or hunted live animals for sustenance. Or maybe there was something unique to District Eight that set him apart. Each arrow fired in his past had only refined his crazy talent.

Sakusa's eyes narrowed, his gaze fixed on the boy.

What secrets did Akaashi's past hold?

By the end, Sakusa was fighting off boredom. Watching tribute after tribute perform the same tired routines had become monotonous. Finally, the tribute from District Twelve finished his act and was dismissed. Sakusa longed to return home and sleep, but the day was far from over.

He still had to finalise the ratings he and the other Gamemakers would assign to each tribute. This step could be challenging and contentious, as the Gamemakers rarely saw eye-to-eye.

However, as Head Game Maker, they trusted Sakusa's judgment to guide them to the right decisions.

Chapter Text

After being dismissed by the jaded Gamemakers, Tobio retreated back to the penthouse.

He couldn't help but feel a sting of disappointment at the lack of acknowledgment from the Gamemakers. He understood the task they faced, having to sit through the performances of twenty-four tributes, and the inevitable exhaustion that came with it. Still, a little recognition wouldn't have hurt. Tobio was the final tribute to perform, and only one of them, that creepy Gamemaker with the curly hair, had seemed to give him the time of day. Even then, the man's eyes held a glazed-over look of boredom that did little to boost Tobio's confidence.

Honestly, a sliver of consideration would have been greatly appreciated, especially considering that these were the very people who would be sending them into that arena to fight to the death for their amusement. The least they could do was offer some acknowledgment before they were slaughtered to death.

Tobio grumbled silently, the memory of their dismissive attitudes still grating on him as he entered the living room of their floor. As expected, Miwa was already sprawled on one of the couches in front of the TV, a half-empty packet of lightly salted chips in her lap, waiting for the program to begin.

Tobio settled onto the couch beside Miwa, who wordlessly offered him the packet of chips. "How did it go?" she asked, noticing the frustrated set of his jaw.

"I couldn’t tell," he replied, taking a handful of chips. "They barely even acknowledged I was there."

Miwa sighed, "Same here." her voice laced with a similar disappointment.

A moment later, their mentor and escort entered the living room, followed closely by their stylists. The Kageyama siblings didn't even need to turn to know it was Ukai who had arrived with the others; the distinct scent of smoke that filled their nostrils was a dead giveaway. Ukai always carried the scent of smoke with him—a nervous habit. The stylists, on the other hand, were a whirlwind of perfume and hairspray, their presence a stark contrast to Ukai's ruggedness. Together, they made an odd ensemble, but who were the Kageyama sibling’s to complain? They were the team assigned to keep Tobio and Miwa alive.

Ukai took a long drag of his cigarette before plopping down on the couch across from the siblings. Their escort visibly grimaced at Ukai's lack of decorum, but Ukai couldn't have cared less. He exhaled a plume of smoke, the very picture of nonchalance.

"Alright," Ukai said, smoke escaping his lips as he spoke. "Lay it on me. I want to hear something good for once. Did you manage to impress those Gamemakers, or what?"

Tobio and Miwa exchanged a look, and Ukai's head fell back against the couch in exasperation. He muttered something under his breath, undoubtedly colorful.

"It's not our fault they weren't paying attention!" Miwa retorted.

"Yeah," Tobio scoffed. "They're all a bunch of lazy—"

"Language!" their escort snapped, her eyes widening.

"Doesn't matter," Ukai interrupted, waving a dismissive hand. "As long as you two put on a good show and proved you've got some skill, that's what counts. Someone had to be watching. If not, fuck 'em. You'll show them what you're made of in the arena."

Their escort looked utterly gobsmacked. "Keishin Ukai!" she gasped, clutching her chest.

Ukai simply flashed a mischievous grin, his eyes darting from their escort to the Kageyama siblings before taking another drag of his cigarette. The two shared a secret smile; Ukai was proving to be surprisingly entertaining company. They remembered their initial impression of him: a dismissive jerk who barely acknowledged their presence, preferring to blow smoke in their faces whenever they dared to ask a serious question. Tobio recalled how close he'd been to punching him, while Miwa had seriously considered tossing him and his lit cigarette off the moving train.

But after they'd managed to knock some sense into him, he'd turned out to be a decent guy. Definitely more likable than their escort, who seemed perpetually on edge, fussing over their every move. ‘Smile bigger, Tobio!’ she'd chirp. ‘Stand up straight! Back straight!’ ‘Don't inhale your food! Have some table manners!’

Those constant words only fueled Tobio's rebellious streak, making him eat even messier. Who was he to care what the Capitol thought, anyway? Food was right there in front of him, a gift from the heavens. Of course, he was going to devour it like his life depended on it.

Finally, everyone settled into their seats as the program began. Miwa crinkled open her packet of chips, munching loudly as she eyed the TV screen, eagerly anticipating a familiar face to appear. Their escort shot Miwa a look of thinly veiled displeasure, resisting the urge to lecture her about the impropriety of chewing so loudly.

Right on cue, the Games' infamous host, Satori Tendou, materialised on screen, his signature smile plastered across his face—a smile the Capitol seemed to eat up. But to Tobio and Miwa, it was a chilling sight. That unnaturally white, toothy grin only amplified his bizarre, almost demonic appearance. He always looked so weary, his red, downturned eyes perfectly complementing his shock of bright crimson hair, giving him the unsettling aura of a predator about to pounce.

There was an indefinable quality about Tendou that set the Kageyama siblings on edge. Was it his unnervingly carefree demeanor, so out of step with the gravity of the Games? Or perhaps it was his unsettling features, reminiscent of a childhood nightmare come to life? Whatever the reason, he was absolutely terrifying. And the thought of having to sit beside him, forced into polite conversation for the interviews tomorrow? That was a prospect that sent a shiver down their spines.

Tendou leaned forward, elbows on the table, his long, bony fingers fidgeting with the papers in front of him. Bandages wrapped his fingers, a familiar sight. He flashed that smile again, launching into his spiel. "As you all know, the tributes are rated on a scale of one to twelve." He continued to drone on about the rating system, as if they hadn't endured this same tedious lecture year after year.

This was always the most mind-numbing part—having to sit through Tendou’s endless, repetitive explanations. Tobio just wanted him to cut to the chase and announce the ratings already. And the fact that they were the last tributes to be assessed only added to the irritation. It seemed the list of disadvantages for District Twelve was perpetually never-ending.

When Tendou finally reached the point of announcing District One's ratings, Tobio and Miwa snapped to attention. This was crucial; they needed to gauge the level of threat these tributes posed. After all, their lives would depend on it.

Andrea scored a six, while Oikawa received a ten. High scores were naturally expected from District One, given their reputation for producing highly trained tributes. However, Andrea's surprisingly low score suggested something had gone amiss during her performance.

From District Two, Kuroo earned a nine, while Saeko achieved the maximum score of twelve. Tendou's smile widened into a broad grin, a surprised laugh escaping his lips as he announced Saeko as the first to achieve the highest score thus far. Tobio and Miwa, on the other hand, paled. A high score was expected from her, the most dangerous of the tributes, but a twelve? That was not what they wanted to hear. She was definitely one to watch in the arena. Someone to avoid at all costs.

From District Three, Yoko received the lowest score of three, while Kenma, like Kuroo, earned a nine. Though Tobio couldn't bring himself to fully sympathise with the other tributes, he found it a little disheartening to see the youngest among them receive such a low score. It only underscored the cruelty and unfairness of the Games, and the Capitol's callous indifference.

Jessie scored six points, while Atsumu earned an impressive eleven, making him the second tribute to achieve such a high score. As a Career tribute, a high score was practically guaranteed. This was a good sign, as his alliance with the Kageyama siblings could prove highly advantageous.

Bokuto earned an eight, his strength undoubtedly contributing to the high score. Kiyoko from District Six scored a seven, while Nishinoya received a six. Yamaguchi scored a four, and Eri a three. The fact that two tributes from the same district received the lowest scores painted a grim picture for them. Their low ratings made them easy targets—their chances in the arena appeared slim.

Akaashi, representing District Eight, secured a score of eleven. Throughout the three days of training, he maintained a quiet and enigmatic presence, skillfully masking his true potential. His reserved demeanor made it difficult to gauge his strengths, but Tobio sensed a hidden danger beneath the surface. Much like Saeko, Akaashi was undoubtedly a tribute to keep a close watch on.

He was dangerous.

And Tobio had a bad feeling about him.

Hinata and Yachi, both representing District Nine, each received a score of five. Tobio could already picture Hinata's typically bright, joyful smile faltering at the disappointing result. The thought elicited a scoff from Tobio.

From District Ten, Michimiya scored a four, while Sugawara earned a six. Tsukishima received a seven, and Misaki a five. And with bated breath, everyone awaited the final scores as Tendou prepared to announce the results for the tributes from District Twelve.

"And now, for our last District,” Tendou announced, a hint of relief in his voice, though he maintained a professional demeanor in anticipation of the interviews tomorrow. "From District Twelve, Tobio Kageyama."

As his name was announced, Tobio leaned forward in his seat, his eyes fixed intently on the redheaded host, awaiting his score. Miwa and Ukai exchanged concerned glances, a touch of nervousness evident in their expressions. Tobio's serious demeanor had intensified, setting him apart from his usual self. While he was typically composed, there was a palpable intensity that had taken hold.

Miwa noticed the subtle gulp, a clear sign that Tobio was indeed nervous. She placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze, though he barely seemed to register the gesture. His focus remained solely on the announcement of his score, his mind consumed by anticipation.

Tendou paused, fiddling with the paper in his hands. "Tobio," he began, glancing down at the sheet, "with a score of..." he looked up, his gaze meeting Tobio's, and announced, "Seven."

Relief washed over Tobio as he sighed, and a wave of congratulatory cheers erupted from his companions. Miwa, too, breathed a sigh of relief, grateful that her younger brother had managed to avoid a score lower than five. While a seven might not have been the highest score, it was certainly a commendable achievement, far surpassing the scores of many previous tributes.

The happy gasps gradually subsided as their attention returned to the screen. Tendou continued. "And finally, from District Twelve," he announced. "Miwa Kageyama."

Miwa shifted slightly, a sense of unease washing over her as Tendou's voice lingered on her name. The thought of her name being known by everyone in the world made her uncomfortable. This time, it was Tobio's turn to offer a reassuring squeeze to Miwa's shoulder, a silent gesture of support.

Tendou scanned the final piece of paper, clicking his tongue before announcing her score. "With a score of..." he paused, building suspense, "...Nine."

Miwa released another relieved sigh. Tobio, a rare bright smile gracing his face for the first time since arriving in the Capitol, nudged his sister's shoulder, his congratulations delivered in playful punches. Their posh escort clapped her hands with enthusiasm, clearly thrilled by the ratings, while the stylists offered their congratulations.

Miwa sighed softly. "Wow," she murmured. "I didn't think they were even paying attention to me."

"Well, whatever you did back there, they sure as hell liked it," Ukai grinned. "Good job, kid. Both of you."

Tobio and Miwa exchanged a smile, a shared sense of relief washing over them. They had both been anxious about their ratings, but the outcome wasn't as bad as they had feared. Tobio had scored a seven, while Miwa had achieved a nine. These were respectable scores, not the highest, but certainly far from the lowest.

It only reinforced the idea that the siblings had a genuine chance of winning.

…

As Hinata entered the dining room, the soft murmur of conversation ceased, replaced by a chorus of greetings. The others were already seated around the long, polished table. He instinctively made his way to his usual spot next to Yachi, and across from them sat Tenma, their mentor.

Dinner unfolded with a comforting normalcy, a welcome respite from the Capitol's relentless spectacle. Hinata, true to form, loaded his plate to towering heights, creating a veritable mountain of food. Tenma and their escort exchanged knowing glances, long since accustomed to Hinata's insatiable appetite. They found a certain amusement in it, especially when recalling his attitude on their first day, when the train ride to the Capitol had left him unusually subdued and devoid of hunger.

Opting for a hearty meal, Hinata selected a generous portion of roast beef and creamy mashed potatoes, alongside a bowl of simple white rice and a second bowl of fried rice. Unable to choose between the two, he invariably indulged in both. His plate soon overflowed with an array of steaming pork buns and dumplings, savory beef noodles, and chicken stir-fry. Yet, after downing everything on his plate, he was still hungry.

For dessert, Hinata indulged in chocolate-covered strawberries paired with a slice of strawberry shortcake. The cake's delicate softness seemed to melt in his mouth, prompting him to savor a second slice. It was only after this second helping that he finally felt satisfied, his appetite finally appeased.

As Hinata dipped a strawberry into the molten chocolate, "Wow, Hinata,” chuckled Tenma. “Where does all that food even go? You digest so much, yet you don't seem to grow an inch!"

Hinata waved a dismissive hand. "That's not true! I grow like a centimeter after every meal! You just can't see it!"

Udai burst into laughter. "Yeah, right!"

Hinata flushed crimson, earnestly trying to convince Tenma of his claim, but his mentor only laughed harder at the increasingly outlandish explanations he offered. Hinata wasn't entirely certain if he actually grew after each meal, but he liked imagining that he did, at least in some small way.

Hinata continued to plead with Tenma to believe him, but he was soon interrupted by Yachi, who interjected, "Shouldn't we be discussing our strategy for tomorrow's interviews?"

Hinata and Tenma turned to her, Hinata tilting his head in confusion. "Is there supposed to be a plan?" Hinata asked. "I thought we just sit there and talk with Tendou, answering whatever questions he throws at us, right?"

Tenma shook his head. "It's a lot more complicated than that, Hinata," he explained. "The interviews are nearly as crucial as the ratings themselves. Tomorrow, you'll be sitting in front of millions of viewers, including potential sponsors. Make a bad impression, and you'll find it much harder to secure sponsors. We definitely want to avoid that."

Hinata's stomach growled anxiously, a knot forming in his gut. He clutched at himself, trying to suppress his rising nerves. Perhaps that second slice of cake hadn't been the best idea, as it certainly wasn't helping with the sudden pressure Tenma was putting on him.

Hinata never handled pressure well.

Shit.

Yachi leaned forward, her brow furrowed with concern. "So, what do we do?" she asked.

"Just be yourselves." Tenma shrugged.

Yachi sank back into her seat, muttering, "I'm not sure that's such a good idea."

"And why not?"

Yachi seemed to melt further into her seat, remaining silent.

Tenma smiled gently. "Yachi?" he prompted. "You can tell me."

Yachi blushed slightly, seemingly embarrassed by her reservations about the 'just be yourselves' approach. But really, could it be that bad? Hinata likely wouldn't fare well now that he knew he had to make a good impression to attract sponsors. He probably would have been perfectly fine without this sudden pressure, maybe even excited to be on live television.

Now, he was weighed down by the expectation to make a stellar impression, to not squander this opportunity. He couldn't afford to mess up, or he'd risk losing any chance of securing sponsors. He'd embarrass himself in front of the entire Capitol, making him a prime target. He'd be torn to shreds within seconds of reaching the Cornucopia.

Shut up, Shoyo. These thoughts are only increasing the pressure you're already under.

Yachi sighed, straightening up in her seat. Hinata noticed her fidgeting with her ponytail, the cute blue star hair clips in her blonde hair catching his eye. It was her tell, a way of trying to mask her nerves. She wasn't doing a very good job of hiding it.

"I kinda clam up in front of big crowds," Yachi admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "Whether it's a ton of people or just a small group, I get so anxious. I've never been good with people..”

Tenma offered a warm smile, one that didn't betray any surprise. He seemed accustomed to dealing with stage fright, as if the tributes from Nine often faced similar anxieties to Yachi. It was one thing to talk in front of a crowd, but knowing that audience was the Capitol—the worst people in the world—made it infinitely worse.

Tenma rested his cheek against his palm, his gaze softening. "Yachi," he began gently. "There’s nothing wrong with being a little afraid of large groups."

"Except when you're expected to sit in front of one for a simple interview.”

"We can work around your fear." He assured her.

"In a day? I doubt it."

"We can," he insisted. "You just have to trick your mind a little. Imagine those people aren't really there, or that they're someone else entirely. Maybe someone from back home? Is there someone important to you that you miss?"

Yachi fell silent, the question hanging in the air. Tenma frowned, a flicker of concern crossing his face. Noticing his expression, he quickly composed himself, forcing a reassuring smile.

"We'll talk more about this tomorrow, okay?" Tenma suggested. "I think you both need to get some rest."

Yachi managed a weak smile, but her apprehension was still clear as she nodded. Hinata stretched and yawned, nodding in agreement, though he was also trying to mask his own nervousness about the interviews. He really wasn't looking forward to them.

As Hinata lay in bed that night, Tenma’s words kept ringing in his mind.

‘It's a lot more complicated than that, Hinata,’ the words echoed. ‘The interviews are nearly as crucial as the ratings themselves. Tomorrow, you'll be sitting in front of millions of viewers, including potential sponsors. Make a bad impression, and you'll find it much harder to secure sponsors. We definitely want to avoid that.’

Hinata stared up at the ceiling, his eyes wide and sleepless. Panic began to set in once more, and it was shaping up to be a long, restless night.

Chapter Text

Atsumu was pacing back and forth, agitation evident in his every step. "’M screwed," he ranted, his voice laced with panic. "I'm so fuckin' screwed!"

Suna, without bothering to look up from his phone, rolled his eyes. "Pipe down, fish breath," he said dryly. "The majority of the Capitol doesn't exactly tolerate the amount of language that’s come out from your mouth. You're lucky you haven't been executed yet."

Atsumu shook his head, incredulous, as he glanced at Suna, who clearly couldn't care less about his nervous state. Suna was sprawled on one of the pink cushioned couches in the preparation room, his legs propped up on the glass coffee table, ankles lazily crossed. He didn't even glance up as Atsumu paced the crystal room, his golden eyes, as always, bored and narrow, glued to his phone. It was infuriating, particularly when Atsumu was desperate for some kind of reaction.

Suna, as Atsumu's stylist, had worked with the prep team to outfit him for the pivotal interview day. The ensemble they selected included a seemingly simple white blouse, yet its cut was intentionally unconventional, designed to hang loosely with the collar flirting precariously off Atsumu's shoulders. The shirt's first three buttons were deliberately left undone, offering a subtle glimpse of his chest. Complementing the top were baggy trousers in a seaweed hue, their silky fabric catching the light to create a shimmering effect. Grounding the outfit were dark, weighty boots, their leather soles producing sharp, echoing footfalls that punctuated Atsumu's restless pacing across the room.

Clearly, Suna was going for a high-fashion take on the fishing district aesthetic, which, against all odds, worked. Atsumu couldn't help but notice the irony; back in Four, he was always stuck wearing hand-me-down blouses that were at least two sizes too big.

Atsumu's relentless pacing was starting to grate on Suna's nerves. He finally looked up from his phone, his eyes following Atsumu's agitated figure. Each footstep seemed to grow louder, an irritating staccato in the otherwise silent room.

"Atsumu." Suna said, his voice flat.

He got no response.

"Atsumu?" He repeated, a hint of impatience creeping in.

Still nothing.

Suna's eye twitched. Why did he always end up with the most high-strung tributes? Just, why?

"Atsumu!" he snapped, his voice sharper this time.

Finally, Atsumu seemed to snap out of his daze. He stopped pacing, his eyes focusing on the visibly annoyed Suna. "Sorry," he mumbled, running a hand through his hair. "Shit—‘m sorry. I don' know what's goin’ on with me."

Suna resumed tapping on his phone, his expression still unreadable. "It's the outfit, isn't it?" He asked, not looking up.

"What? No. I actually kinda like it."

"Good. Because this shit was expensive. So you better like it."

Atsumu rolled his eyes, throwing himself onto the pink couch opposite Suna. He sank into the cushions, grumbling under his breath, fully aware that he was testing Suna's patience. He'd been nothing but a whiny mess all day. But honestly, who cared anymore? Suna was just as unbelievable as Atsumu was, anyway.

Today's schedule had been grueling, with separate training sessions alongside his mentor and escort. His escort was relentless, constantly reminding him to sit up straighter and smile wider, as if his signature blinding grin wasn't enough. Four hours of presentation practice had left Atsumu utterly drained. His mentor, Aran, had assured him that his natural ‘hot, popular boy’ persona would make winning over the public a breeze. Atsumu didn't disagree; the ‘hot, popular boy’ was just an act he'd perfected over the years anyway.

He didn't reserve that practiced charm solely for the Capitol's glittering audiences, the roaring crowds, and the ever-watchful sponsors—though he was acutely aware of its power in winning their favor and securing lucrative sponsorships. The truth was, he'd been honing this carefully constructed persona since his formative years in Four. It was his social currency, the key to forging friendships, attracting the attention of girls, and cementing the image he projected to the world. It was a carefully calibrated performance, a role he slipped into as easily as breathing, designed to elicit admiration and ensure he was always seen in the most favourable light.

But beneath the surface, it was all a carefully constructed facade, a performance designed to shield his true self from the prying eyes of the world. He kept his genuine nature hidden, convinced that it was unlovable. He couldn't bear the thought of being seen as another quiet, melancholic twin—a lonely, sorrowful figure, as some might say. The only reason Atsumu garnered affection was because of the elaborate act he presented. He craved acceptance, yet even he couldn't bring himself to like the person he pretended to be. He knew Samu felt the same way.

Atsumu's expression softened, a flicker of vulnerability crossing his features. The memories were surfacing, unbidden.

Shit.

Suna snapped his fingers, jolting Atsumu from his daze. "Hey," he said, his tone laced with a hint of impatience. "Don't go passing out on us now. What's wrong? Feeling a bit queasy, or what?"

Atsumu didn't respond immediately. Instead, he leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees and burying his face in his hands. A frustrated groan escaped his lips, prompting Suna to roll his eyes skyward. Seriously, why was he always stuck with the dramatic ones?

"Alright," Suna sighed, finally putting his phone away. "Clearly, Aran or your prim and proper escort gave you a hard time during training and failed to step up as your mentors. Lucky for you, as a seasoned stylist, I've spent years listening to whiny tributes like you bitch and complain. So, spill it. What's got you so worked up?"

Grateful to have someone willing to listen, Atsumu pulled his face from his hands and ran a hand through his blonde hair, meeting Suna's gaze. "I know I'll be fine," he explained. "It's not the interview itself that's got me worried—well, I am worried about it, yeah. But it's not the 'gettin’ people ta like me' part that's really botherin’ me."

Suna rolled his eyes, already anticipating the dramatics. "Then what is it?" He asked, knowing Atsumu wouldn't elaborate unless prompted.

Atsumu began fidgeting with his fingers, his foot tapping against the floor in a rapid, restless rhythm. Suna noticed immediately. Atsumu wasn't one to get easily nervous, so whatever was eating at him must have been serious.

Atsumu avoided Suna's gaze, especially as he said, "What if..." he paused, sighing heavily. "What if they bring up Samu?"

"Samu?" Suna repeated, confused.

"Osamu," Atsumu corrected, finally meeting Suna's eyes. "My brother."

Understanding washed over Suna, the pieces falling into place. He understood completely now.

Suna crossed his arms. "You're a volunteer," he stated. "You volunteered for him, and that's how the Capitol sees you—the 'boy who took his brother's spot,' who seized his 'position.' You understand that, right?"

Atsumu looked away, a shadow crossing his face. "I guess I've just been trya avoid thinkin’ about it all this time, y'know?"

Suna nodded, a gesture of understanding. "I get that," he said. "But there's no avoi—"

"Suna," Atsumu interrupted, his voice laced with a raw honesty. "I don' think ya do get it.”

Suna studied Atsumu, his gaze narrowed in that familiar way. All he could see was Atsumu's intense, serious expression, a complete reversal from moments ago. One second he'd been consumed by paranoia, and now, just as suddenly, he seemed to have shed his nerves entirely. He was serious, almost as if Suna had said something to trigger a silent, simmering anger. But was he angry? Suna couldn't decipher the shift in his attitude.

After a long moment of unbroken eye contact, Atsumu sighed and stood up. "Ya don' understand at all, Suna," he began, walking towards the large wall mirror. He adjusted his outfit, his gaze fixed on his reflection. "None of you crazy Capitol freaks understand the kinda position I was in. I know I'm in the Career district, an’ I know we're known for volunteerin’, but I never wanted that day ta come."

Suna remained silent, listening intently. Clearly, Atsumu had been carrying these feelings for a long time.

Atsumu turned back to face Suna. "I'ma coward, Suna," he continued, his voice raw. "The games terrified me ever since I was a lil’ kid. I was told it was brave ta volunteer, that one day I'd be brave enough ta volunteer just like everyone else. But I grew up scared, fearin’ the idea of ever havin’ ta volunteer for a game where I knew I'd be killed."

He ran a shaky hand through his hair. Was Atsumu trembling? Was he actually this terrified? So many of the other tributes feared Atsumu more than they feared the games themselves, so what was he so afraid of? Suna suspected that the games weren't the true source of his fear.

There was something else, something deeper.

"’M terrified," Atsumu sighed, the word heavy with truth. "’M terrified of the games. So terrified that I even volunteered for my brother, my own flesh an’ blood, all because I couldn't stand the thought of Samu fightin’ in that arena."

He paused, and when he spoke again, Suna noticed the break in his voice.

"I jus—I just couldn't," he choked out. "I couldn't allow myself ta let Samu put himself through all that torture, all that misery! I—I couldn't. Especially not when I've treated him with nothin’ but shit all our lives."

Suna was puzzled by Atsumu's last words, assuming the two hadn't parted amicably. Clearly, something had transpired between him and his brother back in District Four, and Atsumu was burdened by guilt—an enormous weight of it.

Atsumu collapsed back onto the plush couch, his body sinking into the cushions as he shielded his face with his hands. A sigh, thick with despair, escaped his lips, and Suna watched him, head cocked slightly, a silent observer to his torment. He couldn't help but feel a pang of relief that he and his younger sister hadn't endured whatever tumultuous dynamic plagued Atsumu and his brother. It sounded like a labyrinth of unresolved emotions and unspoken resentments. A complex, tangled web that Suna couldn't even begin to fathom.

Suna sighed, lacing his fingers behind his head as he shifted his legs on the table, crossing his left ankle over the other. He let out a slow whistle, acknowledging the weight of Atsumu's outpouring.

"You've been carrying all that for quite some time," he finally said, his tone measured. "Haven't you?"

Atsumu remained silent, his face still hidden in his hands.

Suna rolled his eyes subtly before dropping his feet from the coffee table. Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his knees, his gaze fixed on the deflated figure of Atsumu. "Look," he began, clasping his hands together. "I can't give you the comfort you're seeking, Atsumu. As triggering as the mention of Samu—"

"Osamu." Atsumu interjected, correcting him.

"Of Osamu may be," Suna continued. "They're going to bring him up. Tendou will bring him up today, and you'll have to just go with it. The Capitol doesn't offer mercy, nor do they extend sympathy. They're indifferent to your pain, and unfortunately, there's nothing you can do to change that."

Atsumu felt a pang of disappointment at Suna's words, though he hadn't expected to hear anything comforting. Suna was right; he would have to endure it. The Capitol was a merciless entity, devoid of sympathy. They weren't people who cared, only a cruel audience expecting a good show.

Atsumu sighed. “Yer right,” he rubbed his forehead. “Yer right. I’m sorry–”

“Don’t be,” Suna cut him off. “Don’t be sorry.”

Atsumu stared, silent, allowing Suna to continue.

"You shouldn't ever apologise. And you can't afford to apologise in the arena either. Don't apologise when you show the Capitol what you're truly made of. Don't apologise when you prove you're not their puppet to be toyed with. And please, above all else, don't apologise when you win this stupid, fucking game."

Stupid game. Suna had called it a stupid game.

Initially, Atsumu had been skeptical of Suna. During their first encounter at the opening ceremony, Suna hadn't bothered to engage, hadn't shown the slightest interest in getting to know his partner. He'd merely tossed on his outfit, eyes glued to his phone, seemingly oblivious to the weight of the event. The only words he'd uttered that day were a curt, ‘Don't make us look bad.’

He hated him. Atsumu had truly hated him. But now, with this member of the Capitol having freely admitted his disapproval of the Hunger Games, a seed of curiosity began to sprout in Atsumu's mind. How many more Capitol citizens harboured similar beliefs? How many among the millions who resided here secretly agreed that the Hunger Games were nothing more than cruel entertainment? A cruel punishment for something people did so long ago, when they had every right to do so?

Atsumu, his fingers still fidgeting, had managed to regain a semblance of composure, much to his own surprise. He looked at Suna, a soft smile gracing his lips.

"Y'know," he muttered, pausing briefly. "Yer not all that bad, Suna."

For the first time, even Suna, the stylist who seemed utterly indifferent to Atsumu's existence, offered a smile in return. It was subtle, barely there, but undeniably present.

"I'm not allowed to bet," Suna said. "But if I could, I'd put my money on you."

Atsumu's smile widened at the unexpected compliment.

"Now," Suna said as he stood up, likely eager to steer the conversation away from sentimentality. "I want you to go out there, forget all this paranoia, and put on a good show. I don't need you losing your lunch up there."

With Atsumu fully prepared, he and Suna made their way to the interviews. As the elevator doors slid open, they were greeted by the sight of Jessie and her stylist, Aran, their mentor, and their effervescent escort. Even their prep team was crammed inside. Aran, ever the picture of understated elegance, looked dashing in his dark tuxedo, striking a balance between formality and restraint. Their escort, however, couldn't resist the allure of extravagance, flaunting a voluminous, flamboyant gown that demanded attention.

As they reached the designated floor, the elevator doors parted, revealing the assembled gathering of all twenty-four tributes. Representatives from District One, District Two, District Three, District Five, District Twelve—every district was accounted for. Atsumu and the others were swiftly organised into lines, arranged by gender and district, ready to take the stage. Andrea from District One was slated to go first, a stroke of luck that Atsumu couldn't help but envy. He was eager to get this over with, to put the interviews behind him. Yet, he knew he shouldn't complain too much about the wait. After all, he wasn't in Tobio Kageyama's shoes, who, as fate would have it, was scheduled last for his interview with Tendou that evening.

Atsumu could hear the roar of the crowd, a cacophony that suggested a massive turnout. Yet, it wasn't the sheer number of spectators that made him uneasy; it wasn't the thought of being watched by hundreds, even thousands, of people that stirred his fear. In truth, Atsumu was confident in his ability to navigate the situation. With his natural charm and impenetrable poker face, he knew he could easily win over the audience. He could only imagine the trepidation some of the other tributes must be feeling, knowing they lacked a concrete plan. Not everyone had the same strategy of playing up their attractiveness, popularity, or sex appeal; some were simply walking onto that stage, hoping to wing it—or, more likely, to crash and burn.

No, Atsumu's real worry was the mention of him, the reference to home, the invocation of his family. Why did it fill him with such dread? Why did such a simple acknowledgment send shivers down his spine, you ask?

Perhaps it's because it touches on something the Capitol can never truly grasp.

Atsumu took a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves. He plastered on his practiced, fake smile and listened as the host, Satori Tendou, made his flamboyant entrance.

"Welcome, welcome, my darling spectators!" Tendou sang, his voice dripping with theatrical flair as the crowd roared its approval. "Yes, yes! It is I, your fabulous host, Satori Tendou, here to sprinkle a little sparkle on the sixty-nine Annual Hunger Games! And what a treat we have for you tonight! In mere moments, my dears, the stars of our show—the tributes themselves—will grace us with their presence. Every single one of those darlings you've been dying to meet will be right here, before your very eyes!"

The crowd erupted into another frenzy of cheers, their excitement a deafening wave of anticipation. Pathetic, wasn't it?

Finally, after whipping the crowd into a frenzy—a yearly tradition for Tendou—he moved on to the interviews. He began by calling out Andrea, the girl from District One. Unlike the District One girl tributes of years past, Andrea hadn't embraced the sultry, seductive approach that many before her had. However, it was clear her stylist had pushed her in that direction.

Andrea was visibly nervous, her wave and smile a bit awkward as she walked onto the stage. Her long, beautiful navy blue dress seemed to shimmer with every step. Tendou, quick to pick up on her anxiety, was disarmingly kind and warm, doing his best to put her at ease. This surprised Atsumu, who had expected him to be just another Capitol asshole.

Andrea's interview was short and sweet. Each tribute's interview was designed to last between three and five minutes, as they had twenty-four people to get through. Wasting time simply wasn't an option.

When Oikawa stepped onto the stage, he practically shimmered in his ensemble. He strode forward, as confident as ever, yet seemingly more relaxed in his white and aqua blue costume. His white pants flared slightly at the bottom, accented by an aqua blue diamond pattern running down the sides. His blouse was also white, complementing his jacket, which featured the same striking aqua blue diamond pattern. A silver belt cinched perfectly around his trim waist, catching the light and flashing brilliantly for the crowd.

Tendou and the crowd were in awe, until Oikawa took a seat next to the Host. “Tooru Oikawa!” Tendou beamed. “We’ve all been so eager to meet you!”

The audience screamed, proving Tendou's point. "Is that so?” Oikawa smiled. “I've been just as eager. I’m always looking forward to meeting new people. So it’s a great honor to finally meet you, Tendou.”

Tendou tugged at his suit's collar with a single bony finger. “Oh hush, Tooru, you’ll have me all flustered,” he said, making the crowd laugh. “I can only imagine what your life is back home with all the ladies.”

“What can I say? I’ve always had that charm.” Oikawa winked.

Tendou looked at the crowd and waved a hand towards his face like a fan. “Oh, he sure does,” he whistled, turning back towards Oikawa. “I think we’ve got ourselves a bit of a ladies' man!”

Oikawa shrugged and smirked, inciting another wave of screams from the crowd. How did he do that? All he did was smile, and the audience adored him. He was definitely playing up a flirtatious persona. Either he was faking it, putting on a show to attract sponsors, or none of this was an act, and he really was just a bratty flirt.

Tendou chuckled. “Ah, there is something I've got to ask, though,” he said, leaning forward with exaggerated excitement. “Is there a special girl back home?”

The audience 'oohed' in anticipation, eager to know as much as Tendou. Oikawa flushed slightly, but quickly masked it with an easy chuckle. Tendou giggled, sounding like an enthusiastic high school girl about to confess her crush, sensing that there was indeed someone significant in Oikawa's life back in District One.

“Alright, alright!” Oikawa laughed, waving his hand dismissively at the audience. “There might be a certain someone.”

The crowd 'awed', and Tendou smiled knowingly. “Oh, I knew it!” he beamed. “Please, do tell us more.”

Oikawa chuckled. “There’s so much I could say,” he said. “If we weren’t limited to just five minutes, I would tell you everything.”

Bullshit, Atsumu thought, rolling his eyes. There's no girl. He's just playing it up to please the Capitol.

“Well,” Tendou sighed. “I’m sure there’s something you want to say to her, isn’t there?”

Oikawa nodded, feigning sincerity, and the crowd erupted in cheers as Tendou held the microphone to Oikawa’s mouth. Everyone in District One should be watching. Actually, all inhabitants in each district should have been watching, including this supposed 'girl', all watching and listening to Oikawa's fabricated love speech.

He cleared his throat, a genuine smile playing on his lips. “My love,” he began, his voice resonating with sincerity. “I made a vow to you, a vow I intend to keep. I plan on winning, winning so I can come back home to you. I will win, both because the thought of being back by your side, kissing your lips, is what keeps me going,” he then chuckled lightly, though the sound was laced with a palpable sadness. “And because if I were to die in that arena, I know you’d never let me live it down.”

The audience laughed at his final sentence, though Atsumu suspected the humor was unintentional. While the Capitol reveled in the spectacle, the people of District One sympathised with the Mayor's son. He was determined to win, even if it meant facing a lonely homecoming.

Finally, Oikawa concluded, his voice thick with emotion, “I’ll be home soon. I promise, my love.”

Tendou dedicated the remainder of Oikawa's interview to probing into his privileges as the Mayor's son and his strategies for survival in the arena. As his time concluded, Saeko stepped forward. She looked stunning in her attire, yet her discomfort was palpable. Encumbered by heavy makeup and an immodest display of skin, she appeared distinctly uneasy.

Kuroo, representing District Two, proved just as adept as Oikawa in captivating Tendou and the audience. His mentor had clearly trained him to leverage his sex appeal. Blessed with beautiful looks, he was expected to charm with his beauty and confident pronouncements.

Kenma, in stark contrast, presented himself as awkward and visibly nervous throughout his interview. Yet, he inadvertently elicited laughter from Tendou and the audience.

“Tell us, Kenma,” Tendou would inquire. “What are your thoughts on the outfit you're wearing tonight?”

“Well, considering District Three lacks any nearby shopping malls, I’d have to say this is the most expensive outfit I’ve ever worn.”

Kenma's candidness struck a chord, and the audience responded with amusement. Though he found their reaction slightly irritating, he refrained from protesting, aware that it was crucial to attract sponsors. Thus, he maintained his honesty for the remainder of the interview, a quality the audience found inexplicably hilarious.

Atsumu's turn was drawing near. Jessie was currently on stage, engaging with Tendou in a manner that suggested a close friendship. Atsumu found it peculiar, particularly since Jessie wasn't known for her affability. She had consistently made it clear that she wished to remain distant from Atsumu, preferring to train with Aran and maintaining her distance from the boy, even during meals. This was likely a deliberate choice to avoid getting entangled in alliances, especially with someone like Atsumu.

Eventually, Jessie's time concluded. She offered the crowd another wave, her smile radiant, and departed with a sense of accomplishment, confident that she had secured a number of sponsors. Now, it was up to Atsumu to see if his manufactured charisma could dazzle the crowd and earn him a respectable number of sponsors as well.

Suddenly, Atsumu heard Tendou's voice again. "From District Four, everyone," he announced. "I want everyone to give a welcoming round of applause for Atsumu Miya!"

Before he fully registered what was happening, Atsumu found himself walking onto the stage. He briefly surveyed the scene, maintaining his signature smile that seemed to captivate everyone. The lights were so intense that he could barely make out his surroundings, but he knew that the screaming crowd, thousands strong, was there, clapping excitedly for him.

Suddenly, he found himself face-to-face with the devilish host. Tendou's smile stretched, the corners of his mouth nearly reaching his dark red eyes, as he extended his hand to shake Atsumu's. Without hesitation, Atsumu clasped his hand, immediately noting the feel of his rough skin and bandaged fingers.

Eventually, they settled into their seats, and the crowd quieted down. All eyes were on him, fixated on the disarming smile that everyone seemed to believe, just like always.

"Atsumu," Tendou began with a grin. "You certainly captivated the audience during the opening ceremony. You drew quite a bit of attention. Did you know that?"

"That's surprisin'," Atsumu whistled softly. "I wasn' plannin' ta do anythin' all that flashy that day."

"Yet you still had the crowd screaming your name!" Tendou exclaimed eagerly. "Heck, you even got yourself some roses."

"I did get myself some roses, didn' I?" Atsumu mused. "I actually managed ta catch one. I've kept it ever since. I've actually got it on me right now."

As he spoke, he produced a crimson rose from his pocket, holding it up for the audience to see, eliciting enthusiastic cheers. Over a mere flower? It seemed the Capitol found amusement in anything, he thought, even child murder.

Atsumu spun the rose between his fingers, a playful glint in his eyes. "It's actually brought me quite the luck," he lied, confident that the crowd was gullible enough to believe him. "As cheesy as that sounds. But I haven't gotten any pimples ever since I caught the flower! Either this thing is magic, or the Capitol really does have the best skincare products best suitable for my skin."

Tendou chuckled, clearly amused. "I vote that the rose is magic!"

"I vote that the person who threw it ta me is magic," Atsumu remarked, his tone laced with flirtation. He brought the flower to his nose, inhaling deeply in a more seductive gesture. "So ta whoever it is who threw it ta me, yer a true lifesaver."

A wave of voices crashed over Atsumu, the audience a sea of excitement. Some chanted his name, while others playfully shouted, ‘I threw the flower!’ or ‘Atsumu, I'm the magical one! Pimples will be a thing of the past! Please date me!’

Tendou clapped, a wide grin on his face. "Ah, the perks of being unfairly attractive, folks!" He declared, clearly enjoying the chaos.

Atsumu flashed a practiced smirk, his teeth glinting under the lights. Shifting his weight, he casually rested an ankle on his knee, a simple gesture that the audience inexplicably adored. They truly believed anything Atsumu did was attractive. Sponsors must be eating this up, he thought. They sure were making this easy.

Atsumu appeared completely at ease, navigating the questions and the interview with practiced charm. Just a few more minutes of playing the cocky flirt, and he'd be done. He wanted this to be over. He needed this to be over.

The crowd quieted, and Tendou turned to Atsumu with a knowing smile. "So," he began, the shift in topic obvious. "Atsumu, you're one of our volunteers."

For a fleeting moment, Atsumu's mask slipped. But as quickly as it vanished, his usual poker face returned, masking the breach. He hoped no one noticed.

Maintaining his practiced tone, Atsumu smiled. "I am," he confirmed. "I am, yeah."

"Now, usually I'd inquire why you volunteered this year rather than next, especially since you're only seventeen, correct?" Tendou paused as Atsumu nodded. "Most tributes from the Career Districts who volunteer are eighteen, or they have a compelling reason to do so."

Atsumu maintained his signature expression, bracing himself. He knew what was coming.

"I think we all know your reason." Tendou continued, drawing out the suspense.

Shit, here we go.

"You volunteered not for the fame, not for the glory," he paused for effect. "But... for someone very dear to you. And that's your brother, isn't it, Atsumu?"

There it was. This time, Atsumu's carefully constructed facade crumbled. His lips parted as if to speak, but no words came. It was happening again—the memories flooding back at the worst possible moment.

Tendou tilted his head, concern etching his features. "Atsumu?" he asked gently. "Are you still with us, buddy?"

Atsumu remained unresponsive, lost in his thoughts.

"Atsumu?" Tendou repeated, his voice a bit louder this time.

Still nothing.

"Atsumu...?"

Silence.

"Atsumu..."

Just as the silence stretched on—

"Atsumu!"

The sharp call jolted him, a new voice cutting through the fog in his mind. A familiar voice.

It wasn't Tendou.

His eyes darted around, taking in the surroundings, and a wave of realisation washed over him. He was no longer in the Capitol, no longer seated with the Host of the Games, facing a sea of faces as he endured a vapid interview before the impending games. No. He was somewhere else entirely. A place far more familiar, more comforting. A place like home.

Atsumu scanned his surroundings. The late afternoon sun, partially obscured by distant green mountains, painted the sky in hues of pink and orange. Clouds drifted lazily, and a sense of tranquility filled the air. He stood barefoot in shallow water, pants rolled up to his knees, a fishing spear in hand. Understanding dawned on him as he recognised the scene.

“Oi, Tsumu!” called the familiar voice again. “Did ya hear me or what? Or are ya finally goin’ deaf?”

Atsumu turned to see his twin brother approaching. Osamu stopped just before the water's edge, wary of stepping into the shallows with his shoes on and his pants unrolled.

Atsumu grumbled. "Ah, Samu! I had that fish right where I wanted him!" he whined. "Ya scared the lil' guy off!"

"Don' wanna hear ya bellyachin' when you pull the same sneaky crap on me," Osamu scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Ma wants ya inside. Says dinner's 'bout ready."

Atsumu turned back to the water, gripping his spear tighter. "Alright, alright, I'll be there in a sec.” He said, refocusing on his hunt.

"A 'sec' my ass," his brother retorted. "Y'know how Ma is. She ain't lettin' me back inside 'less I drag yer sorry ass along with me."

"Guess you'll just have ta wait out here with me then," Atsumu smirked, a glint in his eye. Osamu groaned. "C'mon, grab a spear an’ help me out, would ya?"

Osamu knew arguing with Atsumu was pointless. His twin was a stubborn jerk who always got his way and somehow dragged him into his antics.

Grumbling, Osamu began to take off his shoes, his annoyance clear. "Asshole.” He muttered under his breath, earning a snicker from Atsumu.

Carefully placing his shoes on the shoreline, Osamu hiked up his pants. He then retrieved a spear from the sand and waded into the water beside his brother. A hush fell over them as they both focused intently on the task at hand: spearing a fish, or at least something with gills.

Tasks like this always demanded intense focus. Fortunately, the twins had spent their entire lives along the shoreline of the fishing district, Four. From a young age, they were immersed in preparing for careers centered around fishing, learning the necessary skills and understanding the expectations that came with such a livelihood.

Their father, a seasoned fisherman himself, consistently offered them extra support. He often embarked on more significant expeditions, sailing beyond the reef into calm waters or fierce thunderstorms—ventures the twins weren't quite ready for. At seventeen, they were still young. Moreover, their mother vehemently opposed the idea of her sons facing such peril. She couldn't bear the thought of them venturing out on such a dangerous journey and never returning.

His job was perilous, but the pay was substantial. Even their mother, a fishmonger, earned a considerable income. She specialised in selling specific types of seafood, which she skillfully prepared behind the scenes before displaying them for sale. It was a relatively easy job for her; though she initially gagged at the strong odor, she had grown accustomed to the smell of seafood over time.

Atsumu and Osamu were still in training, but by the end of the following year, when they turned eighteen, they hoped to start earning an income. They wanted to contribute to their parents' livelihood, not because they were struggling financially, but because they were eager to support the people who had nurtured them their entire lives. They were particularly skilled with money, a significant advantage of growing up in one of the Career districts.

Atsumu's eyes locked onto a fish darting around his legs. He clicked his tongue, a sly grin spreading across his face. "Say, bro," he began, his voice low and playful. "First one ta snag a fish, the other's gotta eat it raw."

Osamu scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief. "The day ya grow up is the day world peace is declared, I swear."

Atsumu hummed in response. "Meanin’ the day the Hunger Games finally kick the bucket?"

Osamu didn't respond to the comment. Though Atsumu had spoken casually, Osamu immediately sensed the underlying annoyance in his tone. He was always perceptive like that. Atsumu was skilled at masking his true feelings, but no one could hide their disdain for the Games, not even Atsumu, the twin known for feigning his own emotions.

The Reaping was only weeks away. The twins had avoided discussing it, as neither of them enjoyed the topic. It was the same every year; they preferred to remain silent about what would happen if one of them was chosen as tribute. Again, year after year, neither was selected, and neither volunteered. They had little reason to worry, yet they always harbored secret anxieties.

Of course, both Osamu and Atsumu were worried. Standing in the crowd of kids their age, shaking and sweating as they watched the same woman from the Capitol draw names from the bowl, that familiar sense of dread washed over them each year. Nonetheless, neither of them was ever selected. The only real concern they had was the possibility of volunteering.

Districts One, Two, and Four held a unique distinction, recognised for their career tributes who eagerly volunteered. Atsumu and Osamu, as residents of District Four, were expected to follow suit eventually. However, beneath his facade of confidence, Atsumu was a fearful coward, harbouring no intention of ever volunteering, a truth known to both him and Osamu. He merely donned that practiced, confident smile in front of everyone else, a mask to conceal his deep-seated fear of the Games and the brutal arena that awaited.

Osamu had secretly entertained the possibility of volunteering one day. He intended to put his name forward next year, upon reaching the age of eighteen, but he kept his plans hidden from his brother. He knew Atsumu well enough to anticipate his reaction—a complete upheaval of the situation, fueled by his brother's volatile nature and protective instincts. The thought of revealing his intentions and facing Atsumu's likely outburst was enough to keep Osamu's decision closely guarded.

As Osamu turned back to Atsumu, he was met with the sight of his brother holding his spear triumphantly aloft, a freshly caught fish writhing at the tip. Atsumu's grin was radiant, a clear indication of his success. The triumphant smile shifted from the fish to his twin, and a mischievous glint ignited in his eyes. In an instant, he was in pursuit, brandishing the still-wriggling fish like a playful weapon.

"Open up, Samu! Fresh catch comin' at ya!" Atsumu hollered, his voice filled with playful menace. Osamu burst into laughter, his feet already pounding the path towards their house. He knew his only hope of refuge lay with their parents, the only ones capable of diverting his psychotic twin's fishy assault.

Yeah... Unfortunately, Atsumu's reaction was as predictable as it was dramatic. He really would flip the tables if he found out.

So, Osamu would continue to keep quiet...

...for now.

…

“Atsumu?”

Atsumu snapped back to reality, his eyes darting around, remembering he was in the Capitol. He glanced around, his gaze settling on the audience watching him with concern as he sat in the middle of an interview with Tendou. Atsumu blinked a few times, shaking off the last vestiges of his trance. He looked at Tendou, whose face was etched with concern. The expression seemed so out of place on him, like a familiar painting hung upside down. Maybe Atsumu was just too used to seeing him smile like the devil.

Realising he had Atsumu's attention, Tendou said, "Atsumu, I'm afraid that's all the time we have."

Already? Atsumu hadn't realised how quickly time had flown, but he wasn't complaining. He couldn't wait to get off the stage. He rose from his seat, shook Tendou's hand, and made his way to the seats at the back. As he sat down, he noticed his hands were shaking. He balled them into fists and exhaled a shaky sigh, trying his best to clear his mind.

Something had happened back on stage, something Atsumu felt powerless to prevent. He didn't know what was going on, but he had a terrible feeling that his memories were becoming more vivid...

More vivid, and more torturous, as if the universe wanted Atsumu to wallow in his own misery, fully aware that everything he did to Samu was entirely his fault.

Chapter Text

Tadashi was grateful when the interviews quickly concluded. He couldn't stomach sitting there in his constricting suit any longer, forced to listen to the devilish host yap on as if his mouth was disconnected from his brain. But as relieved as he was to escape the present, he wasn’t looking forward to tomorrow either.

Tadashi wouldn't say he did too badly during the interview with Tendou, all things considered. He'd been nervous, certainly, but not to the point where he squandered his last chance of gaining sponsors. He'd just tried to follow the instructions of his mentor and escort, doing his best to adhere to their advice. They wanted him to project confidence, but that wasn't who he was at his core—he couldn't even convincingly feign it. So, instead, he took a more gentle, kinder approach. Surprisingly, it seemed to work, as Tendou and he appeared to get along well during the interview. Then again, maybe Tendou was just naturally good at getting along with everyone; Tadashi couldn't quite tell.

Tendou got along with Bokuto from District Five surprisingly well, despite being a giggling mess throughout their exchange. Bokuto was a natural comedian, interjecting jokes here and there to elicit laughter from the crowd, connecting with both Tendou and the audience with an ease that Tadashi envied. Tadashi wished he possessed that same effortless charm, but he knew he was far too awkward to pull it off.

Kiyoko and Akaashi, on the other hand, were the complete opposite of Bokuto. They were both regarded as nearly godly and heavenly figures. Quiet throughout the interview and the three days of training, Tadashi believed that was precisely what people admired about them. Their quiet beauty and flawless features only added to their mysterious personas. Their interviews were similar, primarily discussing their strategies for the arena, but without delving into great depth, as that would reveal their plans to every other tribute. It wouldn't be much of a strategy then, would it?

All Tadashi knew was that they were dangerous—quiet, silent, undeniably dangerous.

Hinata was noticeably more nervous than Tadashi, which surprised him. Given Hinata's reputation as a people person, Tadashi would have expected him to be far more energetic and confident in front of such a large crowd. Tadashi had witnessed the redhead engaging in lively conversations with Atsumu from District Four on several occasions, often laughing gleefully and speaking in his usual exuberant tone, which Atsumu would quickly emulate. So Tadashi was taken aback when Hinata stepped onto the stage, pale as ever, barely able to shake Tendou's hand due to his own trembling figure. He must have had something weighing on his mind, or perhaps he was simply suffering from a severe case of stage fright.

It was clear Yachi had stage fright, making her performance arguably the weakest of the twenty-four tributes. Tadashi hated to admit it, but he doubted she would garner many sponsors. She stuttered and struggled over her words, her voice quivering in sync with her entire body. She also seemed terrified of Tendou, despite the host's efforts to calm her down. At least Tendou tried to make her feel more comfortable, even if his attempts proved unsuccessful in the end.

Tobio's interview was last, given his district affiliation with District Twelve. He carried an intimidating presence, even though he remained mostly silent. Tadashi sensed an underlying lack of confidence in the young tribute as he stood on stage, but the interview took an unexpected turn when Tendou seemed to infer that Tobio was something of a bad boy back in his district.

That assessment was easily comprehensible, given the stories Tobio shared with Tendou about his frequent detentions at school and physical violence with peers, indicative of a quick temper. To Tadashi, however, these accounts sounded more like the actions of a misunderstood teenager grappling with anger issues. If Tadashi recalled correctly, Tobio had suffered significant loss—his parents died in a mining accident, and his grandfather passed away to a severe illness. All he had left was his older sister, who was likely grieving just as deeply as Tobio.

Everyone here carried the weight of past suffering, or at least had known it intimately. Tadashi understood this burden all too well, having lost his own parents at a young age. Since then, he'd been forced to fend for himself, eventually running away from the orphanage, unable to bear the idea of remaining within its walls. Life in his district had been harsh, marked by destitution and the absence of caring parents. With no one to rely on, he had to provide for himself.

In school, Tadashi had a few friends, but he faced far more bullies who targeted him for his appearance and sensitive nature. Over time, however, Tadashi learned to tune them out, a skill he acquired through years of practice. He would sometimes join his friends on hunting trips in the woods after school, but the act of killing animals always left him feeling nauseous. He was often branded a weakling for his inability to take a life, but he simply lacked the stomach for it. Instead, he bartered with his friends and others, trading bread for a squirrel or, on occasion, money. With these meager earnings, he would venture into the markets to purchase necessities like food and supplies before heading back home.

The place he lived could hardly be called a home. It was a cramped wooden shack, so small and dilapidated that it could easily be mistaken for someone's neglected shed. The structure appeared to be on its last legs, seemingly moments away from collapsing onto Tadashi as he slept on his worn-out mattress on the floor. It was far from an ideal living situation, but it was all he had. So, Tadashi had no choice but to accept this place as his home.

By now, you're probably cataloging Tadashi's weaknesses, right? He can't hunt, lacking both the strength and the heart to kill an animal, which will undoubtedly make him a soft target in the arena. Without hunting skills, how will he manage to survive with an empty stomach? He used to be overly sensitive to bullying, often breaking down in tears when things got too intense. Tadashi knows all too well that tears won't save him when someone puts a knife to his throat.

He had numerous weaknesses, but the more pressing question was… what were his strengths?

Tadashi was aware of his strengths. He knew what he excelled at—what he could do that set him apart from the other tributes. However, possessing a few skills was no guarantee of victory.

He was acutely aware of his inferiority to the other competitors, a fact evident to both himself and everyone else. He knew he was the weakest in the gymnasium during those three days of training. Compared to Kuroo and Bokuto, the strongest men present, he was feeble. Compared to Saeko, the strongest girl, he was weak. Kenma, the sneakiest of the bunch? Tadashi was no match. Akaashi? Weak. Kiyoko? Also weak.

They all undoubtedly shared the same sentiment about him. He'd noticed some of the tributes eyeing him from a distance, always scoffing dismissively whenever he attempted to use weapons. Once, the Kageyama siblings watched him completely wipe out, tripping over one of the obstacle courses and falling flat on his face. Tobio seemed particularly scornful, while Miwa looked more apologetic, but either way, neither of them were people Tadashi wanted to engage with.

Of all the people who had observed him throughout practice, Tadashi couldn't help but notice the tall blonde who constantly eyed him. Tsukishima from District Eleven was undeniably intimidating. With his height and distinctly unpleasant demeanor, Tadashi would argue that he was the scariest guy in the gymnasium.

Tadashi was certainly more scared of him, especially since he'd noticed the way Tsukishima studied him with nothing but stark judgment. If Tadashi practiced throwing knives at targets, Tsukishima was already watching, poised to highlight his weaknesses. If Tadashi was spinning a spear in his grasp, Tsukishima would convey, with his piercing gaze, that he was too slow. He didn't need to verbally confront Tadashi to express his criticism; his harsh expression conveyed everything Tadashi needed to know.

For a while, Tadashi felt an inexplicable urge to talk to the boy from Eleven. He wasn't sure why, especially since Tadashi preferred to avoid mean-spirited people who seemed untrustworthy. Besides, even if he tried to initiate a conversation, he knew Tsukishima would likely reject any alliance proposal. Yet, a small part of Tadashi wondered if Tsukishima had been staring at him for the past three days not merely to observe his shortcomings, but also to explore the possibility of becoming something more than just potential murderers. Perhaps he, too, harboured a desire to form an alliance.

Now, you're likely thinking, ‘Tadashi, honey, you're being dumb. Why would the surly blonde from District Eleven seek an alliance with the perceived weakest, freckled face in the category?’ True. You’re right. No one, including the 'surly blonde,' would want to align with someone destined to perish within the first ten seconds. Moreover, even if Tadashi mustered the courage to approach him, it would be impossible now. Tadashi has observed Tsukishima associating with Kuroo and Bokuto, implying his integration into their established alliance. Thus, whatever proposition Tadashi might have entertained, the opportune moment has long since passed.

Tadashi was once again left to his own devices.

He exhaled shakily. It was another thought that stirred unease within him, though it shouldn't have. He had always been alone, fighting for survival back in District Seven. What could truly differentiate the Hunger Games from his life back home, other than the obvious fact that people were actively trying to kill each other?

Tadashi stared up at the ceiling, sleep an elusive prospect. What was he going to do? He possessed no physical strength, no allies, and no discernible plan. He was screwed. Death seemed inevitable, regardless of his efforts, and at this point, Tadashi questioned whether he even had the will to try any longer.

He squeezed his eyes shut. Sleep, Tadashi. The sooner you sleep, the sooner it'll be tomorrow. The day you’d likely die.

Maybe you were dragged into the Hunger Games for a reason: to be just another nameless participant, killed and forgotten, barely acknowledged because everyone was too busy watching the bigger, more impressive players.

And Tadashi was certainly not one of them..

He was simply another soul destined to be perpetually overlooked, never truly seen for who he was.

…

Nekomata's words echoed in Kuroo's mind as he walked down the hallway.

‘Stay calm,’ he had urged. ‘Don't panic, don't stress yourself out, and focus on what you'll do when you're standing on that pedestal. And for heaven's sake, don't step off before the countdown reaches zero—they will blow you sky high. Just please, do your best, and come back alive.’

Just moments ago, Kuroo had been bidding farewell to his mentor and escort before being ushered into the shadowy hovercraft, along with the twenty-three other tributes. He and Bokuto had exchanged glances from across the space, communicating volumes through their expressions, before they were all injected with trackers. It stung, Kuroo had to admit, but he knew he would be facing far worse in mere minutes.

When the hovercraft shuddered to a halt, settling on solid ground again, Kuroo was transported into a sterile room, buried deep beneath the arena's surface. He walked down a long, echoing corridor, searching for the designated chamber where he was meant to await his ascent. He knew that there would be a transparent tube waiting for him—a gleaming cylinder that would rocket him upwards, delivering him directly into the heart of the arena. A shiver creeped down his spine—realising that this was it, the final moment before confrontation, before the games finally began.

Finally, Kuroo entered the small chamber and spotted the tube at the far end of the room, as well as his stylist, Yaku, already waiting for him. A soft wave of relief washed over Kuroo, a small comfort in knowing he wasn't entirely alone in these final moments of anticipation. He offered Yaku a small smile, a silent acknowledgment of their shared anxiety as they both waited for the inevitable moment when Kuroo would have to stand inside that tube.

Kuroo approached, his steps measured, a touch slower than he intended. Yaku greeted him with a few encouraging words and a reassuring pat on the shoulder before beginning to dress Kuroo in his arena attire. He was outfitted in practical tawny trousers, a standard black shirt, soft leather boots, and a thin, hooded black jacket, which Kuroo appreciated immensely. The jacket's material, he knew, was specially developed to reflect heat, a detail that offered a sliver of comfort. It would be useful when the arena grew cold in the night.

A heavy silence hung between them as Yaku dressed him. It was an unusual quiet; their interactions were typically filled with banter and playful arguments. Kuroo was usually the instigator, teasing Yaku to the point of food fights erupting across the dinner table, always with a joke ready to lighten the mood, much to Saeko's exasperated grumbling. But now, they weren't sitting at that familiar dinner table, surrounded by laughter and chaos. They stood in a sterile room, on the precipice of the arena, preparing to say goodbye.

Would this goodbye be temporary, or would it echo for eternity?

Because today marked the beginning of the Hunger Games.

Kuroo suppressed a sigh, acutely aware of the quickening rhythm of his heart.

Yaku zipped up Kuroo's heat-reflecting jacket. "Can you promise me something?" He finally asked, cutting through the heavy silence.

Kuroo remained quiet for a moment, then offered a weak nod, signaling for Yaku to continue.

Yaku adjusted the jacket. "Promise me," he repeated, his voice firm. "Promise me that you won't lose sight of what truly matters when you're in that arena."

Confusion flickered across Kuroo's face, but he replied, "I'm going to win, Yaku."

"I know you are," his stylist affirmed, his gaze intense. "You'll win because you'll promise me that staying true to yourself will always be your top priority. Not once in that arena do I want your head clouded by unnecessary thoughts."

Kuroo's confusion deepened. Yaku's words didn't feel like encouragement to win; they felt like an order. A command to win, or else face a death that would cause more heartbreak than necessary.

Kuroo held Yaku's gaze, his expression unwavering. "Yaku, it sounds to me like there's something more to what you're saying," he said, his tone serious and direct. "If you've got something to tell me, just tell me."

‘Sixty seconds,’ an automated female voice announced. Kuroo knew this was the time he had left before he had to stand in the tube that had just slid open, ready for him to enter. But Kuroo didn't look over at it. He kept his gaze locked on Yaku, the dwindling seconds forcing Yaku to finally speak.

"I've never agreed with what the Capitol's been doing," Yaku said, his voice laced with conviction. "The games are cruel and wrong. It's torture, plain and simple. For you, the tributes, their families, everyone in the twelve districts. These games need to be stopped. They have be stopped."

Kuroo had always sensed that Yaku was different from the other Capitol members. He didn't treat him like dirt, like just another tribute to be broken. Yaku treated him with a respect he didn't expect—like he wanted to be seen as a person, not a pawn.

Yaku was different because he was right. He knew what was right and wrong, even if he was part of the Capitol. He wasn’t one of those mindless Capitol freaks who reveled in watching children slaughter each other. Yaku had a moral compass, and it always pointed true north.

"I've met the Head Game Maker," Yaku continued. "He's ruthless. He won't hold back. He didn't hold back on the tributes before you, and there's no reason he'll start now. So when I say you can't lose focus on winning this stupid game, I'm dead serious, Kuroo. Don't let yourself get distracted, whether that means from Sakusa's dirty tricks, or from another participant, ally or not. No one gets to make you lose sight of what really matters. No one,” he paused, his tone turning sharp. "Am I understood?"

Kuroo stared, finding himself without words. Yaku was intimidating, sure, but this felt like a new side of him—a more serious one, a side that suggested he genuinely cared for Kuroo. Still, a part of Kuroo remained puzzled, unable to fully grasp what Yaku was trying to convey. It was clear there was more beneath the surface, something he couldn’t express directly. Kuroo didn’t understand. However...

"Yeah," Kuroo managed, nodding slowly. "I understand."

Yaku offered a faint smile, patting Kuroo's shoulder.

‘Forty seconds,’ the automated voice announced again, making Kuroo's heartbeat spike. It also forced Yaku to rush on.

Yaku crossed his arms, a slight edge to his voice. "Lev and I were a thing, you know."

"Called it." Kuroo muttered, earning a glare from Yaku before he continued.

“Before the rivalry, things were different. Peaceful is kinda a word for it. I felt happy? Being with him?” he paused, sighing. “I don’t know.. After things went downhill, I couldn’t get myself to believe I was ever that happy with him..”

Kuroo's expression softened, a wave of empathy washing over him. Looking at Yaku, it was as if he could see past his usual stoicism, right through to his core. He was revealing a vulnerable part of himself, sharing raw emotions and delving into a painful past. It was clear—Lev had hurt him, deeply.

Driven by a need to understand Yaku more fully before their time ran out, possibly forever, Kuroo asked gently, "What happened?"

Yaku's expression hardened, a shadow passing over his face. "Terushima," he said, the name coming out like venom. "The sixty-seventh Victor. He was Lev's tribute two years ago. Kid was only fifteen when he won. Real nasty piece of work in the arena."

"Yeah, I remember him," Kuroo said, clicking his tongue. "Even little sixteen-year-old me wouldn't have had the guts to face that guy," he shivered. "He was ruthless."

"He was ruthless," Yaku echoed, his voice barely a whisper. Then, he looked down, his expression softening with a hint of pain. "Ruthless to the point it got way out of hand."

Kuroo fell silent, sensing that Yaku was about to reveal the truth about what had happened between him and Lev. And somehow, it all revolved around Terushima, the 67th Victor. So, Yaku spoke, and Kuroo listened.

"Terushima formed an alliance with just one person: Rain," he clarified. "She was the female tribute from District Two, and I happened to be assigned as her stylist. She was really kind, almost to a fault. And, Terushima, on the other hand... he was mean."

Yaku's crossed arms tightened around himself, resembling more of a protective embrace now. As he delved into his memories, he seemed to be grounding himself, seeking solace. Clearly, this Rain girl held a significant place in Yaku's heart. 

"Terushima and Rain, those two, they really knew how to work together in the arena," Yaku went on, a certain weight in his tone. "They were actually pretty efficient. Rain, she was strong for a fifteen-year-old, stronger than some wrestlers I've seen. And Terushima, he was quick, almost like a shadow, taking out the other tributes like they were nothing. They were good, real good, until..." he sighed, a puff of air that seemed to carry a heavy memory. "Until Rain, well, she kinda lost focus. You could see it in her eyes, the way she looked at him, like winning didn't matter as much anymore. One day during the games, everything changed when Terushima just kissed her, out of nowhere. And when I say Terushima was mean, I'm telling you, he was mean, Kuroo."

Kuroo's expression shifted to confusion. "I don't get it," he said, tilting his head slightly. "What's so bad about him falling in love?"

Yaku shot Kuroo a look, a mixture of exasperation and sadness in his eyes. "The affection he showed Rain wasn't real, Kuroo."

Kuroo's brows furrowed deeper. "What are you saying?"

Yaku sighed, his gaze dropping to the floor again. His arms tightened around himself.

"Something about Lev changed that year," Yaku explained. "He was suddenly way more into winning than I'd ever seen him. Usually, he just kicked back and enjoyed the games, not really caring how his tributes did. But that year, it was like a switch flipped. Lev... Lev told Terushima something he shouldn't have, and Terushima actually went through with it. I know the games are about killing each other to prove you're the best, but some things are just too messed up to bring into it."

A wave of melancholy washed over Kuroo's face as the pieces began to fall into place. He remembered being sixteen, sitting with his dad in the living room, eyes glued to the television. They were watching the 67th Hunger Games, an annual spectacle of brutality they were forced to witness. The screen showed the final, desperate struggle between the last three tributes: Terushima, Rain, and the boy from District Eleven.

Terushima ended both tributes' lives that day, but there was something particularly brutal about Rain's death. It was almost cruel, heart-wrenching to witness. Perhaps it would have been less painful if he hadn't smiled as he plunged his sword into her already weakened body. She cried, not just from the agony of the sword piercing her stomach and the lifeblood draining from her, but from the crushing realisation that she had been foolish enough to fall for someone who craved only fame and victory.

Terushima was mean. He was a monster. And in Yaku’s eyes, Lev was just as culpable.

Yaku studied Kuroo's face, recognising the dawning understanding in his eyes. "After that, I was just so upset with Lev," he continued, sighing. "I knew he was involved somehow. I wasn't stupid. And I still can't shake the question of why he had to do that to her. Why Rain? Was it because she was my tribute? Did he think that no one in the Capitol grieves for real people?" he paused, drawing his arms tighter around himself. "I hated him. I couldn't forgive him."

Kuroo gazed down at Yaku. He had always known there was a deep-seated reason for the animosity towards Lev, a history of conflict simmering beneath the surface. But he had never imagined the roots of their conflict ran this deep. The Hunger Games were inherently cruel, designed to pit young people against each other in a fight to the death, but the heartbreak Terushima inflicted upon Rain was a different kind of cruelty altogether. And knowing Lev's involvement in such a tragedy, Yaku's anger was not only justified, but understandable.

Perhaps, if Terushima and Lev hadn't been in the picture, the girl might have emerged victorious. She had been described as strong and independent. Had she been on her own, she might still be alive today. It made Kuroo question whether he was doing the right thing by forming an alliance with Bokuto, Kenma, and that sour blonde boy from Eleven.

Was this what Yaku was trying to tell him?

Yaku still wore a mask of sorrow, prompting Kuroo to break the heavy silence. "She sounded like she was a nice girl.” He offered softly.

Yaku didn't smile. "She was,” he mumbled. “She really was."

‘Twenty seconds,’ the automated voice droned, its words echoing the inevitable. Time had run out, and Kuroo knew he had to go. Both he and Yaku knew this.

Kuroo's heart hammered against his ribs, reminding him of the danger that awaited him. Before he could fully process the urgency of the moment, Yaku pulled him into a tight embrace, offering one last moment of reassurance, repeating the words of encouragement he had spoken before.

"You'll be okay," Yaku said. "Remember, don't lose sight of what really matters most."

Win. That was the unspoken command, the underlying message. He was telling Kuroo to win, to emerge victorious, no matter the cost.

The brief embrace ended, and Kuroo began his slow march towards the tube. ‘Fifteen seconds,’ the automated voice announced, relentlessly counting down the dwindling moments he had left—perhaps the moments he had left to live. He stepped inside, and with a sudden hiss, the door sealed shut behind him. There was no turning back now. Perhaps there never had been a choice to begin with.

He glanced back at Yaku, who offered a reassuring smile. But the smile didn't quite reach his eyes; it was strained, forced. Kuroo could see the effort it took for Yaku to wear that comforting expression. It looked as though Yaku needed reassurance more than he did. But that’s where Kuroo would be lying.

Kuroo felt a surge of panic grip him within the confines of the glass tube. His breath came in rapid, shallow gasps, and the frantic rhythm of his heart echoed in his ears, a deafening tattoo against his ribs. His hands trembled uncontrollably, and a sheen of sweat coated his skin. As he felt the platform begin to rise, his anxieties soared with it, each upward inch amplifying the fear that threatened to consume him.

He fixed his gaze on Yaku one last time, holding onto that image until it was swallowed by the encroaching darkness. This was it. Kuroo inhaled deeply, then shook his hands, trying to dispel the last vestiges of his fear. This was it.

This was the moment the Hunger Games finally began.

Chapter Text

Before Tsukishima could fully process what was happening, the platform beneath him shuddered to a halt. He was met with the harsh, blinding glare of the sun—realising he was standing in the arena alongside the twenty-three other tributes.

He forced himself to ignore his ragged breathing, his eyes darting around to take in his surroundings. He stood in a vast arena of lush green grass and towering trees, an endless forest framed by distant mountains. To his right, he could hear the rhythmic crash of the ocean. Given the nearby shoreline, there had to be numerous rivers lacing through the forest, or at least a few. Water wouldn't be an issue. Staying near the beach, however, would be far too dangerous. It was too exposed.

His gaze swept forward, settling on the cornucopia. He could make out the glint of weapons and the shapes of numerous bags, undoubtedly filled with essential survival gear. There would be food, water, useful tools. Everyone would be making a mad dash for it; he knew that much. But he also remembered his mentor's advice.

‘Run for the trees,’ he had urged. ‘Don't go for the cornucopia. It's a bloodbath. A deathtrap.’

Tsukishima's eyes darted around until they met Kuroo's. Kuroo was already looking at him, his body coiled and ready to spring. He gave a sharp nod towards the mouth of the cornucopia, a silent command for Tsukishima to grab whatever weapons, bags, and supplies he could get his hands on.

Normally, Tsukishima's instinct would be to bolt for the woods, the most logical course of action. However, he wasn't alone this time. He knew he had allies who would have his back, keeping him from getting dragged into the inevitable carnage. But their protection wasn't unconditional; he had to protect them, too. And so, Tsukishima would play his part.

The automated voice began its countdown, each word a hammer blow. Ten seconds.

Tsukishima swallowed hard, trying to quell the rising tide of nerves.

Eight, seven, six...

He braced himself, knowing he had to be ready for anything.

Five, four...

Whether it was for the best...

Three...

Or...

Two...

...possibly for the absolute worst.

One.

The cannon fired, a deafening blast that unleashed a torrent of motion. Everyone surged forward, a chaotic stampede aimed directly at the cornucopia. Tsukishima ran, Kuroo ran, Atsumu ran, Tobio and Miwa ran. Amidst the frenzy, Tsukishima spotted Yamaguchi sprinting in the opposite direction, disappearing into the woods. Unlike the others, the tribute from District Seven had chosen the path of caution.

Tsukishima would have scoffed in his usual judgmental manner, but he couldn't deny a grudging respect for the boy. If it weren't for this unexpected alliance, he'd likely be doing the exact same thing.

As the first tributes reached the cornucopia, some were already dying.

Akaashi was the first to reach the cornucopia, snatching a large bag and slinging it over his shoulder. Andrea lunged for the bow and arrows, but Akaashi was quicker. He aimed and fired, the arrow finding its mark at the center of her chest. She crumpled to the ground, blood already blooming around her.

Already... lives were being extinguished.

Blood splattered as Saeko swung her sword, felling the girl from District Three. Having seized two tiger hook swords, she immediately set out to eliminate the youngest tribute. Bokuto, meanwhile, was gathering bags, weapons, and any other supplies he deemed necessary, while Kuroo stood guard, deterring any tributes who might consider interfering. It was clear: no one should mess with the boy from District Two.

Several tributes had already grabbed their bags and fled, hoping to evade any immediate conflict. However, they knew they couldn’t run forever. Eventually, they would have to confront someone if they wanted to win.

Another person dies. Kiyoko, with a katana in each hand, moved with deadly precision. She slashed a girl across the leg, the force of the blow sending her crashing to the ground. Before the girl could even register the pain, Kiyoko silenced her screams with a swift, merciless strike to the throat. She then grabbed a bag of supplies and vanished into the dense tree line.

Chaos reigned supreme. Blood was splattered across the arena, and death was claiming tributes left and right. Some were paralyzed with fear, while others remained eerily calm—a stark contrast that Hinata found unsettling. He knew he should be composed, especially with allies to rely on, but where were they amidst this carnage?

Hinata pushed aside his concern for Atsumu; he had more pressing matters at hand. He needed to arm himself, and fast. His eyes darted around frantically until they locked onto a lone bag. His legs propelled him forward, and he reached for it, but then...

The force of the kick knocked the wind out of him, sending him crashing to the ground. Adrenaline surged through his veins as he fought to regain his footing, his eyes snapping up to meet those of his assailant. He wasn’t going to die here. But as his gaze locked with Tobio, the boy from District Twelve, a wave of confusion washed over Hinata.

Hinata scrambled to his feet, rage boiling within him. "What the hell are you doing?!" He yelled.

Tobio brandished his knife, his eyes glinting with a chilling intensity as he said, "Playing the fucking games, dumbass!" before charging straight at the redhead.

However, Hinata's eyes widened, his gaze fixed on something behind Tobio, halting him in his tracks. He opened his mouth to speak, to warn him, but the words caught in his throat. As Tobio turned, the impending danger became horrifyingly clear: the girl from District Four stood frozen, a giant trident piercing through her body as she let out a final, bloodcurdling scream.

The problem, it seemed, had resolved itself in the most brutal way imaginable.

Atsumu emerged from behind her, swiftly yanking the trident free once he was certain she was dead. He snatched a bag, slinging it over his shoulder, then grabbed the trident in one hand and helped Hinata to his feet with the other. Tobio's eyes darted between them, a storm of confusion brewing within him. Why the hell was his ally helping the enemy?

Suddenly, a hand clamped around Tobio's wrist. "Let's go, Tobio!" His sister's voice cut through the chaos as she yanked him forward, already in motion.

And just like that, all four of them were running towards the woods. Tobio, Miwa, Atsumu, Hinata. Their feet pounded against the earth, a frantic rhythm fueled by desperation. They didn't stop, couldn't stop, not until they were swallowed by the dense foliage, safe from the carnage they left behind. Not until the screams of the dying tributes faded into a distant echo.

Their breaths came in ragged gasps, the aftermath of their desperate flight weighing heavily on them. The screams of the dying tributes had finally ceased. Atsumu slowed his pace, his hands finding purchase on his knees as he fought to catch his breath. Miwa collapsed to the ground, her bag discarded beside her, eyes fixed on the sky as she struggled to regain her composure.

However, Hinata and Tobio...

Tobio stopped dead in his tracks, and Hinata immediately shoved him, yelling, "What the hell was that?!" His voice was a mix of anger and confusion.

Tobio's face twisted into a scowl, the shove clearly igniting his temper. "Oh, excuse me for not knowing, idiot!" He stormed towards the redhead, but Miwa was already there, holding her brother back.

"What?" Hinata yelled back, bewildered.

"How the hell was I supposed to know you were my ally?" Tobio retorted. "No one told me!"

Hinata's attention snapped from Tobio to Atsumu, his face a mask of angry confusion. Atsumu, in turn, looked between the arguing boys, realisation slowly dawning. "Ah, shit.." he muttered under his breath.

Hinata scoffed, comprehension sparking in his angry eyes. "You didn't tell them I was part of the alliance?"

Atsumu sighed, rubbing his forehead as he approached them. "Alright, alright, I'll take the heat for this one. My bad," he conceded. "Things moved quick with the alliance agreement, an’ I must've spaced on relayin' that particular tidbit."

"Tidbit?!" Hinata exclaimed, gesturing wildly at Tobio. "He nearly killed me!"

"I already said sorry, get over it, you runt!" Tobio retorted.

"What did you call me?!"

"Alright, break it up, you two!" Atsumu interjected, stepping between them before the situation escalated further. "Let's all just take a breath, yeah? This is all just a big misunderstandin’, easily fixable, easily cleared up."

Fixable? Were the fiery glares Hinata and Tobio were exchanging a problem that could be smoothed over? Miwa still clutched her brother's arm, holding him back, but for how long? If she released him now, he'd undoubtedly lash out. This was a terrible start, with the two already sizing each other up like predator and prey.

‘Fixable’ seemed far too mild of a word to describe the situation.

Atsumu sighed, rubbing his forehead. "Let’s just.." he paused. "Let's just wipe the slate clean, yeah? Forget this whole dumb argument ever happened an’ get on with the fuckin’ game," he paused again, his tired expression hardening as he looked between the two simmering boys. "Can you two manage that, or is that too hard for ya?"

Tobio shot Hinata a sharp glare, which Hinata instantly returned with equal intensity. Without a word, Tobio dramatically shrugged off his sister's restraining arm and strode towards Miwa's bag lying on the grass. He immediately began rummaging through it, assessing the supplies they had that would be critical for their survival.

Atsumu just shook his head, muttering something under his breath—probably rude, but not entirely unreasonable. Miwa rolled her eyes, already exasperated by her brother's social ineptitude. Leave it to him to start beef with someone who was supposed to be on their team. Seriously, what a drama queen.

Miwa stepped towards Hinata, giving him an apologetic look. "Sorry about him," she said quickly, then extended her hand. Hinata, being the genuinely nice person he was, smiled and shook it. "I'm Miwa," she introduced herself. "And that's my lovely brother, Tobio–"

"Kageyama, to you.” Tobio cut in.

She rolled her eyes, then plastered on a friendly smile for Hinata again. "Just ignore him," she said. "He can be a real pain. He just can’t stand the fact that he was almost killed by someone half his size."

"Hey!" Hinata and Tobio protested in unison.

"No offence.”

"Okay," Tobio said, stalking back over to them. "First of all, I wasn't 'nearly killed' by the human tangerine over here. Either your memory's gone to crap, or you need your eyes checked, but I was the one holding him at knife point."

"Oh, congrats on the knife skills, Kageyama, and being completely unaware of your surroundings," Hinata shot back, dripping with sarcasm. He was clearly referring to when Jessie from District Four had practically blindsided Tobio the second he'd lost focus. "You wanna win this thing? Try noticing what's around you first."

Tobio's glare intensified. "Maybe you should try paying attention to your surroundings."

"Is that a threat, Kageyama?" Hinata challenged, tilting his head.

Tobio took a step towards Hinata, his voice dropping to a dangerous level. "I'm not planning on winning with you, Hinata. That's not how this works," he said, his tone hard. "You want to win? Fine. But you better be planning your next move the second this alliance is over, because the moment we split, is the moment I will kill you."

"Tobio!" Miwa hissed, but Tobio ignored her.

"I'm loyal. I'm trustworthy, and as long as you're my ally, I won't pull any crap. But the second we're done playing nice, I promise you, I'm going to kill you."

Hinata didn't respond, his eyes narrowed, searching Tobio's face for any hint of sarcasm, any sign of a lie. But Tobio was dead serious. The Games weren't some playground where people made friends and pretended everything was sunshine and rainbows. They weren't bloodless, they weren't without death. They were the opposite. The Games were about proving your worth through survival, by any means necessary.

To win demanded a ruthless commitment. It was about taking calculated risks, enduring unimaginable hardships, and, if of course, taking the lives of others. All of this, to stand alone as the final tribute. This was Tobio's singular focus: victory, achieved at any cost. He held no regard for his fellow tributes, saw no value in the alliances he forged. Emotions, connections—they were mere distractions to be cast aside. He made this abundantly clear with his chilling promise to kill Hinata once their temporary partnership dissolved. It was either a pragmatic declaration of intent or a sudden, inexplicable animosity towards the fiery-haired boy. Either way, his message was clear: sentimentality had no place in the arena.

Tobio wanted to win. He would achieve it, no matter the cost, even if it meant ending the lives of those who stood in his path.

Hinata shared that same burning ambition. He craved victory with every fiber of his being, as fiercely as Tobio himself.

So, when Tobio coldly declared his intention to kill him, Hinata made a vow of his own.

By the end of this brutal ordeal, Hinata swore to extinguish Tobio's flame and seize victory before Tobio could claim it for himself.

Chapter Text

Akaashi halted his headlong sprint, the adrenaline fading as he realised he had put a safe distance between himself and the carnage at the Cornucopia.

He hadn't realised how ragged his breathing had become, whether from the frantic sprint or the sheer terror of the bloodbath he'd just escaped. He was relieved to find that, aside from Yamaguchi and a few others who had wisely fled into the woods to avoid the initial slaughter, he was among the first to break free. Most of those tributes who ran were weak, their chances of survival slim from the start.

Akaashi had been lucky. He'd reached the Cornucopia first, seizing the bow and arrows he'd had his eye on. Apparently, he wasn't the only one who wanted them; the girl from District One had also made a grab for the weapon. But Akaashi was faster, and he had no intention of indulging in sentimentality. The moment he secured the bow and arrows, he ended her life without hesitation.

He also secured a lone backpack, which he immediately began to examine. Now that he was safely away from the initial chaos, he finally had the opportunity to assess the supplies he had acquired.

With an exhausted sigh, he dropped the backpack to the ground. Kneeling, he unzipped the bag and pulled out a canteen. Though empty, he knew he would soon find a stream to replenish it; the sound of water was practically beckoning him. He also discovered a flashlight. Akaashi didn't intend to remain awake every night, but he knew it would be essential at some point. Additionally, he found a small first aid kit, containing everything necessary for treating various injuries—a valuable asset to possess.

Next, he extracted a large, thick rope from the bag. Its weight was considerable, Akaashi noted—sturdy and heavy, perfect for climbing trees. Concealing himself in the canopy and striking opponents from above had always been Akaashi's plan. This rope was ideal, precisely what he required.

After scrutinising the bag’s contents, Akaashi zipped it shut, leaving the rope accessible. He hoisted the rucksack onto his back, cinched the rope around his waist, and began climbing the closest, most climbable tree. He moved deliberately, knowing that a fall resulting in a broken limb would jeopardise his survival in the games.

Finally, Akaashi settled on a substantial branch, securing the rope tightly before sighing in relief. He didn’t foresee moving anytime soon; he’d know it was time when hunger and thirst compelled him. For now, Akaashi needed to quell the rising panic within. People had already died, he recalled grimly. Of course, there was bound to be at least one casualty during the bloodbath. It was named that for a reason, after all.

Akaashi was reeling from the sheer speed at which everything had unfolded—the swiftness of the deaths, the frantic scramble to escape the kill zone. This was what he and the other tributes had been training for, so they should have anticipated it. Yet, the reality felt surreal, almost incomprehensible. This was the moment the Capitol had been eagerly awaiting, now unfolding before his eyes.

The Capitol was depraved. Akaashi despised them and their insatiable hunger for this spectacle. If only there were a way to expose the sheer wrongness of this event, to prove its barbarity. If only he could kill himself rather than become a pawn in their twisted game, a final act of defiance that might prick their consciences and make them confront the horror they had unleashed.

However, that wasn’t the path Akaashi intended to take in these games. He was determined to win, even if it meant extinguishing the hopes and dreams of others who yearned to make their own stand, just as fiercely as he did.

Akaashi leaned back against the tree branch, another sigh escaping his lips. He longed for sleep, for a moment of respite. But he knew he couldn't afford to let his guard down. The thought of closing his eyes now filled him with the dread that they might never open again.

Suddenly, the crunch of leaves and snapping twigs reached his ears, followed by the murmur of voices. His eyes snapped open, realising that others were drawing near.

Akaashi quickly assessed the situation: it was a group. The increasing volume of distinct voices confirmed it. As they drew closer, Akaashi carefully peered through the foliage, swiftly identifying each of them.

"Jeez, Kenma," Kuroo's voice carried through the trees. "Did you raid the whole cornucopia, or what? You're loaded with weapons!"

Kenma's dry tone was unmistakable. "You told me to grab what I could," he replied, handing a large machete to Kuroo. "Said this is what scored you a nine?"

Kuroo grinned, a flash of teeth in the dim light. "Sweet!" He snatched the machete, effortlessly twirling it between his fingers. Hidden from view, Akaashi watched the exchange, a glare hardening his features as he recognised Kuroo's signature weapon. The guy was good with knives, apparently. Akaashi filed that information away, a dangerous glint in his eyes.

Kenma then passed a few knives to Tsukishima, knowing the lanky blonde didn't have a signature weapon. Tsukishima accepted them with a quiet nod of thanks, his eyes scanning the blades with a calculating gaze. Bokuto, on the other hand, was already hefting a massive axe. It looked cumbersome, and Akaashi couldn't help but notice the weight of it. The guy was all brawn, a fact he relied on heavily, considering he'd been dumb enough to blurt it out to Akaashi during their training session.

From his concealed vantage point, Akaashi's eyes remained fixed on Bokuto, the memory of their once conversation replaying in his mind. He'd declared his intention to kill Bokuto, but now wasn't the time. Not with so many others around. A one-on-four fight was a losing battle. But there would be another opportunity, a moment when he could strike.

As the group drew nearer, Akaashi sank further into the shadows of his hiding spot. He wasn't about to risk compromising his concealed position, not when they were mere feet away.

He then heard Tsukishima's voice. "We should find a place to crash,” he suggested. “We've got the weapons and supplies, so all that's left is to scrounge up some food and water."

“I’ll find the food,” Kenma said, his response a soft murmur, barely audible. "I'm good at hunting. Should be some animals around we can pick off from a distance."

"You got a bow and arrow for that?" Asked Kuroo.

Kenma silently held up something. "Crossbow."

"A crossbow, huh? So extra."

Kenma's eyes flicked upwards, a silent eyeroll aimed at Kuroo's trademark smirk. He still couldn't quite fathom how he'd gotten stuck with this guy, of all people. But there was no going back now. Kuroo and the others were officially his allies. Time to start acting like it, he supposed.

Kenma rummaged through his bag, a low grunt escaping his lips as he finally fished out a canteen. "Here," he muttered, tossing it to Kuroo. "You're in charge of water. We'll hit a creek, you can fill it up. Easy enough for you?"

Kuroo flipped the canteen in the air, catching it with a grin. "Piece of cake."

Kenma clicked his tongue, a barely audible ‘tsk,’ before diving back into his bag. "Alright, we've got everything we need to set up camp,” he zipped the bag shut, glancing at Tsukishima. "You and I will set up. Kuro and Bokuto, you're on fire duty. Find wood. A lot of it."

Bokuto was already hefting a hefty chunk of wood from the ground. "Sounds easy enough, easy peasy!" he chirped, clearly on board with Kenma's plan. "Hey, hey, Kenma! You're pretty good at this instruction thing. Total leader material, if you ask me!"

Kenma scratched at his brow, a flicker of unease in his eyes. Kuroo, however, was practically sputtering. "Woah, woah, woah!" he exclaimed, throwing his hands up. "I'm the one who formed this alliance, remember? Took a whole lotta convincing, a real pain in the ass, to get you all on board, so maybe the leader, AKA yours truly, deserves a little appreciation here."

Bokuto hummed, switching the log to his other hand as it started to get heavy. "I dunno, man," he mused. "Kenma's throwing out orders like bam, no problem! So, all in favour of Kenma being leader, say 'aye!'"

Before anyone could respond, Kuroo cut in. "I can give orders too! Watch—Kenma and Glasses set up camp, me and Bo on fire duty. Any objections? Didn't think so! I'm the leader, now let's move!"

"I don't remember agreeing to make you in charge," Bokuto countered, scratching his chin. "Maybe I should be the leader!"

Kuroo clapped Bokuto on the back. "Ha, funny, you're killin' me, Bo," he chuckled. "But seriously, not everyone's cut out to be a leader, buddy. Nothing wrong with having a dream, though!"

Kenma rolled his eyes, because he thinks this is stupid. The bickering, the posturing, the utterly ridiculous debate over leadership—it was all so pointless. And Bokuto, bless his heart, was a special kind of oblivious to even suggest Kenma could lead. Sure, he could issue simple commands, but the thought of actually leading a team, of being responsible for others, was his personal nightmare. He much preferred the quiet hum of the sidelines, the comfort of the shadows, where he could observe without being observed. It was easier there, quieter, less demanding. He could just be the lonely boy he really was, without having to pretend otherwise.

Kenma scoffed, slinging his bag over his shoulder as he brushed past Kuroo. "I’m not trying to tell you what to do," he muttered. "Just trying to keep us from freezing tonight, since no one else seems capable of basic survival skills. And unless you want to die, you better pull yourself together and figure out how to be a leader. I'm not dying out here because our fearless leader can barely keep himself together."

Ouch, Kuroo thought. Ouch, because it was as if Kenma had just dissected him with a singular glance, laid bare the carefully constructed facade of confidence. He'd seen right through the cool exterior to the tremor beneath. Yes, Kuroo was scared. Terrified, even. And he was desperately trying to hide it, knowing a fearful leader was a useless one. He was also acutely aware that his companions wouldn't stick around for long if their only option was to follow a leader who was barely holding himself together with bravado.

Kenma's words were a clear ultimatum: get it together, ditch the fear, and lead, or Kenma would step up himself—purely for the sake of survival. And, worst-case scenario, he might just abandon the whole alliance and fight his way to the top on his own. For some reason, the thought of Kenma walking away right then and there sent a jolt of unease through Kuroo. The idea of Kenma leaving felt.. unbearable, almost.

Kuroo glanced back at Kenma, who was already watching him, naturally. "I'm not a leader, Kuro," Kenma said, his expression serious. "That’s your gig. But tell me, is that too much for you to handle?"

A sudden pressure slammed down on Kuroo. It wasn't merely the mantle of leadership he carried, but the gnawing dread that his own paralysing fear would jeopardise their survival. He knew the theory of leadership, had even practiced it. Back at the academy in District Two, he'd been thrust into the role of a mentor, a beacon for the younger students. Now, he could almost feel the phantom weight of their hopeful gazes, those kids who saw him as an invincible figure. They expected a victory, a display of unwavering confidence, even as he stood on the precipice of crumbling into dust.

Kuroo was a good leader; he knew the strategies, the tactics. His real battle was the one raging within himself—the fear threatening to crack his composure, while his team simply needed a strong figure to guide them to victory. But a cynical voice whispered, why should he care? Alliances were fragile things, destined to shatter. In the end, only one victor would emerge, and Kuroo had made a promise to Yaku that he intended to keep.

Yaku's words echoed in his mind—about Lev, Terushima's betrayal, Rain's tragic end. He couldn't afford the luxury of teammate distractions; his focus had to remain laser-sharp on winning. Failure meant becoming another Rain, isolated and forgotten in a shallow grave. Or worse, morphing into someone like Terushima, a monster consumed by the game.

The thought sent a shiver down his spine. He pushed it away, not wanting to dwell on the possibility. He didn't like that idea. Not one bit.

Kuroo glanced back at Kenma, who waited patiently for his answer. He plastered on his signature grin, the one that always seemed to reassure everyone, and said, "Piece of cake." Kenma's eyes narrowed, studying him with an unnerving intensity, as if trying to gauge the true depth of his confidence. Kuroo found it unsettling. It was like Kenma could see straight through him, reading the anxieties he desperately tried to conceal.

Kenma finally conceded with a simple, "Fine," though a flicker of skepticism still lingered in his eyes. "But seriously, Kuro, if you make a move that proves you can’t do this, even a little bit, just say something. I'll probably know anyway, but still."

Kuroo shrugged, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. "Alright, alright. But I'm telling you now, Kenma, I have absolutely no clue what you're talking about."

The idiotic tone was a paper-thin mask, barely concealing the lie beneath. Arrogant, reckless, and fully aware of the performance he was putting on—Kenma loathed it. He loathed Kuroo for being so infuriatingly self centred.

Kenma fell silent, any further words lost as the first cannon fired, the sound echoing through the air. One, Tsukishima thought, already counting on his fingers. Three more booms followed, a surprisingly small number that raised Tsukishima's eyebrows in mild surprise. He'd anticipated a far more extravagant display.

Four cannons. Four lives gone. Only four deaths marked the initial bloodbath, a surprisingly low number considering the usual carnage at the Cornucopia. Most years, the desperate scramble for survival turned tributes into merciless killers, reducing their numbers by half in a brutal opening act, each hoping to thin the competition before the Games truly began.

Twenty tributes still remained, a daunting number to contend with. A chilling amount of opponents to face. But to emerge victorious, confrontation was inevitable.

You either faced the other tributes and killed to survive, or you faced them and died trying.

Chapter Text

Sugawara’s stomach rumbled loudly.

Shit. Regret already gnawed at him for fleeing the Cornucopia, but turning back was unthinkable. The night had descended, bringing with it a biting cold that his heat-protective jacket only barely held at bay. To return now meant risking encounters with other tributes in the dark, facing potential alliances of stronger, larger opponents. Or worse, stumbling into the territory of nocturnal predators—who knew what horrors lurked in the darkness?

Besides, not to mention, even if he wanted to go back, Sugawara had absolutely no sense of direction. Navigation had never been his forte, a fact that was now glaringly obvious. He was in an arena he'd never seen before, a landscape wholly alien to him. This new environment presented a steep learning curve—demanding adaptation, assuming he could even survive the night to do so.

Shivering, Sugawara burrowed deeper into his makeshift hiding spot. By day, concealing himself behind a tree would be futile, but in the thick darkness, he was confident he had effectively camouflaged himself against the trunk. He was reasonably sure no one would stumble upon him here. However, the distinct aroma of roasting meat and the faint crackle of a nearby fire suggested that he wasn't as alone as he'd hoped.

Just as sleep began to claim him, the tantalising fragrance of food jolted Sugawara awake. Rabbit, he realised instantly. He'd eaten it so often back in District Ten that he could identify the scent almost instinctively. Peeking through the trees, he spotted the flickering red and orange glow of a fire. A girl was cooking a rabbit over the open flames. Even in the dim light and from a distance, Sugawara recognised her—it was Misaki, the tribute from District Eleven.

Sugawara's stomach growled again, the sound only amplifying his hunger. The tantalising smell did nothing to quell the gnawing emptiness. Part of him desperately wanted to approach Misaki, to propose an alliance born of sheer desperation. Yet, another part of him vividly recalled her ferocity during training. Over those three days, Misaki had made it abundantly clear that she had no intention of forming an alliance. She was fiercely independent, determined to win on her own merit, and willing to go to any lengths to secure victory.

Sugawara's gaze lingered on Misaki's fire, but a shiver of worry ran through him. Approaching her now felt less like an invitation to share a meal and more like volunteering to become the next course. He imagined himself roasting beside the rabbit—that was enough for Sugawara to remain put.

He sighed, clutching his rumbling stomach, and nestled deeper into the shelter of the tree, resolving to ignore Misaki's fire. He'd wait until dawn, when the light might offer a clearer path to survival. Then, and only then, would he decide what to do.

Just as Sugawara felt himself drifting back to sleep, the familiar anthem music blared through the arena. His eyes fluttered open, and he found himself staring up at the night sky, the title 'the fallen' hanging above him. Through heavy-lidded eyes, he waited for the announcement of the four tributes who had already met their end.

The anthem began with Andrea from District One, followed by Yoko from District Three. This meant Oikawa and both tributes from District Two were still alive, a slightly alarming realisation given the deadly reputation of District Two's players. Sugawara could only hope that neither of them would be the cause of his demise.

Jessie from District Four was announced dead, and, to Sugawara's dismay, so was Michimiya. A wave of sadness washed over him; despite their lack of alliance, he had seen her as a potential companion. They had shared many conversations during their time in the Capitol, finding her to be genuinely kind. The announcement made Sugawara wonder how Daichi was processing Michimiya's death.

As the anthem faded, darkness reclaimed the sky. Only four tributes had died. Andrea, Yoko, Jessie, and Michimiya. Sugawara found it somewhat surprising that so few had perished in the initial cornucopia bloodbath, where casualties were typically high. This year, however, was different. More tributes survived not because the others were weak, but because they were too dangerous to kill.

This year's tributes were exceptionally dangerous, a fact that underscored Sugawara's resolve to avoid them for however long he had left to live, be it days, hours, or mere minutes.

Sugawara felt his eyes drifting shut again, his exhaustion nearly overwhelming. Only the persistent gnawing of his stomach kept him awake. However, the sharp snap of a twig underfoot jolted him fully awake. He wasn't the only one who heard it; Misaki, too, was scanning her surroundings, questioning her solitude. This prompted Sugawara to burrow deeper into his hiding spot, hoping to remain unseen. Maybe, he mused, it was time to find a new hiding spot altogether.

Despite their vigilant scans, Sugawara and Misaki found no one. It was likely just a harmless possum, nothing to be concerned about.

Misaki threw one last cautious look around before resuming cooking her rabbit over the fire. Even the most formidable and self-reliant tributes were either naturally paranoid or keenly aware of their surroundings. However, it seemed not every tribute shared this attentiveness..

Sugawara's eyes caught sight of someone approaching from the shadows. The individual moved with a measured, almost languid pace, casually spinning an ordinary-looking knife between their fingers. A hunting bow and a backpack were slung across their back. The figure was stealthily closing in on the unsuspecting Misaki, approaching her from the rear with an almost predatory grace. The darkness and the distance made it challenging for Sugawara to clearly identify Misaki's potential assailant. Helpless to intervene, he could only sink further into the concealment of his hiding spot, his gaze riveted to the unfolding scene before him.

Finally, the figure halted directly behind Misaki, who remained completely oblivious to the imminent danger. A simple turn could have potentially altered her fate, offering a chance to escape unharmed. However...

The assailant moved with startling speed. They seized a fistful of her hair from behind, immobilising her instantly, and her scream tore through the night. The sound was abruptly silenced as the knife flashed, slicing across her throat. She gasped, panic and fear flooding her senses as she felt the warm rush of blood and the chilling certainty of impending death.

Misaki collapsed face-first onto the ground, and the cannon boomed, echoing through the arena.

She was dead.

Sugawara swallowed hard, his eyes widening in disbelief as he realised what he'd just witnessed. Her death had been swift, brutal, and completely unexpected. This attacker had to be someone formidable—strong, cunning, and skilled enough to execute such a precise and deadly strike. Someone Sugawara had likely observed during training, someone whose abilities had stood out. Yet, despite his efforts, Sugawara couldn't definitively identify the figure. The darkness cloaked the attacker in shadow, obscuring his features, and even his overall form remained frustratingly indistinct.

The figure stepped over Misaki's lifeless form, beginning to scavenge anything of value. He claimed her bag and sword, twirling the weapon in his hand with a display of skill before stowing it away in his own pack. His movements were swift and deliberate, understanding that the hovercraft would soon arrive to retrieve Misaki's body from the arena, just as it had for the four other fallen tributes.

Sugawara recognised the telltale signs that the figure was preparing to leave, and a wave of relief washed over him. The thought of facing this man in combat filled Sugawara with dread. Without any weapons of his own, he knew he would be at a severe disadvantage. Then again, the manner in which Misaki had been killed was hardly fair either, but that was the nature of the Hunger Games. Nothing was fair.

However, a sound cut through the silence, halting the figure in his tracks. It was a low growl, or at least what he perceived to be a growl. Little did he know, it was the sound of a hungry boy's stomach, a desperate plea for sustenance. Perplexed, the figure scanned his surroundings, his gaze finally settling on the source of the noise.

Sugawara froze, a silent scream building in his throat. He wanted to unleash a torrent of curses, directing his anger at himself for allowing his hunger to become the instrument of his demise. But then, the figure's gaze locked onto Sugawara, and recognition dawned. In that instant, Sugawara realised the terrible truth.

He was about to be killed by the one and only Great King.

Tooru Oikawa.

Shit.

The moment Oikawa seized his bow and arrow, Sugawara was already scrambling to his feet. Oikawa moved with blinding speed, firing his first arrow directly at Sugawara, who narrowly dodged the projectile. The arrow struck the tree behind him with a thud. Sugawara didn't linger to admire the arrow's precision, as tempting as it might have been. Instead, he bolted in the opposite direction, Oikawa hot on his heels, giving chase without a moment's hesitation.

Oikawa was the last person Sugawara wanted on his tail. He possessed a lethal combination of speed, strength, and a chilling ruthlessness. As a privileged citizen of District One, the darling of the Capitol, Oikawa was going to be an exceptionally difficult opponent to evade.

Sugawara sprinted blindly, his vision blurred by panic. He ran and leaped, offering a silent prayer that he wouldn't stumble into a ditch or collide with a tree. The thought of plunging into a river flickered through his mind, offering a potential solution to his gnawing thirst. But he was likely doomed anyway, so did any of it truly matter?

It seemed Sugawara had tempted fate. He cried out as his foot plunged into a large ditch, his ankle twisting violently as he crashed to the ground. A groan escaped through his clenched teeth, a clear sign of the pain that shot through his leg as he realised he had twisted his ankle. It wasn't a sprain, not yet, but the sharp, throbbing pain was undeniable.

Sugawara attempted to get up, but his efforts were thwarted when a hand seized his jacket. Oikawa, in a swift motion, rolled Sugawara onto his back, their faces now inches apart. Oikawa leaned down, his grip tightening on the struggling Sugawara, as he retrieved a knife from his pocket.

Sugawara's eyes widened at the sight of the knife. Fuck! This was it. He was going to die. With Oikawa looming over him, a vice-like grip on his shirt and the glint of steel dangerously close to his neck, there was no escape. Sugawara really was going to die.

Yet, before Oikawa could do more than terrorise Sugawara, that guttural growl reverberated through the air again. Oikawa's eyebrow arched in question, his gaze piercing into Sugawara's before drifting downwards, settling on the boy's midsection.

Oikawa realised the sound came from Sugawara's stomach. Hunger. Had the boy eaten anything at all today? Oikawa wouldn't be surprised if he hadn't. Sugawara was vulnerable, stripped of weapons, supplies, any means of survival. He had nothing, while Oikawa possessed everything he needed. And somehow, Oikawa felt a twinge of… guilt?

Oikawa's glare intensified, the knife pressing harder against Sugawara's neck. "Is this the part where I'm supposed to suddenly feel bad for you?" He sneered.

Sugawara winced. "Y'know," he retorted, his eyes darting nervously between Oikawa's face and the blade. “A little sympathy wouldn't kill you. How about showing poor old Koushi some mercy?"

His stomach rumbled again, the sound now making Sugawara embarrassed. Yet, strangely, it seemed to be tilting the odds in Sugawara's favor. Oikawa was clearly in thought, a sight that Sugawara found unexpectedly fascinating. He'd pegged Oikawa as a lone wolf, the kind of player who wouldn't lose sleep over who lived or died by his hand. But here he was, wrestling with the decision to spare someone's life simply because of a growling stomach. It made him feel guilty.

Oikawa pressed the knife harder against his neck, and Sugawara resigned himself to the harsh reality that Oikawa was just another player driven by the singular goal of victory. But then...

Oikawa released him, stepping back. Sugawara gasped, his lungs finally filling with precious air. He coughed, relief washing over him as he looked up at Oikawa, who was now extending a hand towards the boy from District Ten.

Sugawara, utterly perplexed, glanced between Oikawa's face and the outstretched hand. Apparently, he was taking too long, because Oikawa suddenly grabbed him by the shirt, hauling him to his feet with a surprising lack of finesse, his impatience evident.

Oikawa looked genuinely frustrated, and Sugawara wondered if it stemmed from his inability to kill him. Was it the display of empathy that bothered him, making him feel, what? Weak? It had to be a Career thing, Sugawara concluded.

Sugawara cleared his throat, still trying to process what had just happened. "Uh..." he began, then settled on a tentative, "Thanks? For not, um, not killing me?"

Oikawa shot him a glare. "Don't thank me," he snapped, his tone sharp. "The only reason you're still breathing is because you look like a stiff breeze could knock you over. Your stomach speaks for itself."

As if on cue, Sugawara's stomach rumbled in protest.

"Come on," Oikawa said, already striding back the way they'd come. "That girl was cooking some rabbit, and your stomach's practically begging for it."

…

When they returned to the clearing, the hovercraft was just lifting off, Misaki's body already inside. Oikawa and Sugawara ducked behind a thick tree, watching the scene unfold. A chill ran down Sugawara's spine. It was almost eye opening, making him wonder what happened to the bodies of the fallen tributes after they were collected. Did the Capitol hold memorials for each of the twenty-three who died? The thought seemed absurd. After all, the Capitol was the reason they were all here in the first place. As if they'd show any genuine sympathy for the lives they'd so casually killed.

Once the hovercraft disappeared, taking Misaki away for good, Sugawara trailed after Oikawa, who was heading back towards the small, sputtering fire. Sugawara was almost surprised the massive hovercraft hadn't completely extinguished it with its downdraft. He settled onto a small log, right beside the spot where Misaki had been sitting. A shiver of unease ran through him as he noticed the faint splatter of her blood still staining the grass and wood.

As Sugawara sat, Oikawa gathered wood nearby. He came back with an armful, tossing it onto the embers until the flames flickered back to life, illuminating Oikawa's striking features. Even in this brutal arena, the District One boy possessed an almost infuriating beauty. It was a frustrating thought for Sugawara—was it jealously, or just the sheer unfairness of someone appearing so effortlessly perfect?

With the fire blazing again, Oikawa reached into his bag. He pulled out a small plastic bag filled with dried meat, which Sugawara eyed with undisguised hunger. Oikawa seemed to sense that intense gaze almost immediately, because in the next moment, he tossed a few pieces over to Sugawara.

Sugawara's eyes lit up as he devoured the meat. Usually, he was mindful of table manners, but then again, this wasn't exactly a dinner table. Who knew, maybe he might never sit at one again.

Oikawa rummaged through his bag again, this time producing a bottle of water. He handed it to Sugawara, who accepted it gratefully. Sugawara sighed deeply after a long sip, careful not to drink too much, knowing Oikawa would need it too. He probably shouldn't care, but Oikawa was showing kindness. It still struck him as odd, considering Oikawa was one of the Capitol's darlings.

Oikawa reached down and picked up the stick with the cooked rabbit from the ground. He examined it, noting the slight char but deeming it edible. He then halved the rabbit evenly, his knife carving a precise line through the center, a detail Sugawara couldn't help but notice. Oikawa moved with such focus and calm, always seeming to know exactly what he was doing, seeing as he trained for this very moment.

Sugawara found it infuriatingly unfair. Oikawa was a winner, just like Kuroo, Saeko, and even Atsumu. They were privileged, hailing from the Career districts, giving them a significantly higher chance of surviving this brutal game. It made Sugawara question how the Capitol could ever believe that tributes from impoverished districts stood a chance. Or did they simply throw them into the arena, expecting them to be crushed by these stronger, more privileged players? Knowing the Capitol, probably.

Once Oikawa finished dividing the rabbit, he offered half to Sugawara, keeping the other portion for himself. Sugawara managed a faint smile, silently thanking him as he accepted the offering. It tasted good—the charred bits didn't matter. He was simply too hungry to care, grateful for anything that would fill the gnawing emptiness in his stomach.

Silence settled between them. It was awkward. Sugawara had already offered his thanks, only to be brushed off by Oikawa. He wanted to express his gratitude again, but a scary thought stopped him. He couldn't shake the feeling that if he pushed it, Oikawa might realise he'd allowed a ‘stupid tribute’ from a poor district to live for too long, and this time, he might actually finish the job he couldn’t finish before.

Sugawara pressed his lips together, his gaze fixed on the boy from District One. Oikawa was meticulously cutting his portion of the rabbit into bite-sized pieces with his knife. Sugawara watched him for a moment before finally opening his mouth to speak.

However, before Sugawara could get a word out, Oikawa cut him off. "I already told you, I didn't kill you because you're fragile," he said, rolling his eyes. "Let it go already."

"So, is that your plan for every other weakling you stumble across?” Sugawara retorted. “Let them off the hook? Hand out snacks and water like some kind of generous god, and then what? Just let them skip off into the sunset?"

Oikawa's gaze locked onto Sugawara, his brown eyes seeming to gleam with flecks of gold in the firelight. The intensity was both intimidating and strangely captivating. Sugawara felt himself tense slightly, knowing full well Oikawa was trying to unnerve him. And, damn it, it was working.

Oikawa carved into the rabbit, his gaze fixed on Sugawara.

Sugawara's throat tightened.

"You should feel honored, Suga," Oikawa said, spearing a piece of rabbit with his knife and popping it into his mouth. "It's not every day a tribute as desperate as you are gets to witness my generosity."

Sugawara's eyes darted from Oikawa to the dancing flames, the heat prickling his skin and the smoke stinging his eyes. He squinted, trying to ward off the discomfort, but the unease went deeper than just physical irritation. Oikawa's presence was just as threatening.

A voice in Sugawara's mind whispered that this momentary truce was all a game. A sick, cruel game. After eighteen years of watching the Games, he'd become intimately familiar with the art of deception, the betrayals that defined survival. Oikawa, with his easy charm and casual cruelty, fit the profile perfectly. He was the embodiment of privilege and arrogance, a player who likely saw Sugawara as nothing more than a pawn to be used and discarded when the time was right. Sugawara couldn't shake the feeling that he was a lamb being fattened for the slaughter, granted a brief respite before the inevitable strike.

The meager pieces of rabbit felt like stones in Sugawara's hands. His appetite had vanished, replaced by a growing anxiety that made each swallow a monumental effort. The fear of imminent death had poisoned the simple act of eating.

Oikawa chewed thoughtfully, then spoke, his tone laced with a familiar arrogance. "Besides," he said, drawing Sugawara's attention. "We could both use an ally. And considering your.. current predicament, lacking, shall we say, the essentials for survival, you especially could benefit from a partnership."

Sugawara raised an eyebrow, a flicker of suspicion in his eyes. "You're suggesting an alliance?"

Oikawa let out an exaggerated scoff. "Uh, hello? Am I speaking to a Koushi Sugawara who's only half-awake? Wake up, please," he said, rolling his eyes. "Yes, genius, I'm suggesting an alliance. Was that not clear?"

Sugawara hadn't anticipated this turn of events. An alliance? With Oikawa? The Tooru Oikawa, the ‘Great King,’ the mayor's son from District One? It was certainly.. unexpected. During their three days of training, Sugawara had pegged Oikawa as a formidable, self-reliant player, one who intended to claw his way to the top solo. Sugawara would have bet against him forming alliances at all, and if he did, he'd have expected Oikawa to align himself with powerhouses like Kuroo or Bokuto, maybe even Saeko. Not a perceived weakling like Sugawara.

Sugawara was fully aware of his vulnerability. He was weak. His decision to forgo the cornucopia meant he lacked the basic necessities for survival in this stupid game. He was unarmed, without supplies, and desperately short on food and water. Oikawa's statement, however harsh, was undeniably true. He was frail and ill-prepared.

Sugawara narrowed his eyes at Oikawa. "How do I even know I can trust you?"

Oikawa's expression soured. "What, is the adorable bunny and gourmet dried meat not up to your standards, Koushi?" he scoffed. "I'm wounded."

"Don't mistake kindness for trustworthiness,” Sugawara countered, unfazed. “You've got to earn it, Oikawa. You of all people should know that."

Oikawa threw his hands up in mock surrender. "Fine, don't trust me," he feigned a sigh. "It's not like you were weak and desperate the minute I found you. Go ahead, I'm sure you've got your grand plan for winning this thing all figured out. No doubt your amazing skills will carry you far, even without so much as a toothpick to defend yourself."

Sugawara let out a quiet huff, the sarcasm stinging. Oikawa was right. Damn him. He didn't have a plan, not for winning, not for finding food, not even for getting back to the cornucopia. And killing? Forget about it. He was utterly helpless on his own, lost and terrified in this arena. Worthless. Scared. Weak.

Oikawa knew all this. So why in the world was he offering Sugawara a partnership?

Sugawara narrowed his eyes, a suspicious glint in them. "I pegged you as more of a 'I work alone' type," he said, tilting his head slightly. "So why me? Out of all people, why ask me to team up?"

"My plan was always to build an alliance, a big one," Oikawa admitted. "But standing in that gymnasium, I was at a loss for where to even begin."

"And I'm guessing I wasn't exactly your first choice, huh?"

"Honestly? No one was," Oikawa confessed. "I just assumed people would flock to me, you know? District One tribute, mayor's son, strong.. I figured I'd be swarmed by now."

"A little overconfident, don't you think?"

"Do you want to partner up or not, Suga?” Oikawa snapped, his patience wearing thin. “It’s a yes or no question."

Sugawara's eyes narrowed, a mirror image of Oikawa's own. They locked gazes, waiting for the tense silence to shatter. The quiet was all Sugawara's doing; he was carefully considering his response. Or rather, playing a game. He already knew his answer, but a part of him couldn't resist the urge to be a little bit of a smartass. He imagined people back in District One undoubtedly kowtowed to Oikawa's attitude all the time. Why not flip the script, just for a moment? Let Oikawa sweat a little.

Sugawara sighed dramatically, crossing his arms over his chest. "Alright," he conceded. "I suppose an ally could be useful, especially since I'm so utterly helpless on my own."

Oikawa's tense expression softened, a hint of relief washing over his face. "Smart choice, Suga.” He said, a touch of smugness creeping back into his voice. He reached into his bag, pulling out the sword. He offered it to Sugawara, who accepted it carefully. Sugawara knew this sword was originally Misaki's, before she was killed. He quickly tried to push the thought away.

Sugawara hefted the sword, testing its weight and balance, familiarising himself with its feel. With a final, assessing glance, he laid the weapon aside, turning his attention back to Oikawa. "So," said. "How exactly is this little alliance of ours going to work?"

Oikawa stood, stretching languidly, a carefree smirk playing on his lips. "Just like any other,” he said. "We stick together, make sure neither of us gets skewered. Night watch? We'll take turns. And as for the whole 'kill or be killed' thing, let's try to keep the 'be killed' part to a minimum. Easy peasy."

Sugawara didn't get a chance to reply; Oikawa was already sauntering off, presumably to gather more firewood. Even if Oikawa had paused for a response, Sugawara found himself at a loss for words. 'Let’s try to keep the ‘be killed’ part to a minimum,' Oikawa had said with such ease. It was so easy for him to say, Sugawara thought to himself, the mayor's son from the wealthiest district, practically guaranteed a fighting chance at survival.

Sugawara, on the other hand, was the polar opposite. He felt like he didn't stand a chance at all, especially when he compared himself to the likes of Oikawa and everyone else in the competition. However, this unexpected alliance had thrown him a lifeline.

Maybe, just maybe, he might actually have a shot at winning this thing.

Chapter Text

Kenma was the second to stir the next morning, waking with a prickling heat that was far from surprising. The game makers, with their callous control over the arena, dictated every element, including the weather. One night, Kenma might be shivering uncontrollably, teeth chattering, and the next he'd wake up flushed, drenched in sweat, fighting the urge to tear off his clothes. The game makers were nothing if not cruel assholes, relishing their power to toy with the tributes.

The previous day, Kenma and the others had efficiently set up a campsite in a secluded spot, sheltered by towering trees and blessed with a patch of flat grass. They had stumbled upon a small, clear river, replenishing their meager water supply. Kenma managed to fell a squirrel, which Kuroo and Bokuto expertly cooked over the fire they'd built. They supplemented their meal with a handful of almond nuts from Tsukishima's bag, which Kenma found unpalatable due to their dry, chalky texture. Tsukishima took the first watch shift, followed by Bokuto, ensuring their camp remained secure throughout the night.

Kenma could hardly sleep. Closing his eyes meant surrendering consciousness, and with it, any awareness of lurking dangers. Tonight, he was scheduled for a watch shift, a prospect that offered a sliver of comfort. Sleep, ironically, only amplified his paranoia.

Kenma sat up slowly, pushing off his sleeping bag and rolling his sleeves to his elbows. The air was thick with heat, an uncomfortable warmth that he immediately distrusted. This abrupt shift in weather was unsettling. He wouldn't be surprised if tonight brought sweltering temperatures, only to be followed by a frigid morning.

Stupid game makers. Stupid Sakusa.

Kenma sighed, raking a hand through his bleached hair to clear it from his face. His gaze drifted to the fire pit, now just a heap of ashes and charred wood, a testament to its all-night vigil. Turning, he observed his allies. Bokuto was still deeply asleep, snoring loud enough to wake the trees and drooling like a leaky faucet—the guy just couldn't seem to keep his mouth shut, even in slumber. Kenma couldn't help but think that maybe a spider crawling in there might teach him a lesson or two about sleeping with his mouth open, especially considering they were in the middle of a forest practically overflowing with spiders and other creepy-crawlies.

Tsukishima, on the other hand, was asleep with his mouth firmly shut, considering he was a lot more intellect compared to Bokuto and Kuroo. Actually, Kenma couldn't confirm whether Kuroo was a mouth-breather or not, because his sleeping bag was empty. Kenma scanned the surroundings. Kuroo was nowhere to be seen.

Kenma figured Kuroo was probably down at the nearby river they'd passed, either refilling his water bottle or taking the chance to clean up. He wasn't too worried; Kuroo wasn't stupid. He wouldn't wander off with potential threats lurking about. Kuroo was smarter than he often let on, at least when it counted.

Kenma reached for his water bottle, surprised to find it already half-empty. He sipped cautiously, even though the river was nearby. They could refill, sure, but a nagging fear lingered in the back of Kenma's mind that they'd never have enough water or provisions to truly feel secure.

"Woah, Kenma!" a familiar voice called out as Kuroo sauntered over. "Your hair's looking like a bird decided to make a nest up there, buddy!"

Kenma turned, eyeing Kuroo as he swaggered back. Kuroo was idly tossing his canteen in the air and catching it with practiced ease. He'd ditched his heat-protective jacket, revealing the regular black t-shirt they all wore. The shirt was oddly snug, probably because Kuroo was significantly bigger and more muscular than Kenma. He was grinning, per usual, always so cocky. His face was wet, water dripping down, but his stupid rooster hair remained stubbornly dry. He'd definitely been to the river.

Kenma twisted the cap back onto his water bottle. "My hair?" he scoffed, glancing at Kuroo. "Your hair."

Kuroo feigned offense. "You don't like the rooster do?" He pouted dramatically.

Kenma didn't bother answering; his perpetually bored expression spoke volumes. "You shouldn't go wandering off," Kenma changed the subject, tugging off his own jacket. "You gotta tell us when you're gonna take a solo trip."

"Worried, Kozume?" Kuroo grinned, plopping down next to Kenma, who just shot him an annoyed look. He probably hated when Kuroo used his last name; for some reason, it always seemed to get under his skin. "I was just refilling the water, chill out," Kuroo explained. "Don't get your circuits fried."

"Just being cautious."

"Alright, alright. I'll stick around so you don't short-circuit from worry."

Kenma looked up at Kuroo, a questioning brow the only sign of his focus. He was reading him, just like yesterday. Kuroo squatted down beside him, leveling them at the same height. Even seated, Kuroo towered over him, an annoying fact that forced Kenma to tilt his head up to meet his gaze.

A silent pause hung between them as they held each other's gaze. Then, Kuroo grinned, breaking the tension. "I promise, Kenma. I won't go running off without your permission again."

Kenma scrunched his face, studying Kuroo. The guy was usually an open book, even when he tried to mask his feelings. Unlike yesterday, when he'd donned that idiotic, arrogant mask to hide his fear, Kuroo wasn't hiding anything now. He was being honest. That smile was honest. The promise he made was honest.

Kenma looked away, shifting the subject. "I think we should head towards the mountains," he said. "There should be hundreds of caves up there. We're better off there than out in the open,” he then stood, walking towards the sleeping Tsukishima. "Wake Bokuto up. We need to get moving soon.”

Kuroo kept a close eye on Kenma, a slight quirk of confusion tugging at his lips. Kenma was quiet, almost unnervingly so, and far better at concealing his true feelings than most. Intrigued, Kuroo thought to himself, working with Kenma is going to be.. interesting.

Kuroo let out an exaggerated grumble, all dramatic sighs and mock annoyance—probably just to needle Kenma. He sauntered over to Bokuto, who was dead to the world. A tap to the shoulder earned nothing but a snore in response. The guy was out cold!

Kuroo smirked, tossing his water bottle in the air and catching it with a practiced flick of the wrist as he went to unscrew the cap. Before he could even hover the open lid over Bokuto’s open mouth, though, a flat voice cut through the air.

"No.” Kenma said, a glare fixed on Kuroo.

Kuroo huffed, screwing the lid back on with a quiet, "Party pooper.” Kenma just rolled his eyes and went to go prod Tsukishima awake.

Waking Bokuto was a Herculean task. Kuroo tried everything—shaking him, tapping his cheek, snapping his fingers by his ear, chanting his name like a mantra. Kuroo had never met anyone who could sleep so soundly. But, finally, one last, resounding smack to Bokuto’s face did the trick.

Bokuto's eyes snapped open, and he shot upright with a gasp. In his sudden awakening, he and Kuroo butted foreheads, both yelling ‘ow!’ as Kuroo toppled backwards. Now, they were both rubbing their throbbing foreheads, while Kenma rolled his eyes and Tsukishima stirred awake at a glacial pace. Immature? Absolutely.

Kuroo groaned, loud enough to wake the dead (again). "Dammit, Bokuto!" he sat up, clutching his forehead. "Do you make it your mission to wake up like you're dodging a meteor shower? 'Cause newsflash, buddy, I'm not volunteering to be your daily wake-up call if this is your thing!"

Bokuto winced, rubbing his head. "Funny you say that, because I totally had this crazy dream!"

Kuroo sighed, giving his forehead one last dramatic rub before slapping Bokuto's cheek twice, not so gently. "Alright, spill it, bud," he said, finally standing. "I'm sure we have no choice but to listen anyway."

Kuroo and Kenma began packing their belongings. Sleeping bags were rolled tight and wrestled back into their sacks. Then came the weapons—each secured to their belts or tucked in their bags. Kenma slung his crossbow over his shoulder, his gaze lingering on each arrow before tucking them away. Tsukishima, now blinking behind his glasses, rubbed the last vestiges of sleep from his eyes. Beside him, Bokuto was already sitting up, his usual boundless enthusiasm radiating as he geared up to recount his dream.

"Panthers!" Bokuto announced, eyes wide. "Black panthers, the kind that'll shred your hand if you even think about petting them! And guess what? You three were there! You were all running like chickens, but me? The ultimate predator? I was riding one! Plus, I totally saved your asses. So, you know, gratitude is appreciated."

Tsukishima adjusted his glasses, sarcastically muttering, "Oh, Bokuto, how ever will we repay you for safeguarding our non-existent dream selves from your own subconscious?"

Bokuto puffed out his chest, oblivious to the irony in Tsukishima’s tone as he absorbed the ‘praise’. "I know!" he said, beaming. "It's a gift, really."

God, he was such a goof.

"Well, let's just hope reality doesn't imitate art, huh?” Kuroo chuckled. “You know what they say about dreams, Bo. They're a sneak peek at the apocalypse."

"Don't worry, I'll protect you all!” Bokuto grinned. “You'd be helpless then."

So childish, Kenma thought, watching the two. Sure, Kuroo and Bokuto were strong and powerful, forces to be reckoned with, but who knew they were such airheads? Shaking his head, Kenma grabbed Bokuto's bag. “Here,” he said, tossing it to Bokuto. "We're moving."

Tsukishima, already packing, raised an eyebrow. "Moving where, exactly?"

"Mountains," Kenma stated flatly. "Time to find a new hideout, one a little less obvious."

Tsukishima didn't bother with a verbal confirmation, but he was on board. The mountains, undoubtedly, would be riddled with caves—natural shelters carved into the earth. It was a reasonable assumption that they might encounter others seeking refuge within those stony confines. Should be fine, most would say. But Tsukishima knew better than to get cocky. Anything could happen, anytime. Preparedness was key.

Always.

The four of them made quick work of packing. Kuroo and Kenma, already done with their own gear, pitched in to expedite Bokuto and Tsukishima's process. And, admittedly, Bokuto required extra assistance, as he was currently in the throes of a full-blown tantrum over his inability to roll his sleeping bag correctly.

Before long, they were trekking towards the distant mountains. The journey would take days, but they knew it was their best bet for survival. A more secluded location offered a greater chance of evading detection. Still, Kenma wouldn't be shocked if the gamemakers, out of sheer boredom, decided to force them back to the cornucopia. It was an inevitable twist, likely to occur when only a handful of tributes remained, forcing Kenma and the others to split up and fend for themselves.

Kenma had been contemplating that very scenario: the moment when they would be forced to separate. It was an inevitability he'd known from the start, the moment when they'd be whittled down to the last few players, forced to fend for themselves. He hadn’t expected the thought to unsettle him. After all, he'd made a conscious effort not to grow too attached, a strategy for self-preservation in this brutal game.

Of course, he'd proven himself reliable. Betrayal wasn't in his nature, and he wouldn't turn on those who placed their trust in him. But he'd also kept a careful distance, a subtle buffer against the emotional toll of loss. It was a balance—maintaining alliances while guarding his own heart.

He just needed to keep a safe distance. That shouldn’t be too hard.

Kuroo, with his incessant chatter and unwavering need for Kenma's responses, wasn't making Kenma's carefully constructed distance any easier to maintain. It was as if Kuroo was deliberately trying to break through, seeking a connection, a friendship, oblivious to the fact that only one of them could emerge victorious. If Kuroo persisted in his overly friendly demeanour, he was jeopardising his own chances of survival. And if things got worse, Kenma feared, he might find himself getting dragged down with him.

Kenma toyed with his knife, its familiar weight grounding him as he spun it between his fingers. They continued their trek towards the mountains, a journey that, Kenma suspected, would consume the entire day. He imagined the constant walking, pushing onward until dusk, setting up a makeshift camp, and then the familiar routine of nightly watch shifts with Kuroo. The next morning would bring a repeat of the same arduous process, until they finally reached the sanctuary of a cave.

Kenma sighed, a wave of exhaustion already washing over him. He knew the day would take its toll, and he hoped he could muster the energy to stay awake for his night watch.

"Already running out of steam, huh?" Kuroo's voice cut through the silence, laced with amusement.

Kenma flicked a glance in Kuroo's direction, then quickly averted his gaze, focusing once more on the path ahead. He offered no response.

Kuroo hummed. "So, that pudding-head look,” he said. “is that factory-made or all-natural?" He decided to try a different tactic, hoping to finally provoke a response from Kenma. And, predictably, Kenma couldn't resist rising to the bait of such an absurd question.

"No," he scoffed. "Obviously."

Kuroo gasped dramatically, feigning shock before launching into a rambling monologue. He was clearly just trying to fill the silence, but Kenma tuned him out. For one, he couldn't even decipher the topic of Kuroo's current tangent, and two, something else had caught his attention entirely. Kenma abruptly stopped walking, his eyes scanning their surroundings with suspicion.

Kuroo halted, his expression shifting from playful to confusion as he looked back at Kenma. "Hey, what's with the sudden stop?" He asked.

"Be quiet." Kenma ordered, his voice barely above a whisper.

Kuroo took a step closer, his eyebrows raised in offence. "Well, excuse me for–"

"I'm serious, Kuro," Kenma repeated, cutting him off. "Be quiet."

Kuroo, sensing the shift in Kenma's attitude, immediately fell silent. He could tell something was wrong. Kenma was acting unusually cautious, his eyes darting around their surroundings with a skeptical gaze. This sudden change in behavior didn't go unnoticed by Bokuto and Tsukishima, who also stopped, concern etched on their faces. Kenma was scanning the area as if he suspected something—or someone—was lurking nearby.

At first glance, the area seemed ordinary. Nothing was out of place, and no one was in sight. But that was because they weren't looking closely enough, weren't considering the places where things could hide, the unseen corners where secrets could lurk.

A low growl shattered the silence. It was distinctly cat-like, yet deep and dangerous, raising the hairs on the back of their necks. Kenma instinctively raised his knife slightly, ready to defend himself against an unseen threat. Something was definitely out there, but its form remained hidden. Perhaps Kenma's paranoia had finally reached its peak, or maybe he was truly sensing something dangerous. The others felt it too, a tension in the air that validated Kenma's unease. Bokuto's face was etched with worry, the growl stirring a disturbing sense of recognition within him.

And that's when the realisation dawned on Kenma.

Kenma's gaze darted towards the dense foliage, where he spotted two pairs of golden-yellow eyes piercing through the darkness. The eyes glowed with an eerie intensity, their slitted pupils unmistakably feline. They were eerily similar to his own, as if he were staring into a distorted reflection. For a fleeting moment, Kenma's heart pounded in his chest as he questioned his own sanity. But what emerged from the bushes was far more terrifying than any reflection.

A large, black panther emerged slowly from the bush, its dark and dangerous frame now fully visible. With each deliberate step, a harsh growl reverberated through the air, offering a glimpse of the cat's razor-sharp teeth. The group instinctively took a step back, their eyes never leaving the enormous creature. Kenma had only ever encountered ordinary stray cats in District Three, creatures that paled in comparison to this behemoth. This panther likely outweighed him by a significant margin.

As if the situation wasn't dire enough, three more black panthers materialised from the surrounding foliage. Emerging from nearby bushes and trees, they began to circle the group, drawing closer with each pass. Shit, Kenma thought, a wave of dread washing over him. Taming these creatures was out of the question, as they were undoubtedly under the game makers' control. These panthers were designed to kill, to eliminate Kenma and his group from the competition.

Kuroo raised his machete, his voice barely a whisper. "Alright, Mr. Dream-saver,” he said. “Think you can get us out of this one like you did in that little dream of yours?"

Bokuto gripped his axe tighter, hissing back, "No way! I was just fishing for compliments earlier."

Kuroo turned to Kenma, his eyes darting back to the two panthers closing in from behind. "What do we do, Kenma?" He asked, his voice laced with urgency. The panthers were getting closer, and their hunger was palpable.

Kenma's eyes remained locked on the black panther before them, attempting to meet its menacing glare in a battle of wills, hoping to intimidate the beast. However, his efforts backfired. The panther's hunger seemed to intensify, and it unleashed a deafening roar, revealing rows of razor-sharp teeth in its massive jaws. Kenma had only stoked its eagerness to kill the group.

He took a slight step back, his mind racing for an alternative, but finding none. Nothing, except for one..

"Run."

…

Akaashi couldn't help but sigh in relief as he stumbled upon a small creek. He'd searched for one in vain the night before, holed up in his hiding spot, terrified of running into something far more dangerous than himself. Luckily, after trekking for a good part of the morning, Akaashi finally found water to quench his growing dehydration.

Akaashi retrieved an empty canteen from his rucksack and made his way to the creek. Unscrewing the cap, he squatted down beside the water, ready to fill the bottle with the cool liquid. The water's refreshing coolness was almost soothing against his skin. The day had turned out to be unexpectedly hot, and Akaashi had been walking through it all morning. Sweat plastered his hair to his forehead, his face flushed red, and he'd been forced to remove his jacket. He felt miserable. Just pausing for a few moments to enjoy the cold water brought a wonderful sense of relief.

The previous night's sleep had been a frigid, uncomfortable ordeal. In truth, the poor boy barely slept at all. Resting in trees was far from an ideal sleeping arrangement. However, Akaashi knew he would have to adapt to the situation. If he wanted to remain undetected and strike his opponents from a higher vantage point, he needed to get used to it. The back pains, he knew, were only going to get worse.

By the time Akaashi finished filling his bottle, he was already chugging the water so eagerly that he knew he'd need to refill it again. He had been parched all night and morning, and the heat had only exacerbated the problem. It was awful.

Akaashi was refilling his bottle yet again when he realised he'd drained the entire thing in one go. As he did, he suddenly became aware of the silence. A suspicious silence. He didn't look up to scan his surroundings, though. Yes, he sensed something was amiss, and yes, he thought he was being watched, but he also chalked it up to paranoia. So, he resumed refilling his canteen, pressing his lips together and dismissing the silence, until..

Crack.

The sound of a twig snapping underfoot was all it took for Akaashi to react.

Akaashi dropped his bottle, seized his knife from his belt, and whirled around, attacking in one swift motion. An agonised scream pierced the silence. He was on his feet in an instant, watching as Yukie, the girl from District Five, stumbled backwards, clutching her face. She winced as she pulled her hand away, her palm slick with red, a long gash now marring her left cheek.

Her eyes blazed with rage and danger as she glared at Akaashi. He swiftly exchanged his knife for his bow and arrow, raising it to demonstrate his own lethal intent, and fired his first shot. She immediately dodged, swinging her sword in a wide arc before lunging to strike at Akaashi.

Akaashi's eyes widened in alarm before he rolled out of the way, quickly regaining his footing and delivering a sharp kick that sent Yukie sprawling. She grunted, then growled angrily. She was back on her feet in an instant, charging straight at Akaashi. He didn't have time to nock a second arrow before she swung her sword. Akaashi dodged the blow, but he couldn't evade her next attack.

She slammed the butt of her sword into Akaashi's nose. He stumbled, losing his balance as he felt the warm trickle of blood. Shit! Yukie kicked him to the ground, a grunt escaping his lips as his back slammed against the hard earth. Rocks and twigs dug into him, making the landing all the more painful. The situation could have been far worse; had a larger rock been where his head landed, the impact would have triggered the cannon. Just like that, Akaashi Keiji would have been dead.

Akaashi groaned, his vision swimming as he opened his eyes. He felt lightheaded, a combination of the blow to his nose and the jarring fall. Yukie seized the opportunity, straddling him to prevent his escape as she raised her sword high.

Akaashi's eyes darted to the sword. Ignoring the lingering fuzziness, he mustered all his strength to reverse their positions, rolling her over so that he now towered above her. She groaned through gritted teeth, frustrated as she tried to wriggle free, but Akaashi's superior physical strength held her firmly in place. The District Five girl might have been skilled, but she was no match for Akaashi's raw strength.

Yukie tried to lunge, attempting to stab him with her sword, but Akaashi seized her wrist in a vise-like grip and twisted, eliciting a scream of pain as she dropped the weapon. Seeing his chance, Akaashi snatched up the sword and held it aloft, ready to end the fight. But then, a noise stopped him.

Akaashi's head whipped around, drawn by distant screams and the unmistakable sound of a crowd approaching. Mixed in with the cries, he detected unsettling roars and growls that sent a chill through him.

Yukie seized the opportunity of Akaashi's distraction to launch another attack. She sat up abruptly and kicked him hard in the stomach, causing him to gasp out of pain and fall away from her. As he did, he dropped the sword, which Yukie snatched up immediately. Once again, she was on top of him, holding the blade dangerously against his neck.

Damn it! Akaashi berated himself for the lapse in focus; now he was about to pay the ultimate price.

But then, Yukie gasped, her eyes widening as she stared at something behind Akaashi. The roaring and screams intensified. And then,

"Duck!" a new, yet familiar, voice yelled.

Was that warning meant for him? Or Yukie? Regardless, Akaashi didn't hesitate. He kicked Yukie off him, rolled away, and in an instant, she was screaming as something dark pounced on her.

Akaashi's eyes widened in disbelief as he took in the horrifying scene. A large black panther was tearing Yukie apart piece by piece. Her screams and wails echoed through the clearing, the giant cat's massive teeth sinking deep into her flesh, ripping and tearing, ensuring there was no possibility of escape. How could anyone have escaped? Blood gushed from the deep wounds, staining the ground a gruesome crimson. Her body was being systematically ripped open, organs exposed, life draining away with each passing second. She was dying a gruesome, agonising death, and Akaashi could do nothing but watch in stunned horror.

Just then, the cannon fired, and the black panther's gaze snapped directly to Akaashi. He swallowed hard, retrieving his bow and arrows from the ground as he rose to face his fate, fully aware that he was now the cat's next meal. The way the panther licked its bloody mouth made it clear..

It was still hungry.

"Fuck.." Akaashi cursed under his breath. What was he supposed to do? He'd never trained to fight against wild, bloodthirsty fucking animals!

As Akaashi backpedaled away from the panther, he stumbled backwards, bumping into a solid wall of muscle. He took a sharp, worried breath, turning around swiftly when..

Akaashi gasped. "You?!"

"Hey hey hey!" Bokuto winked.

The District Two boy nudged Bokuto with his elbow. "Hey!" Kuroo snapped, his voice laced with urgency. "Friends later, panthers now!"

Panthers? As in, there wasn't just one? There were more?

Akaashi took another hesitant step back, his blood turning to ice as three more black panthers came into view. A chorus of guttural growls and menacing snarls filled the air as they circle, baring their teeth in a predatory display. The panthers tightened their encirclement, a deliberate taunt, a cruel tease. They dare one of the tributes to act, to make a fatal mistake before they are brutally torn apart, just as the District Five girl had been. Akaashi gulped, the horrifying image of her death replaying vividly in his mind.

Slowly, Kenma reached for his crossbow, his movements deliberate and precise. "Okay," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "We can't outrun them forever. We gotta do something fast,” he paused, clicking his weapon into place with a soft snap. "Suggestions, people?"

"Attack? No thinking, just pure, unadulterated attack?" Kuroo suggested.

"Or we could wait until they make the first move?" said Tsukishima.

"Or we could run a little bit more?" Bokuto chuckled awkwardly, a bead of sweat trickling down his temple. "Please? Let's run. Pretty please?"

One of the panthers, clearly done with the waiting game, pounced, aiming right for Bokuto. They were quick. Lightning quick. But Akaashi was quicker. An arrow flew from his bow, striking the panther before it could reach Bokuto. The animal fell, whimpering, its attack thwarted. The three remaining panthers roared their displeasure, and the others instinctively raised their weapons.

"Attacking it is." Akaashi decided.

The remaining three panthers charged, a coordinated attack that forced the group to scatter. One panther locked its sights on Tsukishima, who raised his knife, his expression unreadable. It lunged, a blur of muscle and teeth, and the next moment, Tsukishima was on the ground, the panther's weight pinning him. It snarled, snapping, claws extended, trying to tear through his defenses. Trapped beneath the panther's bulk, Tsukishima struggled, his escape routes cut off.

Before the panther could inflict any serious damage, Kuroo intervened, a well-placed kick sending the animal sprawling. He spun his machete, ready to strike. The panther, undeterred, leaped towards him, but Kuroo was quick. He swung the machete, a precise arc aimed at the panther's face. A spray of red splattered the ground as the panther snarled, a vicious display that made it clear it was far from defeated.

The panther, claws extended, pounced again. Kuroo raised his machete, bracing for the attack, but before he could strike, an arrow found its mark, felling the beast. Kuroo’s attention flicked towards Kenma, who stood with his crossbow, the smaller distance having ensured the kill. There was no time for acknowledgement, however, as another panther charged towards Kenma.

Kenma reacted instantly, nocking an arrow with practiced ease. He aimed, fired, and the arrow pierced the panther, sending it whimpering back into the woods. Now, only one remained.

The final panther targeted Bokuto, who met its charge with a swift, brutal swing of his axe, connecting with the animal's head like a baseball bat. The panther roared, a terrifying display of teeth and anger. Fear threatened to paralyse Bokuto, but there was no time for hesitation as the panther turned to attack again.

The panther lunged forward, but Bokuto, fear overriding his instincts, dodged instead of attacking. Akaashi, positioned perfectly behind Bokuto, capitalised on the opening. As the panther sailed overhead, Akaashi's arrow struck true.

The panther collapsed beside Bokuto, who quickly scrambled to his feet, backing away from the fallen creature. Though it appeared dead, the gamemakers were notorious for their cruel surprises, willing to go to any extreme to eliminate tributes.

With all the panthers down—or so it seemed, as one, weakened by its wounds, had fled—the immediate threat was neutralised. That injured beast might still roam the arena, but it certainly was no longer their concern. Neither boy was seriously injured, save for the minor blow Akaashi had taken to the nose from the District Five girl.

Speaking of Yukie, the arrival of the hovercraft to collect her lifeless body signaled their need to relocate. They sought a different place, one that was quiet and far less chaotic.

Bokuto crumpled onto the grass, limbs outstretched in utter exhaustion. A heavy sigh escaped him, a testament to the morning's harrowing events. Akaashi surveyed the group, noting the shared weariness etched on their faces. They had been running from those panthers for what seemed like an age. Perhaps the entire morning, Akaashi thought. Akaashi couldn’t begin imagine running for that long, especially under the oppressive heat.

Akaashi doubted the four boys were aware of his presence. Perhaps this was his chance to slip away unnoticed. With a final glance at the unsuspecting group, Akaashi slung his bow and arrows across his shoulders, turning to leave. However..

"And where do you think you're going?" Kuroo purred, catching Akaashi's attempt to bail. "You gonna pretend we didn't just save your sorry ass?"

Akaashi turned, a flicker of irritation in his eyes. "Saved me?” he scoffed. “Please. You hardly lifted a finger."

"Really?" Kuroo countered. "Seemed like you were in a bit of a pickle back there with that Yukie girl."

"Sword pickle." Kenma added flatly.

"Please. I had it under control. I'm not completely useless, you know."

“Oh, we know,” Kuroo whistled lowly. “Ever since I managed to peel Bo away from his own ego, all he’s been talking about is that perfect score of yours. You’ve got him whipped, Akaashi.”

Akaashi glanced at Bokuto, who perked up with his usual blinding grin. Akaashi's eyes narrowed, a slight shake of his head his only response before turning to leave. Any longer and he'd be fending off unwanted offers. He thought he'd made his intentions crystal clear when he'd threatened to kill the guy, but apparently not.

Bokuto scrambled back to his feet, watching Akaashi's retreating form. A frown tugged at his lips. "Hey, c'mon! I thought we made a pretty killer team back there," he called out. "Maybe we could—"

"Let’s not get any funny ideas," Akaashi cut him off, barely sparing him a glance. "I was just trying to save myself. If I'd run, I'd have been shredded too bits like that poor girl."

"So, that's it? You're just gonna leave?" Bokuto scoffed, his shoulders slumping slightly.

"Well, I'm trying to.”

Bokuto shot a dejected look at his companions. This time, Tsukishima stepped in. "Let him go, Bokuto," he drawled. "We can't exactly strong-arm people into joining our little club."

Akaashi bit back the urge to thank the salty blonde. At least someone wasn't so keen on dragging him into a coalition of imbeciles. However, he spoke up again.

"Besides, I doubt he’ll get far. All he has now is his defence strategy, after all."

Akaashi frowned, a flicker of confusion crossing his face as he realised something was off. Where was the familiar weight on his back? His eyes darted around before the realisation sunk in. Gone. His backpack was gone. And with it went everything—his water, his food, the rope—everything he needed to survive. Shit.

"Last I saw it, your precious bag was doing the backstroke down that creek," Tsukishima said, a hint of amusement lacing his voice. "Good luck with that."

Akaashi shot him a look that could curdle milk before turning back towards the cornucopia. "Fine,” he said. “I'll just go back and grab another one."

"Or!" Bokuto interjected, rummaging through his own pack. "You could stick with us! We'll hook you up with everything you need!" he tossed a full water bottle to Akaashi, who caught it with ease. "Seriously, you're not gonna last five minutes out there in this heat."

Akaashi's gaze flickered from Bokuto to the full canteen, a frown deepening on his face as he gripped the bottle tightly. Why were they so insistent on recruiting him? What was with this sudden need for another member? And why was Bokuto being so persistent? Even back during training, he'd been relentless in his attempts to get Akaashi on his team, despite the constant rejections. He didn't understand these people. Didn't they realise that, sooner or later, they'd be forced to turn on each other?

Akaashi shook his head, the canteen hitting the ground with a soft thud. "Do you even know what 'no' means?" he scoffed, a hint of exasperation in his voice. "I thought I made myself perfectly clear already."

Bokuto's expression shifted into another frown, and a flicker of guilt tugged at Akaashi, an unwelcome sensation. The usually defiant spikes of Bokuto's hair seemed to droop, mirroring the downturn of his lips. He possessed the forlorn air of a puppy unjustly reprimanded, perhaps for a minor transgression, or a dog denied his walk for the grave sin of destroying a pair of shoes. The effect was nearly convincing, Akaashi silently conceded.

Kuroo shook his head as he watched Akaashi. "C’mon, Bo, don’t waste your time," he said, clapping a hand on the District Five boy’s shoulder. "Mr. Independent's made his little intentions crystal clear. He's not worth the headache, trust me."

Akaashi shot one final, withering look at the group before pivoting sharply and walking away. Bokuto's ridiculous frown might be surprisingly effective, but Akaashi refused to be swayed into joining their alliance. Alliances were invariably a path to ruin. Sooner or later, there was betrayal, a clear sign of disloyalty, or the inevitable confrontation loomed. In the aftermath, there was always regret and pain, and Akaashi couldn't afford to succumb to that crushing heartbreak. He just couldn’t.

Most people would have conceded defeat by now. They'd have let Akaashi walk away, accepting his clear disinterest in joining their ranks. He'd made it abundantly clear he preferred to work alone.

But Bokuto wasn't one to simply 'let people go,' was he?

The District Five boy rifled through his rucksack, finally unearthing what he needed. He tossed the bag aside and charged after Akaashi, earning a scoff and a disbelieving shake of the head from Kuroo. Still, he didn't try and stop him.

"Akaashi!" Bokuto called out. Akaashi spun around, his face etched with frustration. His expression practically screamed, 'Why won't you just leave me alone?' "Here, take this," Bokuto chirped, thrusting a small bag of dried meat towards him. Akaashi accepted it, looking utterly bewildered, which Bokuto immediately picked up on. "Knowing you, you'll probably just shoot some animal for dinner on your way back to the Cornucopia. But, y'know, just in case, you can use this to keep your stomach from grumbling.”

Akaashi stared at Bokuto. Despite repeated rejections, the guy was still smiling. He smiled as if he wasn't trapped in a life-or-death game for the Capitol's amusement. He smiled as if he didn't realise his end could be just around the corner. He smiled as if he wanted to believe everything was normal, even though everything about their situation was wrong.

Akaashi hated it. He hated that people, especially the innocent ones, were callously thrown into this arena, expected to fight, to kill, all for the twisted amusement of the Capitol. He couldn't say he liked Bokuto, or any of the other tributes for that matter, yet there was always a part of Akaashi that felt a strong, almost overwhelming empathy for people like Bokuto. It was the kind of empathy that gnawed at his conscience, reminding him of the inherent value of every life. Nobody deserved to die. Not even Bokuto, who always wore that stupid smile, even in the darkest, most hopeless moments of his life.

Akaashi sighed, his grip tightening on the bag of meat. "Why are you doing this?" He asked, his voice betraying a hint of defeat.

Bokuto shrugged, his usual carefree demeanor on full display. "It's gonna be a long walk back to the cornucopia," he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "You'll get hungry eventually, and no one deserves to starve—"

"No," Akaashi interrupted, his eyes narrowing slightly. "I mean, why have you completely gone out of your way, constantly, just to get me to pair up with you?"

There was a small pause, as if Bokuto actually had to think about it for a moment. But then, the familiar spark returned to his golden eyes. He’d had an answer all this time, ever since he'd first laid eyes on the stoic District Eight boy.

"I took an interest in you, Akaashi," he admitted, a rare moment of sincerity breaking through his usual exuberance. "Not just because you're skilled and talented and have the best chance of winning this thing compared to the other tributes. But because I felt there was much more to you than what meets the eye."

Akaashi was taken slightly off guard by Bokuto's admission. He confessed it so casually, so straightforwardly, as if it were the easiest thing in the world to say. Maybe Akaashi had mistaken his remarks for something far deeper than they actually were, but Bokuto's words had flipped a switch inside Akaashi, subtly shifting his perspective on their precarious situation.

Usually, Akaashi would have retorted with something like, ‘you know nothing about me,’ playing the enigmatic figure he often portrayed. But this time, he found himself unable to utter those familiar words. Instead,

"Fine,” he sighed. “I'll join your alliance, but only because you've shown me signs of compassion."

Because refusing Bokuto for the hundredth time stirred an unfamiliar sense of guilt within Akaashi. After all, Bokuto had consistently gone out of his way to help him, and for the first time, Akaashi truly acknowledged the weight of that unwavering support.

Suddenly, Bokuto's gloomy frown evaporated, replaced by a smile so wide it threatened to split his face. Even the unruly spikes of his hair seemed to perk back up with delight at this unexpected news. "Seriously?” he boomed, eyes shining. "You're gonna stay?"

Akaashi almost regretted his impulsive decision as Bokuto's exuberance returned in full force. "Yes, Bokuto," he said, carefully sidestepping the taller boy. "But don't for a second think that just because I'm joining the team, we're suddenly friends. We are not friends."

Bokuto couldn’t find it in himself to complain. He'd spent what felt like an eternity trying to cajole and practically beg Akaashi to join him in an alliance. Now, finally, all that persuasion had paid off; Akaashi was actually ditching his 'lone wolf' act. Bokuto was visibly thrilled.

Besides, if Bokuto had managed to get the famously taciturn and enigmatic Akaashi on his side, he was absolutely, positively certain he could eventually crack that stoic facade and get him to admit they were friends.

Eventually, anyway. He was nothing if not persistent, after all.

Chapter Text

Another memory surfaces in Atsumu’s dream.

He drifted off to sleep and awoke to the gentle rocking of a boat. It was the boat—the same one he and the other kids his age would board for their career training. A medium-sized fishing boat, mostly white but with streaks of rust staining the hull near the waterline, a clear sign of its age. The familiar faces of his fellow trainees were there—a mix of boys and girls, along with their usual, no-nonsense instructor.

The twins and their group set out to fish, their small boat bobbing gently as they stayed close to the familiar part of the reef. It was a boundary they couldn't cross until they came of age. The engine hummed to a stop, the anchor dropped silently into the clear water above the reef's edge. Here, salmon and cod were common catches, their silver scales flashing beneath the surface. Atsumu always looked past the present—‘just wait until I'm eighteen’, he'd say, a glint in his eyes. He always talked of fishing in the deep ocean beyond the reef, hoping to one day bring home a catch as impressive as those his father always did.

Their instructor had given the usual instructions: catch as many fish as possible, and keep track of the different breeds. Whoever caught the most would win some silly ‘student of the day’ award. Atsumu used to think the award was cool when he was younger, but after winning it so many times, the whole training session had become just plain monotonous.

Atsumu couldn't help but show off a little for one of the girls in his group. Lori, he thought her name was—or was it Lani? He'd lost track. He'd flirted with so many, dated so many, that the names and faces tended to blend into one big, pretty blur. Lori giggled, a sound like tinkling shells, as Atsumu theatrically held up a rather unremarkable fish. He feigned an offer, waggling the fish in her direction. He'd already hauled in a small mountain compared to her meager catch and wanted to play the magnanimous fisherman, generously sharing his bounty. Except it wasn't generosity at all. It was a thin veil for the boredom that was eating at him, a flimsy excuse to break the soul-crushing monotony of the task. He needed something, anything, to shake things up.

Atsumu shot Lori a wink, heavy with flirtation, before a tap on his shoulder interrupted him. "Tsumu." The voice was Osamu, his twin, and it earned an immediate, annoyed eye roll.

"W’sup, Samu?" Atsumu drawled, not bothering to mask the irritation.

"We needa talk," Osamu said, cutting straight to the chase. "Somethin' happened this mornin', before we left. Shit went down between Ma and Dad."

Atsumu waved a dismissive hand, the picture of nonchalance. "An’ how's that my problem?" he sighed, laying it on thick. "Probably just a lil' spat. Nothin' ta sweat about, Samu,” he then flashed a charming smirk back at Lori. "Brothers, am I right? Can't get a freakin' minute of peace without 'em yappin' in yer ear twenty-four seven, huh? Say, ya got any siblings darlin'?"

Lori giggled, a blush rising on her cheeks, but she didn't get a chance to reply. Osamu had already strong-armed Atsumu around to face him. The moment Atsumu's attention was off the girl, his practiced poker face crumbled, replaced by a scowl of pure frustration. His eyes flashed with annoyance, a clear message of 'you're killin' my game, dude!' directed squarely at Osamu.

"’M serious, Tsumu!" Osamu hissed, dropping his voice like they were sharing state secrets. He leaned in close, breaking their personal space. "The second I walked outta the house, Grandma snagged me an’ said things were gettin' real tense with Dad. She said we gotta come home expectin' some news, or somethin' like that. Doesn't that even twitch yer radar, bro?"

"Maybe if I had a clue as ta what the hell yer on about.” Atsumu shot back.

"Haven't ya noticed?" Osamu questioned. "Dad's been actin' weirder than usual this past week. All frustrated an’ stressed, even more than normal. Plus, we barely see him 'cause he's crashin' the minute he walks through the door."

Atsumu just shrugged. "So?"

"So?" Osamu scoffed with disbelief.

"Look, Samu," Atsumu sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Yer readin' way too much into this. Dad's probably just stressed from work. Ya know how it is for him. Out at sea since five in the mornin', always gettin' home late. Old man's always knackered from that crap."

Osamu's expression hardened, a blend of unease and irritation directed at Atsumu. It was a familiar sight whenever serious matters arose. Osamu struggled to remember a moment when his twin treated anything with gravity, save for one exception: the Hunger Games. With the reaping just around the corner, Atsumu’s uncharacteristic quietness on the subject was starting to get to him.

However, before the spectacle of the Games could even begin to unfold, the twins were confronted with an issue of far greater immediate importance. It was an issue that Atsumu seemed incapable of acknowledging, resorting instead to that infuriating mask he wore to conceal his true feelings, feelings that Osamu knew were undoubtedly laced with concern. Osamu knew Atsumu; he was his brother, after all. He knew that Atsumu cared deeply, but he possessed an almost pathological aversion to displaying any form of vulnerability.

And Osamu hated it.

Catching Osamu’s worried look, Atsumu drawled, "Quit yer frettin', Samu. Whatever mess we're in, we'll sort it,” he clapped Osamu on the shoulder. "Now, can we shelve this for later? Got my hands kinda full at the moment."

Atsumu gestured towards the girl behind them, who was still gazing at him with dreamy eyes. Osamu grumbled, his annoyance bubbling over. "Weren't ya sweet-talkin' some other girl just last week?" he scoffed. "Shay, was it?"

"Shit, I thought her name was Suzie!"

Osamu facepalmed. "You’re fucked, bro"

Atsumu laughed, then spun back to Lori, showering her with some saccharine pet name that likely had her envisioning their future wedding. Osamu found it utterly absurd that Atsumu managed to captivate so many girls. If they only realised his flirtatious charm was nothing more than a practiced act, things might’ve been different.

Everything about Atsumu was an act, a grand deception that everyone seemed to buy into. He was like a fox, slyly weaving a facade of trustworthiness, only to ensnare others in his endless game of lies. Osamu couldn't say much about it, bound by their brotherhood. But that didn't mean he agreed with it, either.

The one silver lining to his convincing lies was that if Atsumu were ever thrown into the Hunger Games, he'd undoubtedly win. Osamu just hoped that day would never come. For, as easily as he could secure victory with his deceptions, there existed far more powerful tributes than the fox.

…

As Atsumu awoke, reality crashed back, reminding him of his actual whereabouts.

He awoke to the distant sound of arguing, familiar voices that hadn't quieted since they were thrust into the arena. His eyes fluttered open, heavy with fatigue, a result of his watch shift during the first half of the night before Tobio took over. Tobio sounded even grumpier than usual as he argued with Hinata, likely due to his own sleep deprivation.

With a tired grumble, Atsumu sat up, his gaze sweeping upwards as he reoriented himself to their location. They had ventured towards the arena's shoreline, where they discovered a secluded haven nestled between the woods and a modestly steep hill. The ground was covered in soft grass, making it an ideal spot for an overnight camp. The previous night, a fire had been swiftly prepared by the Kageyama siblings in an easy five minutes. Hinata had located a water source, diligently refilling everyone’s bottles—except for Tobio, who refused to accept any favors from the ‘runt.’

Atsumu, on the other hand, had been tasked with securing food. With Miwa's assistance, he managed to shoot down a few rabbits and squirrels, as his own marksmanship proved rather dismal. It was a somewhat humiliating realisation that he was the only one in the group who couldn't accomplish a task without help. However, they all recognised that Atsumu was capable of far more than simply hunting animals with a bow and arrow. He just lacked the precision required for weaponry that demanded such intense focus, nothing more.

As Atsumu rubbed the sleep from his eyes, the bickering between Tobio and Hinata intensified. He spotted them by the shoreline, each wielding a knife, ostensibly focused on catching fish. However, their constant yelling suggested a distinct lack of concentration.

From a distance, Atsumu could barely make out their exact words, but the gist of the argument went something like this:

"Jesus, for someone so short, you can't even catch a single fish.” Tobio sniped.

"What the heck does my height have to do with anything?!" Hinata shot back. "It's not like you're exactly reeling them in! You've barely caught anything yourself!"

"I've caught more than your scrawny ass!"

"First dumbass, then runt, then human tangerine. What's next? Do you just pull these insults out of your ass, or something?"

Atsumu hummed softly, observing the pair. Hinata seemed so small next to Tobio, especially standing so close together. Their bickering was undeniably ridiculous, yet Atsumu found it strangely amusing.

"Oh, you're up," a fresh voice said, drawing Atsumu's attention. He looked up to see Miwa already smiling down at him, tending to something over the fire. It smelled like fish. "Did you sleep well?"

Atsumu sat up, stretching. "Barely," he admitted. "Sleepin’ on the ground ain’t nothin’ like home, I can tell ya that."

Miwa shrugged, unfazed. "I don't see much of a difference."

Atsumu pressed his lips together, wincing silently, a pang of regret hitting him. He sometimes forgot that not all tributes hailed from the Career districts, with their comfortable, prosperous lives in sturdy buildings. Miwa and Tobio likely hadn't known the contentment he'd experienced in District Four. After all, the Kageyama siblings resided in one of the most poorest districts.

Miwa studied Atsumu's sudden change in expression, a silent hum escaping her lips. She grabbed one of the full water bottles, gently inquiring, "You alright?"

Atsumu looked up, meeting her gaze. "Oh, yeah," he replied. "Just—y’know, didn't get much sleep, that's all."

Miwa approached, settling down in front of Atsumu and offering him the bottle. He accepted it with a grateful smile, taking a long, satisfying sip. A small river nearby ensured they could easily replenish their supply if they ran dry.

Miwa watched Atsumu as he drank, her gaze intent. "Bad dream?" She ventured, as if she could read his thoughts.

Atsumu chuckled nervously. "Something like that.” He admitted, carefully maintaining his composure.

Miwa rose and returned to the fire. "It's okay," she said, her attention fixed on the cooking fish. "I get them too."

"Yeah?" Atsumu responded. "What ‘bout?"

"I used to dream about being chosen for the Games,” she explained. “Which is ironic, considering I'm actually here now. But those dreams were more frequent when I was younger—thirteen, fifteen, around that age. I mostly dreamt about Tobio being reaped. The thought of my little brother being forced to fight in an arena meant losing the only family I had left."

Atsumu recalled the interviews with the Kageyama siblings, their voices somber as they recounted the story of their parents—a tragic mining accident that ended their lives, crushing them and leaving Miwa and Tobio parentless. Then there was their grandfather, who took them in, only to pass away a few years later. The siblings were left to navigate life alone, without the guidance or support of older figures. Atsumu couldn't imagine the weight of that burden, the challenges they faced growing up without a safety net. It must have been hard.

Atsumu paused before asking, "How old were ya when yer parents passed?"

"I was around six, and Tobio was only four," she replied. "Our grandfather was all we had left until he fell ill and passed away when I was twelve," she paused, sighing. "That year was hard. I had just reached the age where I was legal to be chosen for the Games. I remember the reaping like it was yesterday—the dread, the fear... Tobio wouldn't let go of my hand as I left the house. He was terrified of being left alone, and honestly? So was I."

Atsumu's expression softened with sympathy. "Shit..." he said quietly. "Miwa, that's awful. ‘M so sorry."

Miwa offered a small, bittersweet smile. "Don't be," she said. "Tobio and I are doing fine on our own now. Better than most people in District Twelve, at least. Life is hard there, but Tobio and I have always been resourceful when it comes to surviving. We had to be, you know? We knew we couldn't rely on our parents anymore, and when Grandad got sick, I had to step up and take care of my family. I've been looking after Tobio practically my whole life, trying to shield him from the worst of it."

Miwa glanced up from the fish sizzling over the open fire, her gaze drawn to her brother in the distance. Tobio stood proudly, his knife held high, a single fish impaled upon its tip, still wriggling in protest. A triumphant grin stretched across his face, but his victory was short-lived. Suddenly, the fish twisted free, darting back into the ocean. Hinata erupted in laughter, pointing and teasing Tobio, whose face flushed red with embarrassment. In retaliation, Tobio shoved the redhead into the water, turning the tables as he laughed and pointed back.

A silent smile played on Miwa's lips. "It was hard, but..” she murmured, her gaze lingering on Tobio before she quietly concluded, "I didn't have a choice."

Miwa had always carried a profound sense of duty as an older sister. Her brother's well-being was paramount, his needs consistently placed before her own. He was her unwavering priority; without him, she would be utterly alone, a prospect that offered no solace whatsoever.

Yes, caring for her little brother was demanding, and their arguments often escalated to the point where Miwa felt like tearing his head off. However, she was the only one left to look after Tobio. Their parents were gone, their grandfather was gone, everyone they loved was gone. Everyone but Tobio, and Miwa had vowed to keep it that way.

When Miwa determined the fish was cooked through, she carefully removed it from the fire using the stick that skewered it. She examined her handiwork, noting a few charred spots, but overall, it was edible and well-prepared. She walked back over to Atsumu, who wore an expression of empathy after their conversation. Ignoring it, she sat back down, settling comfortably in front of him.

With a smile, she offered the skewered fish to the boy from District Four, gently inquiring, "What do you dream about?"

Atsumu paused before responding. He accepted the fish with a grateful smile, nodding in acknowledgment when she advised him to let it cool slightly before eating. It was perfectly warm, an ideal temperature. The taste evoked a sense of home.

Atsumu found himself answering her question with unexpected honesty. He reasoned that, with the inevitable outcome looming where only one of them would remain standing, divulging the complete truth held little consequence. So,

"My regrets as a brother." He quietly confessed.

Miwa frowned. "We all make mistakes as siblings."

Atsumu stared at Miwa, his normally jovial expression hardening into a cold, serious mask for a fleeting moment, and his subsequent remarks flowed out in a deeper tone. Miwa nearly froze, for this side of Atsumu was almost unrecognisable as he revealed his brotherly regrets.

"No," Atsumu said, his voice laced with a dark certainty. "Ya haven't lived with regrets like these.”

Miwa realised there was much more to the story between Atsumu and his twin brother. He hadn't volunteered for Osamu merely out of familial duty, but also because of the hidden depths within the events leading up to the reaping. He volunteered out of pity, out of guilt, driven by a past occurrence, a past action?

Atsumu did do something, but his dreams have yet to delve into the details of what actually occurred.

Before Miwa could respond, the cannon's blast shattered the moment, dragging them, and the squabbling boys on the beach, back to the brutal reality. That marked the sixth death, leaving only eighteen tributes. Some might argue otherwise, but the most perilous phase of the games was fast approaching.

The cannon's echo barely faded before Tobio and Hinata were back, their faces etched with a familiar mix of anxiety and bravado. "That death couldn't have been too close," Tobio stated, his voice tight. "Didn't hear anything nearby, right?"

“Nah,” Atsumu shook his head. "Couldn't hear a peep."

"Good," he said. "We can venture out a bit further, I think. Somewhere less exposed."

"Man, I was just getting used to this spot!" Hinata protested, his usual energy momentarily deflated.

"Stay here, don't stay here," Tobio shrugged, utterly indifferent. "Not my problem if you die."

Hinata's hand twitched, itching to deliver a well-deserved smack to Tobio's head, but Miwa's presence held him back. Instead, he settled for a muttered, "Asshole.” before grudgingly gathering his belongings alongside the others.

No one argued about moving; Tobio's point was clear. Tributes would inevitably be drawn to the beach sooner or later. To avoid confrontation—or worse, death—constant relocation was a necessity.

They could only hope the games wouldn't force them to stray too far from their initial plans.

Chapter Text

Yachi was exhausted. Utterly, bone-achingly exhausted.

It was only the second day in the arena, and she was surprised to find herself still alive. After fleeing the cornucopia, she was left with nothing—no food, no water, no supplies of any kind. Driven by fear, she'd been walking day and night, too afraid to sleep. A constant stream of worries kept her awake, making rest a distant luxury.

Yachi was completely depleted, the exhaustion a heavy cloak woven from lack of sleep, gnawing starvation, and the constant walking. She knew, with a sinking certainty, that she couldn't possibly win in this condition. Her current state of weakness left her with virtually no chance of survival. The thought of ending her life now, choosing a quick death over the inevitable brutality that awaited, became increasingly tempting. And this was only the second day. The games were already beginning to drive her mad, chipping away at her sanity.

Yachi dragged her feet, each step heavier than the last, her exhaustion deepening with every stride. The bags beneath her eyes were a bruised purple, growing more pronounced with each sluggish blink. This wasn't how things were supposed to be. She had intended to join hands with Hinata, but she'd turned back at the cornucopia, paralysed by her own cowardice. The sheer fear of being caught in that bloodshed had rooted her to the spot. Thinking of Hinata made her wonder how he was faring. She knew he was part of an alliance, with Atsumu, she recalled. He was almost certainly doing much better than she was.

Yachi would have sighed, but even that small act felt beyond her depleted energy reserves. She simply lowered her gaze and continued her weary trek. As she looked down, however, something caught her sleep-hazed attention. She squinted, fatigue clouding her vision, convinced she was beginning to hallucinate. But when she knelt down to touch the icy liquid, her eyes widened in genuine surprise.

Water.

She crouched by the small river, a relieved smile spreading across her face as she reached out, cupping her hands to gather the water. She sipped from them, as if they were a precious cup. It was real. The way the water quenched her thirst, filling her parched mouth, was undeniably real. Yet, as welcome as the water was, her stomach still growled, reminding her of her hunger. She was still desperately hungry, and she had no idea how she was going to solve that problem.

She knew that this river was her only lifeline at the moment, so she decided to stay put, settling down to take more sips of water from her cupped hands. She might not last much longer in the arena, but this water could buy her some time. At least, for now.

As she took another sip, she noticed something else. Or rather, she smelled something. She inhaled deeply, testing the air to confirm what she thought she detected, and she was right. A distinct, smoky scent permeated the air, invading her nostrils. It was so strong that she was sure a fire was burning nearby. Perhaps another tribute was close, carelessly starting a campfire. However, the weather was sweltering, and it was only early afternoon. Why would anyone start a fire now?

Suddenly, she felt the air grow noticeably hotter. Yachi knew the weather in the arena was designed to mimic the changing seasons each day. Right now, it must be summer, she thought, given the hot, sticky, and intensely uncomfortable conditions. As the air grew even hotter, Yachi's discomfort intensified. But then, she realised the cause of the sudden increase in temperature.

A gasp escaped her lips as the realisation hit. She looked up to see trees engulfed in flames, bushes ablaze, and grass withering at the fire's touch. The inferno was rapidly closing in, heading straight for Yachi with deadly intent. Wasting no time, she leaped to her feet and sprinted away. But as she ran, she could feel the fire beginning to encircle her.

This was the game maker's doing. They were targeting her.

Yachi gasped for breath, instinctively holding it whenever she neared the flames. The air was thick and dangerous; if the smoke filled her lungs, she knew she'd likely pass out and succumb to the fire. She wasn't ready to die yet.

She sprinted with every ounce of strength she possessed, weaving around flaming trees and leaping over small ditches, desperately trying to outrun the relentless flames. It had spread everywhere, making it nearly impossible to avoid. The towering fire was rapidly advancing, enveloping her, growing so close that Yachi could almost feel its searing touch against her skin.

Her heart hammered against her ribs, and her breath came in ragged gasps. The fire intensified, and exhaustion gnawed at Yachi, but she knew stopping meant certain death. So she pressed on, her legs burning with fatigue, until a searing pain shot through her leg as a lick of fire grazed her. She cried out, the flames having ripped through her pants and burned her flesh. That was sure to leave a nasty scar.

Suddenly, a blazing tree crashed down in her path. She gasped, rolling aside just in time to avoid being crushed, and bolted off in a new direction. Yachi skidded to a halt as another tree blocked her way, her eyes darting around in desperation, searching for an escape. Each step sent jolts of pain through her, her leg burning fiercely. She glanced back, her focus wavering as she saw the fire still relentlessly chasing her.

Suddenly, a scream tore from her throat as she tumbled down a steep hill, losing her balance and gasping for air. The uncontrolled fall was agonising. She slammed against sticks, twigs, jagged stones, and unforgiving tree stumps, but miraculously, her head avoided impact.

Finally, the bottom of the hill arrived, and she lay sprawled on the ground below. She winced, utterly drained and lacking the strength to even twitch after the torment she had endured. But as her eyes fluttered open, she saw the fire was still closing in.

A pained cry escaped her lips, but she forced herself to stand. She pushed herself up and started running again, her will unbent. She wasn’t going to let the fire claim her just yet.

…

The walk with Oikawa was stilted and uncomfortable. It was only the second day, but Sugawara found himself just as tense as ever as he walked beside the District One boy.

He knew he shouldn't feel nervous. They were allies now, after all. But even though they'd exchanged words of trust by the fire last night, Sugawara couldn't shake the feeling that it wasn't enough to justify their sudden union. Not much trust or personal information had been shared before they formed a team. Sure, Sugawara had been treated to food, water, and a wealth of supplies he'd never had before yesterday, but something about being around Oikawa made him feel.. uneasy.

Again, Sugawara knew there was no logical reason to feel uneasy, but Oikawa was a tribute from the Career district, synonymous with luxury and privilege. It was the most beloved district, showered with Capitol favour. And to compound matters, Oikawa was the mayor's son. Sugawara could only imagine the life of indulgence the boy had left behind. A king-sized bed, no doubt, with a hybrid mattress conforming to his every whim, and a golden platter laden with freshly prepared delicacies delivered each morning. Oikawa might as well have lived a life more opulent than those in the Capitol.

Oikawa's voice cut through Sugawara's spiraling thoughts. They'd been walking in silence for most of the day, a long, awkward stillness. Oikawa could undoubtedly sense Sugawara's anxiety. Sugawara only hoped he hadn't mentioned it out of some misplaced attempt to spare him the embarrassment of explaining himself.

"You're tense… still," Oikawa muttered, a hint of irritation lacing his voice. "You survived the first night with me. I'm sure you'll manage for the rest of our little arena vacation."

Sugawara sighed, trying to keep his voice even. "That's exactly why I'm tense, Oikawa. We're in an arena—and might I remind you, one specifically designed for creative ways to kill us," he pointed a finger. "You never know what kind of surprise might come leaping out from around the next corner."

Oikawa rolled his eyes dramatically, as if Sugawara was being completely ridiculous. "Oh, loosen up, Suga," he groaned. "Where's your optimism?"

"Optimism?" Sugawara scoffed, a disbelieving laugh escaping him. "How in the hell do you expect me to be optimistic when we're basically gourmet meals on legs in a death trap?"

He rolled his eyes again, pointedly ignoring the question. Another silence fell between them as they continued to walk, the air thick with unspoken tension. Oikawa was a puzzle, a collection of contradictions wrapped in a deceptively charming package. When Sugawara had first observed him, he'd seen a focused killing machine, a tribute single-mindedly driven by the pursuit of victory, with no room for distractions or alliances. And yet, here he was, walking beside Koushi Sugawara, District Ten's tribute, peppering him with sarcastic remarks as if they were old friends sharing a casual stroll.

It was jarring.

It wasn’t what Sugawara had expected.

The silence didn't last long. Oikawa turned to Sugawara. "Didn’t your old man ever teach you to loosen up a little?” he said. “You're so tense, you'll snap."

Sugawara scoffed. "Bold of you to assume I even have a dad."

"Everyone's got a dad somewhere," Oikawa pressed. "So, do you?"

Sugawara's gaze dropped, a flicker of something that might have been shame crossing his face. He mumbled a quiet, "Yes.” avoiding Oikawa's gaze.

"Alright, so we've established the existence of a paternal figure," Oikawa said. "Moving on to the next pressing matter: Mom? You got one of those?"

"Yeah." Sugawara replied.

“Brothers?”

“Yup.”

“Sisters?”

“No.”

“Uncles? Aunts?”

“An uncle, yeah.”

“Cousins?”

“Just one.”

“Grandparents?

“Uh–”

“Half siblings? Family friends?”

"Okaaay," Sugawara chuckled, a touch of awkwardness in his voice as he finally cut Oikawa off. "Before this turns into a full-blown family history, let's just say I have a bigger family than most in my district, but it's nothing too wild, I assure you,” he tightened the strap of his backpack, a playful glint in his eyes as he turned to Oikawa. "Anything else wanna know, Mr. Inquisitive?"

Oikawa shrugged. "I've seen bigger families back in my district."

Sugawara's playful demeanor shifted, a sharper edge entering his tone. "That's because people in your district can actually afford to keep their families alive,” he said. “Ever think about that?"

Sugawara's words came out a bit rougher than he intended. He hadn't meant to sound so harsh. It was just that constant reminder that District One, along with all the other Career districts, lived in a world of such obscene wealth and got all the recognition, while the rest of them were left to feed off scraps. And what did those scraps amount to? Practically nothing.

Oikawa caught the frustration in Sugawara's voice, and the District One tribute fell silent. It wasn't in Oikawa's nature to wallow in pity or shame for others. Sure, he felt a twinge of guilt for nearly taking Sugawara out yesterday, hence the unusual display of kindness and the offering of anything he needed. And now, well, they were allies. But beyond that, sympathy wasn't really his thing. He had a massive ego—he expected everyone to practically bow before him simply because he was better. The tributes, the people back in District One. Everyone, really, except maybe the vultures of the Capitol.

But ever since Sugawara, something shifted within Oikawa. Being around him sparked a strange discomfort, likely because Sugawara wasn't naive enough to fall at Oikawa's feet. He was brutally honest, never sugarcoating anything. And he wasn't afraid to make a solid argument, even if he was speaking to the self-proclaimed king of the arena.

Sugawara was different. Intriguing. Someone who Oikawa feared might actually shift his perspective on what truly mattered in the Games.

Sugawara sensed the tension thickening between them once more, an awkwardness he feared he'd created after their brief bonding moment. A wave of guilt washed over him, and he decided to be the one to break the silence.

Sugawara clenched his hand into a fist, raising it to cough awkwardly, trying to clear the tension. "So, uh," he started, shifting the subject. "That girlfriend you mentioned during the interview... is she, uh, real?"

Smooth.

Oikawa raised an eyebrow, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face. "Yes?" His tone made Sugawara feel instantly stupid for even asking.

"Cool," Sugawara whistled, trying to sound casual but failing miserably. "Cool, cool, cool." Oikawa's expression scrunched slightly, unimpressed by Sugawara's obvious attempt to hide his awkwardness. "So, uh, what's her name?"

Oikawa stopped walking. "A bit personal, don't you think?" He said, turning to face Sugawara with a sharp look.

"Sorry," he quickly apologised, a nervous laugh escaping him. "Just trying to, you know, break the ice a little.”

Oikawa crossed his arms, raising a brow in a silent prompt for Sugawara to elaborate. So, he did.

"Look, we're going to be partners for the rest of the games, right? We might as well get to know each other," he explained, trying to sound more confident than he felt. "Not like, deep secrets or anything, more like, understand each other's personalities, our backgrounds... just—I don't know, maybe we can build a little more trust that way. I want this partnership to work, Oikawa. I don’t want to go into this if we’re not going to trust each other, you know?"

Oikawa remained unmoved, his arms still crossed, eyes fixed on Sugawara. The silent stare prompted a sigh from the District Ten tribute. Sugawara had naively assumed that working with Oikawa would be straightforward, but he was quickly discovering the contrary. Oikawa was, after all, a tribute from District One. Privileged, perhaps even spoiled. What had made him so confident that he could break through that carefully constructed exterior? The truth? Oikawa was a stuck up.

Oikawa resumed his stroll, glancing at the sky. "It'll be dark soon," he said. "Maybe this time, we find somewhere a little less exposed. Save you from jumping at every shadow."

Sugawara laughed playfully, seemingly unfazed by Oikawa's mocking tone. Oikawa knew, however, despite the lack of response, knew they came to an agreement. Had Sugawara truly disagreed, he would have been far more direct, never one to shy away from expressing his opinion with unwavering conviction.

Once again, they fell into step, walking in silence. This time, however, the quiet felt different, less strained. Oikawa, despite his aversion to sentimental ‘sharing,’ found a strange sense of peace in simply walking beside his ally. Yet, even as he enjoyed the comfortable silence, a twinge of guilt nagged at him. Sugawara was trying, Oikawa could see it, to bridge the gap between them. And Oikawa couldn't shake the feeling that he was making Sugawara's efforts unnecessarily difficult.

Oikawa chewed on the inside of his cheek, lost in contemplation for a moment. Then, finally, “His name is Hajime.” Oikawa said, drawing Sugawara’s attention back to him.

Confusion flickered across Sugawara's face. "Oh," he said, a small hum of perplexity. Oikawa gave him a look that prompted a second, more understanding, "Oh!"

"Yeah," Oikawa said, a soft smile gracing his lips. "I might’ve bent the truth about Hajime being a girl back then. But what I said to Hajime, everything I meant, that was real."

Sugawara's thoughts drifted back to Oikawa's interview, recalling the charismatic arrogance and playful flirting that had captivated the audience. He even remembered Oikawa managing to fluster Tendou, which, in hindsight, was understandable. Beyond the flirtatious facade, however, there had been a moment of genuine commitment, a clear declaration of Oikawa's desire to return home to his boyfriend, Hajime. Sugawara imagined Hajime watching them right now. He couldn't help but think just how crushed he would have been if Oikawa hadn't returned alive.

Sugawara frowned slightly, a genuine hope in his voice. "I really hope you get to see him again, Oikawa." Oikawa's brows furrowed in response.

"Hey,” Oikawa snapped. "I don't need you hoping for my desires. If I get to see him again, that means you'll die, just like the rest of these tributes, you do realise that, right? You're not supposed to hope and root for me like I'm not your competition, Suga,” he stopped abruptly, his expression hardening. "I'm going to win. But that doesn't mean I need you telling me you hope I will. This isn't how the games work."

Sugawara studied Oikawa's unusually somber face. He seemed almost insulted by the simple, polite comment. Sugawara could see Oikawa's point, though. Sure, they were allies, and getting along was part of the strategy, but rooting for each other to win? That wasn't how the Hunger Games worked. There was only ever one victor, and you had to believe, without a doubt, that you would be the one claiming it.

Oikawa's voice dropped, all playful pretense gone. "Focus on your own game," he said, the words sharp and serious. “or you won't stand a chance out here." And with that, he turned and started walking again, Sugawara falling into step silently behind him.

…

Yachi was sure anyone nearby could hear her sobs. She was just waiting for the moment they'd come out and end it all.

Darkness had fallen quickly in the arena. The sun had vanished, replaced by the moon's stark illumination. Even in the dim light, the burns and wounds on her pale skin stood out with painful clarity.

Yachi had been running from the burning forest for what felt like forever. Just when she thought she'd escaped the fire after stumbling down yet another hill, she found herself in an even worse predicament than before. Now, here she was.

Trees were toppling all around, consumed by the fire's relentless advance. In a stroke of terrible luck, Yachi found herself pinned beneath one. A fallen tree had caged her right ankle, the immense weight pressing down with agonising force. She was trapped, without any immediate means of escape. She’d already exhausted every option she could think of, but none of her attempts had been successful. She'd clawed at the earth, trying to dig herself free, and strained to pull her leg out from under the heavy timber, but all to no avail. The tree was immovably lodged against her leg, leaving her with no clear path to freedom.

With no other ideas left, Yachi simply broke down. She cried for being forced into this arena, expected to fight and kill. She cried because she wasn't strong enough, unable to even summon the courage to charge into the cornucopia and seize control of her own survival. She cried because she was overwhelmed with fear, and she cried because she felt powerless to change the way she fears.

She sniffled, the intensity of her crying having subsided somewhat. Now, tears merely trickled down her scorched cheeks, the fire having left angry burns across her face and other parts of her body. Each mark was a painful reminder, making even the slightest movement feel unbearable. Every inch of her ached, sensitive to the slightest touch, and Yachi struggled to find any reason to keep going if death was inescapable. Either she would die in this very spot, after days of agonising pain and starvation, or someone would find her, killing her without a second thought.

She felt utterly defeated, not just from the agony of her wounds, but from the crushing realisation that she had failed her mother. Yachi bit down on her bottom lip, fighting back its quivering. She forced herself to suppress the tears that threatened to blur her vision. She remembered their final minute together, how they had both grieved, despite Yachi's desperate attempts to reassure her mother that she would return home safely. It was a lie. She knew she wouldn't survive this, and she was certain her mother knew it too.

Knowing her anxious daughter, always hesitant to take risks, afraid to put herself out there, she knew Yachi wouldn't win.

She knew she wouldn't survive.

Yachi winced, stifling a sob as another tear traced a path down her inflamed face, biting her lip to maintain silence. She knew she shouldn't be succumbing to such bleak thoughts in her final moments, but it was difficult to conjure joyful memories when all she felt was overwhelming sorrow and despair.

Before Yachi could succumb to more tears, a sound cut through the silence. Someone was approaching. Leaves and twigs crunched sharply underfoot, the footsteps growing closer, sending Yachi's heart rate spiraling. Her gaze darted wildly, the sound of the approaching footsteps quickly drowning out her terrified breaths. She had been preparing for this moment, but Yachi knew she could never truly be ready to face death.

Finally, a tall, dark figure materialised from the shadows. Yachi's brows furrowed in apprehension, unable to discern their identity until they took a final step forward. Recognition flashed as she realised it was Kiyoko from District Six. Kiyoko's fierce grey eyes locked onto Yachi, eliciting a nervous gulp. Looking up at Kiyoko, Yachi couldn't deny her striking beauty, reminiscent of a Greek Goddess. Yet, beneath that captivating exterior, she knew Kiyoko was a formidable and dangerous player, a fact she had already proven.

Yachi wasn’t sure whether she should feel honored to meet her end at the hands of Shimizu Kiyoko.

Kiyoko advanced, her gaze fixed on Yachi like a predator assessing its prey. With each step, Yachi's heart hammered faster, acutely aware that death was imminent. She squeezed her eyes shut, a final, panicked whimper escaping her lips as she braced for the inevitable. However...

Instead of unsheathing the two katanas that hung at her waist, Kiyoko abruptly dropped her backpack to the ground. The thud was followed by a clatter as various tools and weapons, dislodged from her belt, scattered around her feet, including the twin swords. Ignoring the scattered equipment, Kiyoko moved towards the fallen tree that trapped Yachi, the one preventing her escape. She positioned herself, took a deep breath, and gripped the heavy trunk. It was clear the weight was substantial; Kiyoko bit down hard on her lower lip, a silent grunt escaping as she strained against the massive timber. Despite the obvious effort, she steadily lifted the tree just enough to provide a narrow passage.

Yachi gazed up at Kiyoko, her brown eyes wide with admiration and a spark of newfound inspiration. She stared, so completely absorbed in the moment that she momentarily forgot her ankle was now free from the tree's crushing weight.

"Get up," Kiyoko instructed, her tone surprisingly gentle despite the commanding words. "I can't hold this forever, unless you're aiming to make that ankle injury of yours significantly worse."

Yachi blinked, snapping back to reality at the sound of Kiyoko's voice. She scrambled to her feet just before Kiyoko, with a loud huff of exertion, dropped the tree back into place. Yachi glanced down, reaching to gingerly touch her injured ankle, a sharp hiss escaping her lips. It was a mess of scraped skin and red blood. After being wedged beneath the tree's weight all afternoon, the injury was considerable.

Kiyoko retrieved her backpack, unzipped it, and briefly surveyed its contents before pulling out a first aid kit. "Sit.” She said, her tone so direct that Yachi instinctively obeyed, carefully lowering herself to the ground. She didn't question Kiyoko's actions, not yet, anyway.

Kiyoko opened the first aid kit, her eyes quickly scanning the contents until she settled on a roll of bandages. She grabbed it, set the kit aside, and knelt in front of Yachi. She nodded towards the injured ankle, prompting Yachi to extend her right leg straight out in front of Kiyoko. Without hesitation, Kiyoko unclipped the bandage, unrolled it and carefully began to wrap it around Yachi's ankle.

Yachi winced at the pressure of the bandages, and Kiyoko offered an apologetic glance. "Sorry," she murmured. "This would be much more helpful if I had proper cleaning supplies to disinfect the wound first. For for now, the bandages will have to do to help prevent infection."

Yachi remained silent, wincing slightly as Kiyoko gave the bandages one final tug before securing them. Once finished, Yachi examined the bandaged ankle before looking back at Kiyoko. Kiyoko was now rummaging through the first aid kit, chewing on her lip in slight frustration before finally looking back at Yachi and reaching out towards her.

“As for the burns..” Kiyoko whispered, her fingertips gently tracing Yachi's cheek. Whether Yachi's cheeks were flushed from the burns or from the close proximity, her heart pounded in her chest. Kiyoko sighed softly. "I'll just have to pour some water onto them. I don't have any burn ointment or creams that could help soothe them."

She swiftly packed away the first aid kit, zipped up her backpack, and slung it back over her shoulders. Then, she retrieved her katanas, attaching them to her belt with practiced ease, leaving Yachi to gaze up at her with admiration. The next moment, Kiyoko extended a hand to Yachi and helped her to her feet. Yachi winced as she put weight on her injured foot, and Kiyoko carefully wrapped an arm around Yachi's waist, unexpectedly guiding her through the woods to keep her steady.

Normally, Yachi would have been humiliated by her current state. She felt as weak as ever, marked with burns and hobbled by an injured ankle, being aided by the most beautiful girl she had ever seen. But instead of embarrassment, confusion clouded her thoughts. She couldn't understand why Kiyoko was helping her. She remembered all too well of Kiyoko's brutal efficiency at the cornucopia, the merciless way she had taken down Michimiya. Yachi had lingered just long enough to witness the precise slices to her legs and throat. The memory made her gulp, and she resolved to avoid Kiyoko's gaze for the rest of their trek.

Eventually, they reached a secure clearing. Kiyoko gently helped Yachi sit down against a tree, then removed her bag and offered her some of the snacks and water she had packed. Yachi ate ravenously, as if she hadn't eaten in days—though it had only been two days in the arena. Meanwhile, Kiyoko efficiently set about making camp. She gathered firewood in a swift five minutes and started a warm fire with ease. She then laid out two sleeping bags beside the fire, surprising Yachi with the sheer amount of supplies she managed to carry in a single backpack.

She even went as far as to kill a squirrel and cook it over the fire for them to share. Yachi's stomach rumbled as she ate her portion of the cooked animal. Despite having a substantial amount left, she was so hungry that she craved more, her appetite seemingly insatiable.

The two girls hadn't exchanged a single word since Kiyoko tended to Yachi's ankle. Yachi knew she should express her gratitude, but the words seemed to elude her. More than just wanting to say thank you, however, Yachi was desperate to understand why Kiyoko had helped her at all—why she hadn't seized the opportunity to kill her.

Yachi took another bite of her squirrel, lost in thought, contemplating how to initiate a conversation. Before she could speak, however, they spotted something slowly drifting towards them. They quickly identified it as a small parachute, which gently landed in Kiyoko's lap. It must be a gift from one of her sponsors, Yachi assumed.

Inside, Kiyoko found a small container filled with a smooth, gel-like substance. She stared at it, a slight puzzlement on her face, before understanding dawned. Looking at Yachi, she scooted closer, dipped her fingers into the gel, and reached towards her face.

Kiyoko noticed Yachi's hesitation as she instinctively recoiled. "It's from one of your sponsors," she explained. "It'll help cure your burns."

"I doubt it," Yachi said, her voice squeaky with worry, marking the first time she'd spoken. "After the impression I made during the interviews? There's no way I have even a single person rooting for me."

Kiyoko smiled, tilting her head gently. "Is doubting yourself a habit?" Yachi didn't respond, her expression enough of an answer. "Just trust me?" she asked, reaching a little closer. "Okay?"

Yachi hesitated again, her throat working as she swallowed nervously, but she ultimately nodded, allowing Kiyoko to do as she would. With delicate care, Kiyoko reached towards Yachi’s face, gently dabbing the burn ointment onto the angry red mark marring her cheek. Yachi winced almost immediately, a flicker of discomfort crossing her features as the cold, medicinal gel met her inflamed skin. Despite the initial shock, she stilled, not pulling away, and Kiyoko continued. She spread the soothing ointment on her face, then carefully applied it to the burn on her arm, and finally to the one on her leg. A wave of relief washed over Yachi as the sharp stinging gradually eased, the burning sensation replaced by a cool, numbing calm just as Kiyoko twisted the cap back onto the container.

She could already feel her burns beginning to heal as she dug back into her food. A contented sigh escaped her lips, knowing that by morning the burns should be gone completely. That was a thought that brought immense relief. If Kiyoko hadn't found her when she did, Yachi wouldn't be covered in soothing burn ointment and enjoying a perfectly cooked squirrel. Instead, she'd likely still be trapped beneath that fallen tree, left to die or, worse, discovered by someone with malicious intent. The thought sent a shiver down her spine; in that scenario, Yachi knew she'd be dead.

Yachi pressed her lips into a thin line. Kiyoko had shown her nothing but kindness and compassion. Yet, the question lingered: why? She desperately wanted to understand the reason behind Kiyoko's need to go completely out of her way for Yachi.

Once Yachi finished the last of the squirrel, she self-consciously brushed a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. Lost in thought, she avoided looking at Kiyoko. She didn’t want someone so strikingly beautiful to think little Yachi was some kind of weirdo. Even as Yachi remained still, carefully avoiding eye contact, she was almost certain Kiyoko could sense the turmoil of her thoughts from where she sat beside her.

Kiyoko didn't need to press her to talk, though. Yachi surprised herself by finding the courage to speak up, the words tumbling out before she could second-guess herself.

Looking down, Yachi murmured, "I thought you were going to kill me,” gathering her courage, she finally lifted her brown-eyed gaze to meet Kiyoko's steady grey eyes, which were already fixed on her. She paused, then asked, "Why didn't you kill me?"

Kiyoko's expression remained unchanged. She had anticipated this question and had already prepared her answer carefully. After a brief pause, she replied, "I don't kill defenceless players."

Yachi was slightly taken aback by Kiyoko's blunt honesty. Though she struggled with reading people's expressions and personal feelings, she could easily sense the genuine truth behind Kiyoko's words and calm demeanour.

Slowly, Yachi's face softened with gratitude. "Thank you.” She managed softly.

Kiyoko smiled. “I should be thanking you,” she said, almost instantly noticing Yachi’s confused expression. “If I’m being completely honest, I've longed for comrades since we first stepped foot in the arena. It was never my intention to cooperate with an alliance, yet survival on your own can be challenging. And also..” she paused, her gaze drifting towards the fire. “Rather lonely.”

Yachi frowned, remembering her interview with Tendou. She remembered Kiyoko mentioning that she lived alone in District Six, navigating life without parents or guidance. She survived through sheer strength and independence, accomplishing far more than anyone expected. She never needed help, yet now, she admitted to the loneliness—even here, in the midst of the Hunger Games.

Realising she'd been staring at the fire for too long, Kiyoko blinked and looked back at Yachi, smiling gently. "Then I found you.” She finished in a whisper.

Yachi felt her ears grow warm. "Well, you found me when I was just about to give up on everything.” She chuckled nervously.

"I guess it worked out perfectly for both of us then."

Yachi smiled, realising Kiyoko wasn't as intimidating as she'd initially seemed. Yes, she was determined to kill in order to win, and undeniably dangerous. Yet, despite her fierce desire for victory, Kiyoko retained a surprising compassion, a deep well of sympathy and kindness. She wasn't a villain, not malevolent or crazed for blood.

No. Kiyoko was going to help Yachi. She would stand by her side, offering support and protection for as long as they both could outrun death's relentless pursuit.

Chapter Text

The flickering firelight danced across the faces of the four boys seated around it. Kuroo, Bokuto, Kenma, and Tsukishima. Akaashi, for anyone wondering, had chosen a spot away from the camaraderie, leaning against a sturdy tree, as if erecting a barrier between himself and the others, wary of some unseen contagion they might carry.

Not long ago, the group had settled into their campsite for the night. They quickly built a fire, an endeavor made easy by their combined numbers. With such a collective, almost any task seemed within reach. They arranged their sleeping bags in a semi-circle around the burgeoning flames before Kenma and Tsukishima took it upon themselves to venture out in search of food. Their hunt proved successful, resulting in a small bounty of woodland creatures—a few squirrels and rabbits—which they swiftly prepared over the open fire. They all munched contentedly, savouring the taste of cooked meat and gradually filling their bellies until they were almost uncomfortably full. Akaashi, however, remained steadfast in his self-imposed isolation near the tree, and hadn't so much as sampled a morsel of the evening's meal.

Bokuto had spent most of the night watching Akaashi, a soft frown creasing his face. The thought of Akaashi sitting alone without eating nagged at him. He'd called Akaashi over several times, but was met only with a quick glare or, more often, complete silence as Akaashi pointedly ignored the District Five tribute.

Earlier that day, Bokuto and his allies had stumbled upon Akaashi while being pursued by a pack of panthers—Bokuto's personal nightmare. After successfully fending them off, Bokuto managed to persuade Akaashi to join their alliance. Given Akaashi's typically cold demeanor and habit of dismissing Bokuto's attempts at conversation back in the Capitol, it came as a shocking surprise.

Back in District Five, Bokuto had often been told that he possessed an unusually persuasive, if somewhat irritating, charm.

Bokuto found himself staring at Akaashi again, watching as he meticulously examined each of his arrows, seemingly oblivious to Bokuto's soft, owl-like gaze. Akaashi was certainly aware of the intense stare from their close proximity, but he chose to ignore it for what felt like the hundredth time. He simply couldn't bring himself to deal with Bokuto's boundless energy again; the District Five tribute's loudness and annoyingly positive demeanour were just too overwhelming for him.

"You're totally staring again, Bo," Kuroo drawled, making Bokuto finally snap his gaze away from Akaashi. He sighed dramatically, knowing Kuroo's nailed it. "Look, you aren’t gonna get Akaashi to notice you by watching from a distance. Put on your big boy pants and go talk to him already."

Bokuto scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. "It's not like that, Kuroo."

Kuroo raised a teasing eyebrow. “I don’t remember suggesting it was?” He grinned slyly.

Bokuto's shoulders slumped as he stared forlornly at his half-eaten rabbit. Kenma, shooting Kuroo a glare, jabbed him in the arm, but Kuroo just snickered, finding the whole situation hilarious.

"He's been all mopey like this ever since we teamed up," Bokuto whined, squishing his cheek into his palm. "Akaashi barely says a word, and when he does look at me, it's like he's planning to rearrange my ribs or something.”

"Dude, that's kinda specific,” Kuroo snorted. “Even for you.”

"Cut him some slack, Bokuto," Kenma decided to say. "He's new to this whole alliance thing. Most of us are. But if I remember right, he was an orphan back in his district. He probably keeps his guard up for a reason. No one shuts themselves off completely without a good reason. It's probably why it took so much to get him to join in the first place."

"Or he just joined because Bokuto's weirdly good at annoying people into doing what he wants," Tsukishima muttered. "And it's fucking annoying."

Bokuto dramatically ran a hand through his hair, making it even messier. "I just wish there was a way I could know more about him," he sighed, deflating a bit. "Every time I try to talk to him, I feel like I'm just making things worse."

"That's because you're always going full-throttle, Bokuto,” Kenma said. “Not everyone's gonna magically trust you and spill their life story. You gotta actually try to be patient if you wanna learn more about him."

Patience has never been Bokuto's forte, whether in anticipation of a meal or the divulgence of a person's innermost thoughts. He possessed an insatiable curiosity about the intricacies of human nature, eager to understand the experiences and nuances that shaped an individual's identity. He believed that truly knowing someone meant remembering their stories, their passions, their vulnerabilities. He thrived on connection and cherished the opportunity to learn about others, provided that the process didn't demand an unreasonable amount of time.

However, Kenma's explanation cast a new light on the situation, revealing that understanding Akaashi on a deeper level would be a more challenging endeavour than Bokuto had initially imagined. The realisation that Akaashi wouldn't be an open book, easily deciphered, sparked a different kind of curiosity within him..

He wanted to learn every part of Akaashi Keiji.

Bokuto remained silent, rising to retrieve the untouched squirrel from beside the fire. It was meant for Akaashi, who, in his stubbornness, hadn't dared to touch it. Bokuto approached Akaashi, who was already giving him a look that clearly said ‘leave me alone.’ But did Bokuto heed the warning? Well, knowing Bokuto, what would you guess?

Bokuto smiled, a little nervously. "You still haven't touched the squirrel Kenma caught for you," he said, holding it out on a stick. "It's cooked perfectly."

Akaashi didn't even look up, his voice flat. "I'm not hungry." He returned to meticulously inspecting his arrows, running a thumb along the sharp tips with a critical eye.

He claimed he wasn't hungry, but Bokuto knew better. First, Akaashi hadn't eaten since early afternoon, only accepting a meager piece of dried meat when Bokuto offered. Second, Akaashi was stubborn and loath to admit much of anything. And third, the quiet rumble of his stomach betrayed him.

Bokuto raised a brow, barely suppressing a grin when Akaashi finally sighed in defeat. Bokuto settled down beside him, offering the squirrel, which Akaashi accepted with a muttered, ‘thank you.’ The simple words sent an electric thrill through Bokuto, making the spikes of his hair practically stand on end.

Akaashi already had his knife out, listlessly cutting up the squirrel. Bokuto watched him, and Akaashi tried to ignore the stare, hoping he'd get some peace to eat. But knowing Bokuto, he seriously doubted it.

As Akaashi took a small bite, Bokuto leaned in, brow raised. "Good?" He asked, a spark of curiosity in his eyes.

"Good.” Akaashi mumbled, before taking another bite.

He took a few more bites, quietly appreciative but not making a show of it. Unlike Bokuto, he didn't exaggerate the taste of things, even during the Hunger Games when finding food was a real challenge. Not that Akaashi's experience was all that different, anyway. The arena and District Eight had their own kinds of similarities.

Akaashi took another bite of squirrel, glancing up to find Bokuto still staring. His expression shifted into one of annoyed confusion, which Bokuto, of course, immediately picked up on. He grinned. "Y'know," he started. “You don't gotta keep all the way over here. Come hang out by the fire!"

"I'm comfortable.” Akaashi replied flatly.

"Comfortable enough to actually sit with us?"

"Comfortable as in, I'm perfectly happy where I am."

Bokuto's grin faltered into a slight frown. "You don't have to keep your distance, Akaashi," he said, a touch more serious. "We're allies now, remember? We got each other's backs," he paused for a moment. "Including yours.”

Akaashi just shook his head. "Has anyone ever told you you're incredibly pushy?"

"The list of names would take days to read.” Bokuto grinned.

Akaashi scoffed softly and looked away, anywhere but at Bokuto's idiotic grin. He was just so different. Even under the most stressful conditions, he managed to stay cheerful, annoyingly enthusiastic. It made Akaashi wonder why he was so desperate for attention, especially from someone like him, the most coldhearted of the bunch. Wasn't Akaashi supposed to be a stranger? A rival to all these players, Bokuto included? Well, evidently not anymore, not since he'd been roped into this ridiculous alliance.

This wasn’t how Akaashi had planned to win. Not at all. Now he was stuck with these allies until they dropped dead, or worse, until he did.

Akaashi simply rolled his eyes, then stood, brushing himself off. "Yeah, well, your pushy attitude isn't exactly a winning strategy with me, Bokuto,” he yanked a hefty rope from the depths of his backpack. At least joining this chaotic alliance had its perks—like a decent bag. Tsukishima had practically thrown his at him, complaining about the weight. Kuroo, naturally, just laughed and said Tsukishima needed to hit the gym.

Bokuto's golden eyes followed Akaashi's every move. “Uh.. what are you doing?”

“Hibernating.” Akaashi deadpanned, securing the rope around his waist, already eyeing the sturdiest tree. Bokuto, however, was having none of it.

“Woah, woah, hold up!” Bokuto exclaimed, quickly jumping to his feet. “Pretty sure that’s not the direction of.. you know.. anywhere we need to go, navigator.”

Akaashi leveled him with a look. “Navigation just so happens to be one of my strong suits,” he said dryly. “I fail to see why I require the backseat driving of the loudest person in this alliance to decide my sleeping arrangements. I assure you, I'm quite capable.”

Bokuto folded his arms, the muscles in his broad chest flexing as he watched Akaashi climb the tree. He was already settling onto a branch that looked about as inviting as a bed of nails. It couldn’t be comfortable, Bokuto reasoned. Unless Akaashi’s back was specifically engineered for hard, itchy surfaces. No, scratch that. More likely, Akaashi was just too stubborn to accept a shred of compassion.

Bokuto bit back the urge to coax Akaashi down, knowing it'd be a lost cause now that he was already perched up there. He let out a theatrical sigh. "Alright, then," he shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "But if you change your mind, your allies—note the emphasis—will be over by the fire."

Akaashi couldn't miss the pointed way Bokuto had said ‘allies’, as if trying to guilt him into remembering he wasn't alone anymore. The subtle jab at his isolation, masked as concern, only fueled his frustration.

Without another word, Akaashi turned away, a silent signal that he was done with the conversation and intended to sleep. Bokuto's shoulders slumped as he trudged back towards the fire, his usually energetic hair seeming to droop in tandem. He knew Akaashi was a different breed from the people he usually clicked with—more unyielding, less susceptible to Bokuto's usual charm. He simply refused to give Bokuto the satisfaction of an easy win.

Yet, despite all of Akaashi's prickly edges, Bokuto's curiosity and determination to understand the boy from District Eight only grew stronger.

…

The next morning, the group wasted no time.

Kenma was the first to wake, already packing up his meager belongings and nudging awake those still lost in sleep. He prodded Kuroo, instructing him to wake Bokuto. Kuroo grumbled, rubbing his forehead at the memory of the previous morning. He claimed his head still throbbed, but Kenma simply ignored his complaints, leaving a deflated Kuroo to face the daunting task of waking the alliance's deepest sleeper.

As everyone surfaced from sleep, Akaashi climbed down from his tree, dismissing the ache in his back that Bokuto was quick to point out. Akaashi simply ignored him. They gathered their belongings. Tsukishima efficiently helped Akaashi pack their shared gear, Kuroo dawdled with his usual languor, and Bokuto, of course, was already munching on a snack. He declared breakfast the most important meal of the day, an occasion never to be skipped. Everyone grabbed a bite before setting off, except for Kuroo, who, true to form, was too slow and found himself being left behind.

The group resumed their journey, falling into the familiar rhythm of the previous day. Their plan remained unchanged: to seek refuge in the mountains, where they hoped to find safety and fewer hostile encounters. Akaashi actually found himself appreciating the strategy, even going so far as to compliment Kenma. Bokuto grumbled jealously at the easy camaraderie between them, prompting Kuroo to offer a reassuring pat on the back.

The air held a sharper chill than the day before. Here and there, the group noticed trees adorned with leaves of fiery orange and deep crimson, clear signs that autumn was upon them. Winter was sure to follow soon, a prospect none of them relished. This realisation underscored the urgency of their mission. The needed to reach the mountains and find shelter fast.

As they walked, Kenma noticed Kuroo lagging behind, his usual lazy gait even more pronounced. Kenma grimaced, his annoyance palpable. "Kuro," he called out, his voice still even despite the slight edge. "Quit dragging your feet, will you? Having you behind me just makes me nervous about what kind of stunt you're gonna pull."

Kuroo perked up at Kenma's words and quickened his pace, a wide grin spreading across his face. "Ah, c'mon, Kenma, you know me!" he chuckled. "What have I ever done to make you nervous?"

“Seriously?” Kenma raised an eyebrow. "Do you want a list?"

Kuroo shrugged, that cocky smirk never faltering as he closed the gap. He still lingered behind them, but not as far as before. Kenma rolled his eyes subtly, unimpressed with Kuroo's half-hearted attempt at 'sticking together.'

He'd been moving at a snail's pace all morning. Kenma had also noticed his unusual grumpiness. He suspected it was because he'd practically forced Kuroo awake, then immediately tasked him with the unenviable job of waking Bokuto before they could even start packing. Plus, Kuroo had taken the first half of the watch shift the previous night before it was Kenma's turn. He could understand why Kuroo would be tired, but the grumpiness? It was already starting to wear on Kenma's patience.

Kenma could practically hear Kuroo's tired groans from behind him, mumbling under his breath and dragging his feet again. "What is it now, Kuro?" Kenma sighed, laced with irritation.

Kuroo groaned louder. "I'm tired,” he mumbled, the words barely audible. He was acting like a whiny kid with all the muffled complaints. "And hungry.” He added.

Kenma rolled his eyes, his patience wearing thin. "Spit it out, Kuro. Stop mumbling like a toddler and tell me what you want."

For a split second, Kuroo's whiny tone shifted, a strange undercurrent in his voice as he said, "I want you, Kenma." forcing Kenma to whirl around, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.

"What??" he blurted.

"I said I want food, Kenma!" Kuroo repeated, hamming it up now. "I'm starving!"

Kenma's bewildered expression slowly morphed into something closer to annoyance as the misunderstanding clicked into place. He shot Kuroo a look that could kill before his gaze snapped back to the front, a faint blush rising on his cheeks.

"Did we not just eat this morning?" Akaashi pointed out, the words a bit sharper than he intended. He was really starting to question his decision to join this alliance.

He thought Bokuto was unbearable, but Kuroo's constant whining was grating.

"Correction, Akaashi. You guys ate. I didn't. Because someone,” Kuroo said, pointedly coughing into his hand to mask the almost-said ‘Kenma’. “was just a little too eager to get a move on before a certain someone could get a proper meal."

Kenma's brow barely twitched as he stopped walking, a subtle sign of impatience. "I'm not responsible for your empty stomach, Kuro.” He said, not bothering to raise his voice.

Kuroo halted behind the boy. “Oh, really?" 

Kenma turned, meeting his gaze with a flat stare. "Yes, really,” he said. “You're slow, and you complain constantly. That’s why you didn't have time to feed yourself."

"Alright, harsh," Kuroo said with a shrug, his smirk widening. "Still hungry, though."

"Then eat whatever's left in your bag.”

"Out of nuts."

"And whose fault is that, I wonder?" Kuroo feigned a thoughtful expression, about to say something undoubtably sarcastic, but Kenma didn’t wait for an answer. "Yours!” he snapped. “And don't even think about begging us for food. You're not the only one in this alliance who needs sustenance."

Kuroo brought his hands up in mock defeat. "Alright, okay,” he said. “Message received, Kozume."

"And don’t call me that.” Kenma said, resuming his walk.

Kuroo had a special talent for grating on Kenma's nerves, a skill honed to an art form. He was teetering dangerously close to surpassing Bokuto on the ‘Most Annoying Human to Babysit’ list, which was a feat in itself. Who knew the strongest of the team were also the biggest idiots? Not Kenma, that was for sure. Now he was stuck fielding their incessant whining around the clock. Kuroo, especially, seemed to derive some kind of twisted pleasure from pushing Kenma's buttons.

As they walked on, Kuroo finally dialed down the snark, granting Kenma a brief respite. The silence bordered on peaceful, if one could ignore the fact that they were in an arena where death felt like a constant, looming threat. That reality alone was enough to shatter any illusion of tranquility for the players; peace was a concept foreign to their current situation.

The fragile ‘peace’ didn't last long. "Hey, check it out!" Kuroo's voice sliced through the quiet. The group turned to see him crouched beside a bush laden with bright orange berries. "What are the odds these are edible?"

Kuroo reached out for them, but Kenma was faster, swatting his hand away. "Idiot," he hissed, ignoring Kuroo's yelp. "We're in the middle of nowhere, Kuro. You can't just go around sampling random berries. How many players do you think have died from accidental poisoning in these games?"

"Uh, no clue. Educate me."

Kenma ignored Kuroo's jab, his attention fully on the berries. He studied their vibrant orange and yellow hues, noting the raspberry-like texture. The colour was almost unnaturally bright; he was surprised he and the others had missed it on their first pass.

Kenma couldn't determine if the berries were safe. His knowledge of edible plants was limited, and in his district, he always avoided unfamiliar fruits in the woods. One touch could be fatal, so the safest option was always to leave them undisturbed.

Kenma glanced up at the group as they cautiously approached. "I don't know about you guys, but my brain completely skipped the plant identification lesson," he admitted. "Anyone remember anything about berries that look like this?"

Akaashi hummed thoughtfully, stepping up to the bush. He squinted, studying the berries until a flicker of recognition crossed his face. "Those are cloudberries," he said. "They're usually made into jams, jellies, syrups—that kind of thing,” he crossed his arms, glancing at Kuroo. "They're safe to eat."

Kuroo didn't hesitate for a second after Akaashi's confirmation. A loud whoop escaped him as he began plucking cloudberries from the bush, stuffing them into his jacket and pants pockets with reckless abandon. Kenma would typically recoil in disgust at such behaviour, a visible shudder running through him at the thought of sticky berry juice coating Kuroo's clothes. But his curiosity outweighed his aversion, and he turned to Akaashi with a skeptical look.

"There were hundreds of berry species to learn about at the plant identification station. What makes you so sure these are safe?" Kenma asked, his voice tinged with doubt.

“I made sure to get at least one lesson in at each station during our three days of training,” Akaashi answered. “And I happen to have a pretty good memory, so recalling what I learned from each station isn’t a problem for me.”

Kenma's expression tightened with a hint of worry. He watched Kuroo, who'd casually flipped one of the orange berries into the air and caught it in his mouth. A moment later, Kuroo's eyes lit up, a burst of flavour seemingly hitting him as he mumbled something about a blackberry-like tang.

Kenma's brows furrowed deeper, and he turned back to Akaashi, a silent question in his gaze. "Trust me," Akaashi affirmed, his voice calm and reassuring. "They're safe to eat."

Kenma didn't voice any further questions. He simply nodded once, a gesture of understanding, and they resumed their walk. Kuroo, meanwhile, continued to munch on the berries he'd gathered with such enthusiasm, even tossing a few high in the air and catching them in his mouth with a practiced flair that earned an impressed ‘woah!’ from Bokuto. Kenma should have felt a sense of relief that Kuroo was no longer complaining about his hunger, but instead, an anxious knot tightened in the pit of his stomach.

Something about those berries didn't quite sit right with Kenma, despite Akaashi's calm assurance that they were harmless. An unease lingered, casting a shadow over the otherwise pleasant walk.

…

Back in the Capitol, Sakusa, the Head Game Maker, patrolled the Control Room.

The Control Room was a circular chamber bathed in dim, sterile light, a hub of advanced technology. Gamemakers sat at the heart of the room, their fingers flying across consoles as they tracked the multitude of screens encircling the walls. Each screen offered a window into the games, focusing on individual players or small groups. Oikawa and Sugawara, Atsumu's group, Kiyoko and Yachi, and Kuroo's team, all under constant surveillance.

Sakusa circled the vast, bowl-shaped room, his eyes drawn to the colossal screen that showcased Kuroo's group. He observed them as they sampled the innocent-seeming berries, noting how Kuroo devoured them with gusto. Among the five members of that alliance, only Kuroo alone ate them. Sakusa pressed his lips into a thin line, a nascent idea taking root in his thoughts.

As previously stated, Sakusa's brutality was well-documented. He showed no mercy to his players, reveling in devising outlandish and cruel methods to eliminate them. He craved a spectacle—an enthralling display of perpetual anguish and gruesome death. That was Sakusa's nature..

He was, without a doubt, an evil man.

Sakusa remained committed to his sinister plan, his gaze finally drifting from Kuroo on the massive screen. He stopped beside one of the game makers. "Are those berries still achievable to manipulate?" He inquired casually.

"Yes, sir.” The game maker responded.

A smirk played beneath Sakusa's dark face mask. "Good," he murmured, adjusting his leather gloves. "Can the effects of the berries consumed by contestant number two still be modified?"

The game maker nodded.

His smirk widened at the confirmation. "Good," he repeated, his gaze returning to Kuroo on the screen, who laughed and smiled innocently as he consumed the berries, blissfully unaware of Sakusa's machinations. "Because we're about to rewrite the effects of those cloudberries."

Chapter Text

The afternoon sun beat down on the arena, and the boys were growing weary. They knew reaching the arena's edge, where the mountains and caves lay, would be a long journey, but perhaps they hadn't fully grasped the sheer distance they'd have to cover.

But there was no room for worry. Their plan was set, the course was charted. They were heading for the mountains, and that was that. No turning back.

It wasn't long before Bokuto took the lead in complaining, following Kuroo's earlier hunger pangs with a fresh wave of whining. He bemoaned his aching legs, begging for a five or ten-minute reprieve. Kenma noticed Akaashi's eye twitching in response to Bokuto's constant griping, made all the more irritating by the fact that Bokuto directed his complaints solely at him.

Kenma couldn't help but smile faintly at Akaashi's growing frustration with Bokuto's whining, recalling how Kuroo's earlier hunger had grated on him. Akaashi and Kenma were likely the only two in the alliance who could truly empathise, while Tsukishima simply tuned out Kuroo and Bokuto, unwilling to be burdened with babysitting two ignorant crybabies.

Bokuto's whiny remarks began to fade into a dull background hum as Kenma turned his attention back to Kuroo, who was still trailing behind the rest of the group. But as Kenma watched him, he noticed Kuroo was walking a bit apart, his steps slow and heavy, as if he were dragging himself along. Kenma began to worry that it wouldn't be long before Kuroo joined Bokuto in a chorus of complaints. The mere idea of dealing with two whiners at once made Kenma's face scrunch up in irritation. He really didn't want to deal with that.

Kenma glanced back at Kuroo, a hint of annoyance in his voice. "Kuro, are we really going through this again? Keep up."

Kuroo heard Kenma's words and responded with a mumbled agreement, nodding almost imperceptibly, his gaze fixed on the ground. Strange, Kenma thought. Usually, he'd be met with one of Kuroo's signature smirks and a cocky retort, inevitably followed by Kenma pinching his arm in response.

Even from their position a few steps ahead, Kenma registered that something was distinctly off about Kuroo. It was a subtle shift in posture, a lack of the usual spring in his step. Kenma hadn’t consciously noticed until now that Kuroo's hand was pressed against his stomach, fingers digging in slightly. At first glance, it could be mistaken for a childish need to visit the restroom, masked by a layer of embarrassment. But Kenma knew Kuroo well enough to recognise that this was different, something more than a simple urge.

Kenma stopped walking, a flicker of concern replacing his usual impassive expression as he watched Kuroo's sluggish progress. His feet seemed to drag, leaving lazy trails in the dirt and grass. Usually, his slowness in the mornings was due to a simple bout of grumpiness, easily dismissed. This time, however, it was clear that something else was at play.

Kenma made the decision to walk over to Kuroo. "Hey, you alright?" He asked, his concern evident in his tone.

Kuroo took a moment to respond, finally lifting his gaze. "Yeah, no, I'm—" he paused, his grip on his stomach visibly tightening. "Fine—I'm fine. Don't worry about it, man."

Kenma wasn't convinced. Especially not given Kuroo's appearance. When Kuroo finally looked down at him, his face was ashen, completely devoid of its usual colour, giving him an almost sickly pallor. Furthermore, his words were faint and labored, each one drawn out with a noticeable delay. It took him seconds to force out a single syllable.

"Kuro, you're pale," Kenma pointed out, his tone serious. "What's going on? Are you not feeling well?"

Again, Kuroo hesitated before answering. He slowly raised a hand, his movements sluggish, and touched his forehead, his eyes squeezing shut as he winced. "I…" he mumbled. "I don't know.."

Kenma pressed his lips together, a knot forming in his stomach. He reached out and placed the back of his hand against Kuroo's forehead. His own eyes widened slightly. "Holy shit," Kenma murmured, studying Kuroo intently. "Kuro, you're burning up."

Kenma gently touched Kuroo's face, then moved to his neck, each inch of skin radiating an alarming heat. He could see beads of sweat forming on Kuroo's brow, and a shiver ran through his frame. It wasn't just a normal chill; it was the kind of shivering that comes with a high fever, but somehow more intense, more unsettling.

Almost instinctively, Kenma was urgently calling the others over. He barked instructions, requesting someone to give him water and a first-aid kit immediately. Simultaneously, he assisted Kuroo in removing his rucksack, letting it slide off his shoulders, before carefully taking off the heat-protective jacket. Beneath it, Kuroo's black shirt was soaked, clinging to his body with the sweat that slicked his skin.

Kuroo attempted to pull away from Kenma's grasp, but Kenma held firm. "Kenma, I'm fine—"

"You're not," Kenma countered, his voice brooking no argument. "Just sit down. We’ll take a break."

Bokuto audibly sighed in relief at that announcement. Akaashi was already ahead of the game, pulling a water bottle from his bag and offering it to Kuroo. Kuroo didn't take it, waving a weak hand in refusal. "Seriously, I'm fine," he insisted, taking a step back that looked more like a stumble. "I'm probably just tired from all this walking."

"We're going to give you a break then, so just sit down, okay?" Kenma reached out, gently but firmly grasping both of Kuroo's arms, as if afraid he might lose his balance completely.

Kuroo trembled at Kenma’s touch, which did absolutely little to ease the growing concern. Kenma, with a gentle yet persuasive grip, attempted to guide him towards a nearby log, encouraging him to sit. Kuroo, however, proved resistant, attempting to wrest himself from Kenma's hold, all the while insisting on being fine. Yet, his protestations rang hollow against the stark reality of his appearance—a pallid, sweating figure, visibly trembling. It was a state that defied any claim of being merely 'fine.'

Kenma's directives cut through the air, a series of clipped instructions aimed at coordinating the group's efforts to aid Kuroo. At this point, Kuroo teetered precariously on the edge of consciousness. Kenma's voice seemed to recede into the distance, fading amidst a cacophony of ringing in his ears and a disorienting wave of dizziness. The figures of Kenma and the others began to dissolve into indistinct blurs, their forms losing definition as Kuroo's vision clouded over.

He swallowed hard, blinking once with deliberate slowness, his footing faltering once more, only to be steadied by Kenma's firm grip. "Kenma..” he murmured, his voice a mere rasp, devoid of its usual strength. Kenma met his gaze, his expression etched with concern, though Kuroo couldn't be certain if he was truly looking at him, his vision obscured by a blurring haze. Slowly, a veil of darkness began to encroach upon his sight, a consuming blackness that threatened to overwhelm him completely. "Get..” he mumbled, his words barely audible. "Get away from me…"

Kenma’s brows knitted together in a frown. “With you looking minutes away from passing out? You’re kidding,” he looked back at Bokuto. “Fetch that first aid kit quickly please.”

Kuroo would have unleashed a string of curses if he possessed the strength, but he felt as though his only remaining capacity was to utter his desperate warnings. Kenma, however, remained deaf to his pleas, his concern for Kuroo's well-being overriding any heed he might have paid to Kuroo's urgent words.

The encroaching darkness intensified, threatening to consume Kuroo's vision entirely. He was running out of time. "Kenma, please..” Kuroo rasped, making one final, desperate attempt to convey his message, his weakening hand closing around Kenma's wrist. "You need to get away fro…"

He faltered, his words abruptly ceasing, and Kenma's expression shifted to one of heightened worry. He leaned in closer, his attention focused intently on Kuroo, anticipating the continuation of his sentence, but it never came. Kuroo's eyes fluttered shut, his head lolling forward, his hand still clasped around Kenma's wrist. Kenma's mind reeled with confusion, grappling with Kuroo's sudden and inexplicable decline. He couldn't comprehend the cause of his rapid deterioration.

What was happening to him?

Suddenly, the silence shattered as Kenma gasped, a sharp intake of breath. Kuroo's grip on Kenma's wrist intensified with alarming force, a stark contrast to any comforting or amicable hold. It was like the brutal squeeze of a vengeful adversary, fuelled by raw fury. Kenma instinctively struggled to break free, but Kuroo's grasp was implacable, his nails digging harshly into Kenma's skin, threatening to leave a lasting mark. It hurt. He was hurting Kenma.

Kenma's eyes darted frantically towards Kuroo, who remained staring downwards. The shivering had ceased, replaced by a sheen of sweat and labored breathing, as if he were still battling this intense heat. "I told you to get away," Kuroo growled, his voice barely above a whisper, yet resonating with a newfound depth, a stark departure from his usual tone. His gaze lifted, locking onto Kenma's, and he snarled, "I fucking warned you."

As Kuroo's gaze met Kenma's, he was met with a chilling sight. Kuroo’s pupils were fully dilated, vast and dark, swallowing the familiar hazel of his eyes. Sweat beaded at his temple, and his breath came in quick, almost enraged gasps. Kuroo's grip on Kenma's wrist tightened ominously, and a chilling realisation dawned on Kenma..

This was not his Kuroo.

Kenma continued to desperately try to break free, while Bokuto frantically tried to pull Kuroo away, his shouts demanding that he release Kenma, but his pleas fell on deaf ears, his efforts met with unyielding resistance. "I'm gonna kill you," Kuroo suddenly snarled, his words directed with chilling precision as he stared straight at Kenma. "I'm going to fucking kill you!"

Before Kenma could muster another attempt to break away, Kuroo erupted into sudden violence. His eyes were wild and unfocused as he seized Kenma, his grip biting and agonising, and in a swift motion, he produced a knife from his pocket. The unexpectedness of the attack caught Kenma off guard, leaving him unprepared as Kuroo slashed the blade across his face, leaving a deep, disfiguring scar on his cheek.

Bokuto quickly summoned all his strength to tear Kuroo away from Kenma, who stumbled backwards, collapsing to the ground as his trembling fingers grasped at his wounded face, blood oozing between them. Kuroo's enraged eyes snapped from the terrified Kenma to Bokuto, and he unleashed a brutal punch to his nose before Tsukishima intervened. Seizing Kuroo by the back of his shirt, Tsukishima dragged him to the ground, but Kuroo was quick and tenacious, showing no signs of backing down anytime soon.

Before Kuroo could regain his footing, he swiftly slashed Tsukishima's leg with the knife, eliciting a sharp yell of pain. Kuroo then abruptly stood, his eyes locking onto the trembling and afraid Kenma, charging at him again. But Bokuto reacted quickly, intercepting Kuroo before he could reach Kenma, and ensnared him from behind in a tight chokehold.

Kuroo grunted, desperately trying to wriggle free from Bokuto's powerful grip. "Let me go!" he roared angrily. "Let me kill him!"

Bokuto's hold on Kuroo tightened. "What's happening to him?!" He demanded urgently.

Tsukishima, still on the floor, clutched his injured leg. "It has to be those berries," he grimaced in pain. "There's no other explanation for his savage behavior."

Kenma's eyes darted between Kuroo and Akaashi, his expression a mix of anger and confusion.

Akaashi's stomach dropped. "No," he stammered. "No, those berries were harmless, I’m telling you!"

Kenma wanted to argue, but they had more urgent matters at hand. Suddenly, Kuroo slammed his elbow into Bokuto's stomach, forcing him to release his hold. Kuroo resumed his pursuit of Kenma, and Akaashi swiftly raised his bow and arrow, preparing to shoot as though he had no other choice.

Kenma's eyes widened in fear. "Akaashi, don't!" He screamed.

Akaashi hesitated, immediately picking up on the fear laced within Kenma’s voice. It was a note of desperation he’d never imagined Kenma capable of. He slowly lowered his bow. Instead, he swiftly moved to intercept Kuroo, shoving him back before he could get any closer to Kenma. Kuroo, eyes blazing with anger, spun around to confront Akaashi, brandishing his knife menacingly. Akaashi, however, was quick. He seized Kuroo's wrist tightly, twisting it sharply while simultaneously delivering a swift knee to Kuroo's stomach. The force of the blow caused Kuroo to double over, the knife slipping from his grasp and clattering to the floor. Seeing his chance, Kenma darted forward, snatching the knife from the ground before Kuroo could recover.

Kuroo shoved Akaashi away, creating just enough space before Bokuto launched himself forward, tackling Kuroo to the ground with a resounding thud. Kuroo landed face-first in the grass, the air knocked from his lungs. Bokuto, a heavy and inescapable weight, straddled Kuroo's back, pinning him. He seized both of Kuroo's wrists, securing them tightly behind his back. Akaashi, already prepared, swiftly retrieved ropes from his backpack and handed them to Bokuto. Bokuto bound Kuroo's wrists so tightly that the rough fibers likely scorched his skin. Kuroo thrashed and squirmed beneath Bokuto's weight, his wrists chafing painfully against the unforgiving rope.

Even with Kuroo tied up, Bokuto didn't budge. He remained firmly in place, one hand pressing Kuroo's face into the dirt, the other side already ground against the earth. From his position, Kuroo's wide, black pupils remained fixed on Kenma. He strained against his restraints, groaning through clenched teeth as he continued to hurl insults.

"Face me!" he would say. "Get over here so I can kill you! Fucking coward!"

Kenma remained on the ground, trembling, his eyes fixated on the struggling Kuroo. He was paralysed, gripped by a fear so profound it rooted him to the spot. Kuroo had completely snapped, and the realisation that he had nearly been killed washed over him in a chilling wave.

He glanced down at his trembling hand, now slick with his own dark scarlet blood. A shaky sigh escaped him as he realised that alliances were as treacherous as they were rumoured to be. In a heartbeat, everything could change. They consumed something dangerous, turning on each other with lethal force, leaving nothing but regret and guilt in their wake.

But what if Kuroo felt no remorse for what he'd done to Kenma? Even worse, what if Kuroo was incapable of guilt, forever trapped in this altered state, unable to return to his true, correct, and genuine self?

…

As they walked, Tobio's gaze kept drifting towards his sister, Miwa, and Atsumu, who were chatting animatedly just ahead of him and the redhead. He couldn't help but notice how quickly they'd formed a bond during their short time in the arena. It was only a matter of days, yet they seemed inseparable. In fact, Tobio recalled them clicking almost instantly during that first training session, right after the alliance arrangement.

Tobio subtly grimaced, the memory of the third training session resurfacing. He still harboured a resentment towards Atsumu for neglecting to mention Hinata first. If it hadn't been for Atsumu's intervention, he might have inadvertently taken the guy's head off during the chaos at the cornucopia.

Looking ahead, Tobio noticed Miwa and Atsumu deep in conversation, their smiles and laughter causing his brow to twitch involuntarily. Hinata, walking beside Tobio, must have caught his annoyed expression, as he stifled a snicker. In an instant, Hinata seemed to grasp the situation.

Tobio clearly wasn't thrilled with Atsumu's growing closeness to Miwa.

It wasn't so much the idea of his sister possibly developing a crush on Atsumu that bothered him; rather, it was the fact that Miwa seemed to overlook the gravity of the Hunger Games, casually befriending someone like Atsumu as if they were on some friendly outing.

Atsumu possessed a weird way of speaking, a perpetually carefree demeanour, always so relaxed and charming—something Tobio didn't buy for a second. He wasn't falling for the facade. Yet, he knew if he voiced his concerns about Atsumu to Miwa, she'd likely retort with how Tobio himself lacked friends and barely interacted with others, questioning how he could possibly judge Atsumu's character.

Tobio huffed, fisting his hands deep into his jacket pockets.

Beside him, Hinata watched his frustrated fidgeting, then glanced back at Miwa and Atsumu with a grin. "Say, Kageyama," he started, nudging him slightly. "Maybe it's just me, but I think there's a little somethin'-somethin' going on between your sister and Atsumu."

"Yeah?" scoffed Tobio. "What'd you get that from?"

Miwa's laughter rang out, drawing both Tobio and Hinata's attention. Atsumu was smiling too, looking at Miwa like she was the only one who'd get his jokes. Hinata shot a wide grin and raised his eyebrows at Tobio. Tobio just glared back.

"Yeah, well, if that's the case, I'll kick his ass.” Tobio grumbled.

"Because you can't handle the fact that your older sister's actually having fun around someone?" Hinata teased.

"It's not that, dumbass," Tobio retorted. "It's the fact that she's having fun around someone who's supposed to be her competition."

"He's her ally, Kageyama," Hinata scoffed. "And he's my friend. Yours too, ya know!"

Tobio pinched the bridge of his nose. "You're forgetting this isn't some friendship picnic,” he said, turning to Hinata. “This is the Hunger Games. There's only one winner here. Alliances? They're just temporary. Sooner or later, we're all gonna be at each other's throats because we all want the same thing. To win,” he narrowed his eyes at Hinata, voice low. "Do you plan to win?"

That question hit Hinata like a ball to the face. He blinked, snapping back to reality. "Of course, I do!" he shot back, his voice full of fire. "I'm gonna win, and I'm gonna beat you!"

Tobio hummed, a flicker of something akin to respect in his eyes. Hinata was a wild card, a fierce competitor who'd proven he'd stop at nothing to win, even if it meant going up against Tobio himself on day one. The guy wanted to win, to prove he was the best, even if it meant surviving the Hunger Games, the ultimate battle. Hinata, like everyone else here, probably hated every second of this hellhole, but they were all clawing for the same thing. Victory. Survival. Just like Tobio.

Tobio averted his gaze, saying, "Taking a real commitment to the idea of killing, huh?"

"You think I'd just let you off me without a fight?” the redhead grinned. “I'm gonna beat you, Kageyama!"

"I'd wish you luck, but there's not enough in the world to fix that ego of yours." Tobio snorted.

Hinata groaned, his eyes rolling dramatically. "So broody and grumpy as always," he then muttered, "No wonder people prefer your sister over you."

“What was that?!”

“I said you’re grumpy! Quit yelling at me!”

“I’m not grumpy.”

"Yes, you are!" Hinata retorted, then, in a flash, he morphed into his best Tobio impersonation. He flattened his hair down with his hands, scowling, and deepened his voice. "It's always, 'I'll do this, don't touch that, you're doing it wrong. I'd rather do everything myself.'"

Tobio's hand shot out, grabbing Hinata by the collar. "Do you ever know when to shut up?!" He growled.

Hinata, undeterred, kept the grumpy 'Tobio' expression plastered on his face. "'Look at me'," he added. "'I'm a dumb jerk.'"

Tobio's brow twitched, the urge to hurl Hinata across the arena becoming almost unbearable. But before he could act on his violent impulse, Miwa spun around, her eyes narrowed.

"Hey!" she hissed, her voice a harsh whisper. "Could you two knuckleheads cut it out and look!"

Confused, Tobio and Hinata exchanged glances, but fell silent, listening intently. Miwa and Atsumu crept towards the nearest bush, ducking behind it for cover. Tobio and Hinata followed suit, curiosity piqued. Atsumu, with a flourish, parted the green leaves with his golden trident, creating a peephole that allowed all four of them to see whatever had captured Miwa's attention.

Just a short distance away, they spotted a deer. A real, live deer—it seemed too good to be true. The animal, its back to the hidden group, grazed peacefully, completely unaware of the hungry tributes watching it. Tobio stared, transfixed. Hinata's jaw dropped, his mouth practically watering. Atsumu snickered softly at their stunned reactions. Suddenly, silence fell over them, each afraid that the slightest movement would scare away their precious meal.

Tobio's voice dropped to a whisper, his earlier annoyance forgotten. "We need to catch it," he urged, his hunger now overriding everything else. "Got a plan?"

"Plan?" Atsumu scoffed, tapping his trident with a cocky grin. "Please. Me, this baby, an’ that thing is gonna be shish kebab before sunset."

Miwa raised an eyebrow at Atsumu. "Oh, you didn’t actually think you were going to be the one to catch it, did you?"

"Well, duh!" Atsumu shot back, a bit too full of himself. "Who else would? I'm packin' the biggest heat here, aren't I?"

Miwa eyed Atsumu, half-expecting him to yell, ‘Just kiddin'!’ But Atsumu just continued to beam down at her, that infuriatingly perfect grin plastered across his face. Arrogant, confident, and utterly convinced of his own abilities—that was Atsumu in a nutshell. Miwa had to bite back a snort at his blatant overconfidence.

"Funny," she finally said, breaking the silence. "But I'm the one taking it down. No offense, but let's be real—your hunting skills haven't exactly been stellar. It's day three, and honestly, I'm starting to lose faith in training you."

"Ouch," Atsumu said, faking a wounded expression as he clutched his chest. "Right for the throat, Miwa."

"So," Miwa continued, clasping her hands together, her gaze shifting from Atsumu to her brother and Hinata. "Anyone got a problem with the archer doing what she does best, or are we all on the same page that the bow and arrow is the way to go?"

The boys were silent, their agreement obvious. Tobio gave a curt nod, and Hinata eagerly shot his hand up in agreement. But the moment Hinata registered Atsumu's dramatic, wounded gasp, he flinched and offered an apologetic glance. Atsumu's eyes blazed with betrayal, silently shouting, ‘I see how it is, Shoyo! Just leave me ta rot, like everyone else!’

Miwa's lips curved into a satisfied smirk. "Good," she said, turning to Atsumu, her eyes lingering on him a moment longer than necessary, a silent challenge passing between them. "Looks like it's three against one, Miya."

Atsumu grinned back, a flash of something unreadable in his eyes, letting his gaze drift over her for a split second before he threw his hands up in mock surrender, no longer arguing, but far from conceding. Miwa carefully unslung her bow, nocked a single arrow, and took a steadying breath before stepping out of the bushes. She kept her profile low, a predator emerging into the open. The deer, thankfully, had its back to her. It was the only living thing she needed to worry about staying hidden from.

Her steps were measured, each footfall deliberate and silent, her breathing a soft, even rhythm easily lost in the breeze. The deer remained blissfully unaware, continuing to graze, oblivious to the danger closing in. Miwa raised her bow, the arrow aligned with her target, a predator poised to strike. She inhaled deeply, took one final, decisive step, and then—

Suddenly, Miwa found herself yanked abruptly into the air, suspended approximately five feet above the forest floor, entrapped in a thick, coarsely woven rope. A gasp burst from her lungs as she instinctively squirmed, her movements growing frantic as she realised she’d stumbled into a cleverly concealed trap. It was a hasty, careless blunder that had landed her in this predicament, and now she hung, helpless and exposed, from a tree.

Her heart hammered against her ribs as she frantically scanned her surroundings, panic clawing at her throat. She caught a glimpse of her brother, already halfway to his feet, his face etched with alarm. But just as quickly, Atsumu reached out, yanking Tobio back down into the concealment of their hiding spot.

"What the hell are you doing?!" Tobio hissed, his voice laced with anger. "I need to get her down from there!"

Tobio surged to his feet again, but Atsumu's grip tightened, pulling him back once more. "Just wait!" he urged, his voice a low, urgent plea. "A trap means someone's nearby. It doesn't just appear outta thin air. Someone set it up."

"Yeah, and it was probably the game makers.” Tobio retorted, straining to stand.

"Just think rationally for once, Kageyama," Atsumu snapped, yanking him back down. "We can't help her. Not until we know it's safe."

Tobio was about to argue, but the sudden sound of laughter cut him off. The three teens peered cautiously through the dense foliage, spotting two figures approaching the captive Miwa. Their laughter was cold, predatory, and they stared at her as if she were their next meal. Atsumu squinted, leaning forward slightly to get a better look, and then recognition dawned. He knew exactly who they were.

District Six's boy, Nishinoya, and District Eight's girl, Kaori.

Shit, Atsumu thought instantly. Shit, because he knew exactly what these players were capable of. Like any tribute, they were ruthless and vicious, but Nishinoya and Kaori were especially dangerous when it came to combat. Atsumu would know. He had observed nearly every player during training, and they were among those who left a lasting impression. These were participants who didn’t plan on losing. Not a brutal loss, at least.

Atsumu pressed his lips into a thin line, watching as they prodded the suspended Miwa with the blunt ends of their weapons, their taunts echoing through the air. He knew these two players well enough to understand that they weren’t planning a quick kill. They reveled in teasing their victims, tormenting them until they were begging for an end to their suffering. But Atsumu wasn't about to let that happen to Miwa.

Atsumu shifted his gaze to Tobio, noticing the white-knuckled grip he had on his knife. He was only a hair's breadth away from abandoning their hiding spot and taking down the individuals who had kidnapped his sister—his only sister.

Atsumu grabbed Tobio’s shoulder. "Hey," he said, pulling him back from the brink of action. "That’s not how we’re gonna approach this situation.”

"This is the Hunger Games," Tobio scoffed, disbelief lacing his tone, as if Atsumu was suggesting something absurd. "Violence is exactly what the Capitol wants."

"Exactly. But that approach won't work with Nishinoya an’ Kaori."

"Friends of yours?" Hinata asked.

“No,” he answered. “But I’ve talked ta ‘em before, an’ I think I have a way of gettin’ yer sister outta there without causin’ too much danger.”

Tobio didn't seem convinced. Despite his attempt to mask his worry, it was clear he was on edge. Miwa was his sister, after all. Of course, he was terrified for her; she was trapped—death felt like it was only moments away. He tightened his grip on his knife, a clear sign of his unease.

So, Atsumu gave Tobio's shoulder another squeeze, this time a gesture of reassurance. "Just trust me on this," Atsumu said, his gaze shifting from the anxious Tobio back to Miwa, still suspended in the trap. "I've got a plan."

Chapter Text

Anything could’ve gone wrong in this situation.

Atsumu didn’t have much time to think—jumping from behind the concealing bush, ready to let his carefully cultivated charm do the talking. It was a risk, a gamble that hinged on his ability to manipulate the situation before Miwa could be hurt. Atsumu possessed a gift: the power to disarm his opponents with his disarming demeanour. They would underestimate him, swayed by his charisma, and in that moment of vulnerability, Atsumu would seize control. It was how he achieved what he wanted. The same charm to his victories in the games.

Approaching Nishinoya and Kaori, his mind raced with the logistics of his plan. His sole focus was on how he could make everything work, how he could ensure Miwa's safety. He had already briefed Tobio and Hinata, and thankfully, they were on board. Their role was simple: remain in the background, unnoticed, while Atsumu worked his charm. Their success hinged on trust—trust in his abilities, and most importantly, trust from Miwa in the plan he was about to set in motion.

If Miwa didn't trust him in this crucial moment, their bond might never be the same. She might lose trust in him, no longer seeing him as the reliable ally she once knew. That was a risk he couldn't bear. He desperately needed her to trust him, to understand that he was doing everything within his power to help her.

Atsumu inhaled deeply, exhaling the stress and worry that threatened to shatter his carefully constructed persona. Replacing the anxiety was his signature smirk, the disarming expression that had fooled so many before. This plan had to work. It needed to work. Nishinoya and Kaori would fall for his carefully laid trap.

So, when he came bursting from his hiding spot, Atsumu feigned exhaustion, panting heavily as if he'd been running for miles. He thrashed through the underbrush, trident in hand, gasping for air. "Where'd ya run off to?!" he exclaimed, scanning the area wildly. "When I catch ya, ya lil’ District Twelve rat, you're dead—"

And just as he'd anticipated, his performance was interrupted when Nishinoya and Kaori spotted the District Four boy. "Atsumu?" Kaori gasped, recognising him instantly. “Is that you?!”

Atsumu turned to them, feigning surprise. "Kaori, holy shit!" he exclaimed, throwing his hands up and approaching them with a wide smile. "How have ya been, darlin’? I've been lookin’ everywhere for ya! An’ Noya, man! Good ta see ya!"

Atsumu and Nishinoya broke into a strange, bizarre handshake, a spectacle Miwa watched with mounting confusion as she hung suspended, bound by coarse ropes. Her eyes flickered between Nishinoya and Atsumu, her mind a whirlwind of unanswered questions. For the moment, she kept her thoughts to herself, despite the growing, frustrated confusion.

Nishinoya's eyes were wide, a grin spreading across his face. "Dude, where have you been?" he said. "We were starting to think our alliance offer bounced right off that blonde head of yours!"

"Went over my head?” Atsumu scoffed, waving a hand. “Please. The only reason it took me so long ta get back ta ya is 'cause I had half the arena on their knees, beggin' me ta join their lil’ teams. Had ta let 'em down gently before comin' here, ya know? Can't blame 'em, though. Everyone wants ta be on Team Miya!"

Nishinoya burst out laughing, Kaori joining in with a giggle. Miwa, however, remained silent, her hands gripping the ropes of the trap. Her intense stare bore into Atsumu, a palpable wave of anger, frustration, and bewilderment radiating from her. He risked a quick glance in her direction and saw pure rage contorting her features. Ignoring her, he pressed on with his plan. She just needed to hold on a little longer.

Atsumu put his hands on his hips. "An' ta answer yer first question, this lil’ piece of District Twelve shit ya caught somehow managed ta slip right outta my grasp,” he clicked his tongue, feigning disappointment. "The nerve of this one, thinkin' she could outsmart Atsumu Miya, takin' my bag an' weapon an' all! Not very slick, if ya ask me, but who could blame her for tryin'?"

He shot another glance at Miwa, a smug grin plastered on his face as Nishinoya and Kaori erupted in laughter. Miwa just glared back, her eyes burning with anger. "I wouldn't call stepping into our trap slick in the slightest," Kaori giggled. "Lucky for you, she won't be running away again anytime soon."

The entire situation, of course, was a carefully constructed performance. Atsumu had never imprisoned Miwa, nor had she escaped and stole his supplies and weapons. Miwa knew the story was a lie, yet Atsumu could clearly see the emotions swirling across her face—anger, confusion, betrayal. Because, in that moment, she believed she had been betrayed. Atsumu was improvising a lie, a shield to protect Miwa, to save her from the consequences. Fortunately, Nishinoya and Kaori seemed to be convinced by the act, and the plan was proceeding as it should.

The only concern was the potential strain this charade might place on Atsumu and Miwa's relationship.

Atsumu's missing backpack was further evidence of Miwa's supposed theft. He was going to extraordinary lengths to make his scheme believable. He'd entrusted his belongings to Tobio and Hinata, who were likely observing from their hiding spot behind the bush. Atsumu could only imagine the expression on Tobio's face as he hurled insults at Miwa. He didn't mean any of it, but he still felt a pang of disgust at speaking about his friend in such a way.

Atsumu let out a low whistle. "So, now that you've got her hangin' there like a puppet, what's the grand plan, huh?"

Nishinoya chuckled, twirling his weapon—a scalpel chain, a nasty piece of work designed for the games. He also had throwing knives and daggers strapped to his belt, a veritable arsenal. "The real question is, what were you planning to do with her?" He arched an eyebrow, his gaze sharp.

Atsumu placed his hands on his hips, adopting a casual stance. "I just wanted ta mess with her, ya know? Tease her a bit, remind her who's boss after she tried ta act all tough on day one," he shrugged. "Gotta show her who's the top dog, give her a lil’ taste of what happens when ya mess with the best."

"What an idiot!" Kaori laughed.

"Provoking you, as if she doesn't know who you are.” Nishinoya scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Right? The nerve of some people, I tell ya!" Atsumu grinned, playing along. "That's why I was plannin' on makin' her life a livin' hell. Let that fear of what's comin' eat away at her, make her wish she never crossed me. By the time I'm done, she'll be beggin' for it ta end."

As Nishinoya and Kaori laugh, Atsumu saunters towards Miwa, who's hanging there like a caught fish. He's holding the net with one hand, eyes locked on a fuming Miwa. He gives her this slow, cocky smirk, tilting his head gently, and Miwa barely recognises him. Was this really the guy who was supposed to be on her side?

Deep down, though, there's something else in Atsumu's eyes—a silent plead. It was as if he were imploring Miwa to understand, to recognise that this was merely a calculated deception to protect his true ally—his real friend. Yet, Miwa completely missed the underlying sincerity, perceiving only the callous individual who had never truly cared about her or their team.

Atsumu sees he's not getting through to her, so he released the net and spun back around to face Nishinoya and Kaori. "Right then!" he clapped his hands together, real loud. "Reckon it's a good time to get a fire goin', eh? Gettin' kinda late. Best if we start settin' up now rather than later, don'tcha think?"

Nishinoya slapped Atsumu on the back, grinning. "Man, it's good to finally have you on the team!"

"Happy ta be here!" Atsumu shot back with a wide smile.

By the time Atsumu and his fake allies had the camp set up, night had completely fallen. The air was biting cold, but they got a fire blazing quick, scarfed down a warm dinner, and made sure to laugh at how Miwa watched every single bite they took. They were playing her, teasing her. Atsumu was no different, throwing her quick glances and a smug smirk while he ate. She just about choked on her own spit, battling the urge to tear through her restraints and slice Atsumu's throat open.

Miwa remained trapped, suspended from the tree by thick ropes that dug into her skin, the height making her stomach churn. She'd been in this position for too long; her legs were numb, her whole body screaming in protest. She'd tried to cut through the ropes, but it was a lost cause after Kaori confiscated all her weapons and tools. Defenceless, she was powerless against the three of them.

Atsumu found his gaze drifting back towards the dense thicket where he knew Tobio and Hinata were holed up, half-expecting, half-fearing they'd disappeared. He was surprised Tobio had exercised such restraint for this long, resisting the urge to charge out and confront those who had taken his sister. Atsumu wondered at what point Tobio's control would snap, what the breaking point would be that would send him spiraling into action.

"You know," Nishinoya said, snapping Atsumu back to the present. “You'd think her brother would be with her, right? Tobio, isn’t it?"

Atsumu knew exactly where he was, but he played dumb. "Now that's a damn good question, Noya!" he turned that trademark smirk back on Miwa. "Say, where is yer insuperable lil' brother, huh, darlin'?"

Miwa was shivering from the cold when Atsumu looked her way. He almost lost it, snapped, seeing her like that, but he held his ground. Miwa just glared, pure venom in her eyes. "Wouldn't you like to know?" She spat.

"Feisty!" Atsumu chuckled. "She's been like this since day one! Makes ya wanna just cut her tongue right outta her head, I tell ya."

In the blink of an eye, Nishinoya had one of his daggers out, chirping, "Allow me!" practically vibrating with excitement.

Atsumu instantly panicked.

"Wait!" he suddenly blurted out, stopping Nishinoya mid-stride. Nishinoya turned, appearing puzzled. Atsumu cleared his throat, quickly backpedaling into his role. "I mean, hold yer horses, yeah? We got all night. I still wanna squeeze a few more words outta her, hear what the pretty thing has ta say. Gotta give her a chance ta talk herself out of this mess. Ain't that right, darlin'?"

Close call. Atsumu realised he needed to watch his damn mouth around these two. They weren't playing games.

Atsumu flicked a glance at Miwa, her glare still burning holes through him. “You can start off by telling me where the hell my brother is.” Miwa said, her voice tight with anger.

Atsumu threw his hands up. “Don’t go lookin’ at me,” he said, an innocent grin spreading across his face. “Ya think I keep tabs on every scrawny runt in this arena? You lost him, not me. Maybe when ya get outta this little.. situation, you can try lookin’ behind a bush or somethin’. Might find him cryin’ for his big sister. Can’t imagine the poor kid doin’ too well without ya holdin’ his hand.”

Miwa’s glare didn’t waver, and Atsumu bit back a curse. Shit, too subtle. He'd been trying to tell her, without telling her, that Tobio and Hinata were still hiding in the same spot. Guess some people just weren't wired for subtlety.

Atsumu let out a theatrical sigh. "Too bad, though, Miwa," he drawled. "This time, you ain't wrigglin' free. Means you won't be seein' that precious brother of yours anytime soon. Stuck with yours truly 'til the bitter end."

Atsumu instantly noticed the way Miwa yanked at the ropes, her face twisted with anger. "Go to hell.” She spat, the words like venom.

Atsumu laughed. "See what I mean? Feisty as hell!” he said as he turned to the other two clowns. “Can't deny it, though, even tied up and pissed off, the girl's still cute as a button."

Kaori crossed her arms, mumbling, "She's not that cute."

"Not as cute as Kiyoko.” Nishinoya declared, eyes gleaming.

"That girl from your neck of the woods?" Atsumu grinned. "Did you two have a lil’ somethin' somethin' goin' on? Damn, Noya, you sly dog!"

"Nah, she always ignored me, brushed me off every time I even tried to talk to her," Nishinoya admitted, then hugged himself, blushing and giggling like a schoolgirl. "I loved it when she ignored me!"

"Damn, you got some interestin' taste in women, man.” Atsumu snickered, shaking his head.

"Oh yeah?" he scoffed. "What kinda girl are you into then, huh?"

"Me, personally? I like a girl who knows how ta throw a punch. Ain't afraid ta put me in my place," he admitted. He wasn’t entirely acting for this one. "There's nothin' hotter than a girl who's got more fire in her than I do."

Kaori crossed her arms, a knowing look on her face. "Sounds to me like you just described Miwa over there." She pointed out, a hint of amusement in her voice.

"What can I say?" Atsumu shrugged, a wide grin spreading across his face. "I mean, can ya blame me? I already said she was cute, didn't I?"

Atsumu, however, having been acting, wasn't entirely disingenuous about that one. Miwa was, undeniably, attractive—a fact he readily conceded. Yet, as he delivered his lines with that characteristic swagger, he knew Miwa likely bristled at his words. Still convinced of his betrayal, she undoubtedly felt a profound disgust for him, his posturing, and everything he represented.

She likely hated him in that moment, a sentiment Atsumu could only acknowledge with a pang of guilt. He suppressed the feeling, however. He just had to ensure this plan succeeded, to complete what he'd set out to do, and save Miwa.

Nishinoya suddenly bursted out laughing. "Y'know, if I wasn't so dense, I'd say you wanna kiss her, Atsumu," he said with a playful wink. "Or at least, that the thought's crossed your mind before."

Ah, shit. Now Atsumu was really in the deep end.

Atsumu barely manages to choke back a nervous laugh. "What?" he scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. "I know I'm a flirt, but goin' as far as wantin' ta kiss the girl? C'mon, Noya!"

Nishinoya turned to Kaori, a knowing smirk on his face. "That's denial right there." And she giggled in response.

Atsumu rolled his eyes. Usually, he could charm his way out of anything, but this situation was proving to be surprisingly sticky, even for the supposedly unflappable Atsumu Miya.

"Seriously!" he said. "If I wanted ta kiss her, I woulda done it already. This is the Games, not some cheesy romance flick. No way I'm wastin' my time sweet-talkin' a girl I'm probably gonna have ta kill later anyway. ‘M here ta win, not playin' house with folks who ain't gonna matter in the long run."

Nishinoya whistled slowly. "Brutal."

Atsumu fought to mask his guilt, pressing his lips into a thin, tight line as if physically forcing himself to stop any more words from escaping. He couldn't even bring himself to turn around and face Miwa. He felt the weight of her gaze boring into the back of his head, a silent accusation that made his skin crawl. Even without seeing her, he knew exactly what he'd find. A complicated mess of hurt, anger, and melancholy. She was furious with herself for being so naive, for actually believing his act. And underneath that anger was a deep sadness, a heartbreaking realisation that the 'friend' she thought she knew was capable of such casual cruelty..

..and it hurt to remember that in the Games, there was only ever one thing that these people wanted most..

Victory.

…

“Can you believe the nerve of this guy?” scoffed Tobio.

“What?”

"Can't you hear what he's saying about Miwa?" Tobio muttered, his gaze fixed on the scene through the bushes. The firelight around Atsumu and the others helped him see despite the darkness, and a simmering rage tightened his features. "I should get up there and shove my fist down his throat. How dare he talk about her like that," he turned to Hinata, his eyes narrowed. "Are you even listening?"

Hinata glared, a touch annoyed. "We're sitting way over here, Kageyama," he pointed out. "All I can hear is a bunch of muffled noise and my own stomach rumbling."

"Then shut it up and eat something.” Tobio snapped, already dismissing Hinata as he returned to peering through the bushes. Hinata just rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath.

They'd been hiding in the undergrowth for what felt like an eternity. This was the linchpin of the plan: Atsumu was to make the first move, do all the talking, while they remained hidden. If they charged in too early, Atsumu had warned, before he'd created the necessary chaos, it would be a bloodbath. ‘We'll all be dead,’ he'd said, his usual cocky grin replaced with a rare seriousness. So it rested on Atsumu's shoulders, this whole precarious gamble. Tobio and Hinata were left with the hardest part—to stay put, to fight the urge to act, and to wait for the signal that might never come.

Sure, the tedium of waiting was starting to wear on them, but rushing things now could jeopardise everything they were trying to achieve—saving Miwa. Someone needed to remind Tobio of that, because the guy was practically vibrating with pent-up anxiety. Hinata knew he'd never get Tobio to admit it aloud, but his restlessness was a dead giveaway. He kept fidgeting, his movements tight and jerky, a stark contrast to his usual controlled demeanor. Every few seconds, he'd risk a peek through the foliage, his dark eyes scanning the group with an intensity that bordered on desperation, trying to catch snippets of conversation that were lost in the distance. He was a coiled spring, wound tight with frustration and worry.

Patience, it seemed, was a virtue Tobio hadn't yet acquired.

Hinata watched Tobio, noting the way his eyes narrowed, and the almost imperceptible lean closer to the bush, as if daring the leaves to further irritate his skin. Hinata couldn't help but think he was bordering on paranoia. Excessively so.

So, Hinata decided to nudge him with an elbow. “Alright, I get why you're freaking out, but maybe dial it back a notch,” he said. “You're making me nervous."

"I'm not freaking out." Tobio retorted, his voice clipped.

"Then what do you call that?" Hinata gestured to Tobio's twitching leg and the way he's practically glued to the bush.

Tobio hesitated, his brow furrowing before he grudgingly admitted, "Freaking out."

Hinata rolled his eyes. "Atsumu told you to trust him," he said. "Do you not trust him?"

"I don't trust his overconfidence, if that's what you're asking."

"So, what? You don't think he'll actually get your sister out of there?"

"It’s not just that," Tobio said, cutting off Hinata's look with a sharp glare. "Okay, whatever, it is that,” he conceded with a frustrated huff before continuing. “But listen, his plans are stupid, and I refuse to just sit here while he runs his mouth with that dumb charm of his when Miwa's in danger. Miwa is gullible. It’s not just Nishinoya and Kaori he’s tricked, but Miwa too. She’s probably so confused by whatever he's saying."

Hinata's shoulders slump, absorbing Tobio's words. He gets where Tobio's coming from, but he can't grasp the full weight of what he's feeling right now. The tension radiating off of him is clear—a mix of fear, anxiety, and a barely suppressed urge to charge in. Hinata thinks of Natsu. If Natsu were in Miwa's place, he knows he'd be just as frantic, paralysed by the same fear for her safety.

Hinata grasps a piece of Tobio's turmoil; family is a bond he understands deeply. Yet, Hinata's faith in others extends further. For Natsu's safety, he'd place his trust in unlikely hands, even strangers. He's willing to believe in Atsumu's plan, and Tobio needs to find that same conviction. Miwa's life could depend on it. Holding onto mistrust now could be the very thing that costs her life.

Hinata looked at Tobio. "All you can do is trust him, Kageyama," he said, trying to reassure him. "When the time is right, it will be our turn. Atsumu knows what he's doing."

"You can't be so sure with Atsumu.” Tobio mumbled, unconvinced.

"Is that your trust issues talking, or are just a dick and you actually have a reason to think Atsumu's going to screw this up?" He asked, pressing him.

Tobio's expression darkened at Hinata's words, but he let the insult pass. "He's got a way of manipulating people, even idiots like you," he said. "He had Nishinoya and Kaori eating out of his hand practically the second they met him,” he paused, a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. "I don't know... it makes you wonder who he'll try to use next. This is the games, after all. There's only one winner, and I'm sure Atsumu's aiming for the top, just like everyone else."

Hinata's face tightened, a flicker of discomfort in his eyes. He understood Tobio's logic, but the idea of Atsumu manipulating their allies with his charm sat wrong with him. Was that who Atsumu really was? So driven to win that he'd deceive those who genuinely wanted to help?

Hinata fidgeted with his fingers, a nervous habit. He's always been one to dive headfirst into friendships, drawn to the simple joy of connecting with others. He loved that feeling—until he realises he hasn't really stopped to consider who these people truly are.

So, what if he didn't think Atsumu through? What if, all along, Hinata was nothing more than a pawn in Atsumu's game?

Tobio observed Hinata's sudden disquiet but he chose not to point it out. "I just think we need to be cautious around him," he said. "Even if he is on our side."

He decides to let the matter drop, turning his attention back to eavesdropping through the bushes. Despite his efforts, the stress gnaws at him. He can't afford to be distracted, not when his sister's life hangs in the balance.

Tobio's eyes went wide. "He's getting up.” He blurted, his voice hushed as he watched through the bushes.

"Who? Atsumu?" Hinata asked, already trying to shove his way past Tobio to get a better look. "What's happening?"

Tobio ignored him, muttering under his breath, "What the hell is he doing?"

"What's going on? What's he doing?" Hinata's curiosity was getting the better of him, and he nudged Tobio harder, trying to get a clear view.

Maybe a little too hard.

Without warning, Tobio found himself flat on his back, the sudden impact stealing his breath. A flustered Hinata, having completely lost his balance, stumbled awkwardly and landed on top of him. Hinata looked down at Tobio, a sheepish grimace slowly replacing the initial surprise on his face. He could see the annoyance simmering in Tobio’s dark eyes. Hinata chuckled nervously, the situation suddenly feeling a lot more awkward than he imagined. And then...

"Did you guys hear something?" Kaori's voice cut through the air.

Both boys froze. Seeing Tobio's lips part to speak, Hinata slapped a hand over his mouth. They'd been so focused, so close—had they just blown their cover? Hinata glanced down at Tobio, his eyes conveying a silent warning. Tobio just glared back, unyielding, but remained perfectly still despite their awkward position. After all this time, after patiently waiting for Atsumu all afternoon, there was no way he was risking being caught now.

Silence hung heavy in the air. Hinata and Tobio locked eyes, practically resigned to their fate. The tension stretched until Atsumu finally laughed, "Pfft, relax, idiots. Probably just some dumb animal or somethin'. Those game maker jokers are always lookin' for cheap ways ta make us all crap our pants."

Nishinoya burst out laughing. "Right on that one, Atsumu! You would not believe how many times I’ve chucked a dagger at a freakin’ acorn, mistaking it for some opponent!"

“Too many damn times,” Kaori scoffed. “It’s embarrassing.”

From his concealed position, Hinata peered through the dense foliage, watching the trio resume their conversation. He noticed Atsumu's sharp eyes flick towards the bush, a subtle shake of his head warning, 'Be more careful.' A nervous chuckle escaped Hinata's lips. As if sensing the shift in attention, Atsumu's easygoing mask snapped back into place as he turned his focus back to Nishinoya and Kaori.

Hinata let out a relieved ‘phew,’ glancing back down at Tobio. Tobio was mid-glare. Hinata yanked his hand away from his mouth like it was on fire, sputtering, "Dude, did you just lick me?!" his face scrunched up in disgust.

Tobio sat up fast, shoving the redhead off his lap. "No?" He said flatly, wiping his mouth like Hinata's hand was covered in something nasty.

"You’re disgusting, you know that?" Hinata made a face, wiping his hand on his jacket. "Seriously, how many germs do you think are on a hand?”

"Shouldn't have put it on my face,” he shrugged. “Easy target.”

Hinata glared, muttering a quiet, "Asshole." under his breath before snapping back to attention. He shoved the bush aside, peering through it again, Tobio right beside him, both remembering what they were supposed to be doing.

They still had a job to do.

…

Eventually, Nishinoya and Kaori had fallen asleep. Late into the night, Atsumu struggled against the pull of sleep, his eyelids fluttering like trapped moths. He perched precariously on the knife's edge of consciousness, but the image of Miwa snapped him back to focus. He had to stay awake; he had to save her. It was for her sake that he fought against the exhaustion.

Atsumu volunteered to take the first watch shift, relieved when Nishinoya and Kaori accepted without argument. It wasn't entirely surprising; they were likely running on fumes after single-handedly managing watch duties throughout the games. Atsumu figured they'd been forced to stay up every night, splitting the shifts between them.

Besides, Nishinoya and Kaori had placed an unusual amount of trust in Atsumu from the start. The moment they'd entered the gymnasium, they'd gravitated towards him, practically pleading for an alliance. Atsumu, of course, had brushed them off, promising to consider it, then actively avoided them, hoping never to see them again. Now, here he was, stuck in this situation. Feigning loyalty to the pair while secretly trying to help the girl who probably wanted him dead.

Great fun, isn’t it?

Once Atsumu was certain Nishinoya and Kaori were completely asleep, he wasted no time. He rose, grabbed one of Miwa's knives from her bag, and headed towards the trap where she was still suspended.

As he'd predicted, Miwa was wide awake. Her posture spoke of acute discomfort—knees drawn tightly to her chest, arms wrapped around her legs as if for dear life. The confines of the makeshift cell appeared brutally restrictive, offering her no chance to stretch or shift. Judging by the thick rope, Atsumu could only imagine the abrasive material digging relentlessly into her skin, chafing even through the layers of her clothing. Beyond the physical discomfort, she seemed utterly drained, her eyes heavy-lidded with exhaustion, yet fixed on some distant, unseen point.

A profound sadness seemed to cling to her. She looked as though she were teetering on the edge of sleep, but the sheer terror of closing her eyes for more than a second kept her suspended in a state of anxious alertness. Who knew what horrors Nishinoya, Kaori, and even Atsumu himself might inflict while she was at their mercy, unconscious and vulnerable?

Atsumu almost frowned at Miwa's dejected state, but he checked himself, focusing on the task at hand: freeing her. He approached the trap, and the sound of twigs and leaves crunching underfoot made Miwa look up. Seeing it was Atsumu, her expression hardened into a glare.

"Finally come to kill me?" Miwa said, her voice laced with acid, though Atsumu caught a flicker of genuine steel beneath the surface.

Atsumu scoffed, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. "Oh c’mon, Miwa, thought ya were smarter than that," he drawled, tilting his head. "Ya didn't actually believe all that garbage, did ya?"

"I believe you're a traitor, if that's what you're asking." She shot back, her eyes narrowed.

Atsumu held up the knife, the glint of the blade catching the moonlight. "Not a traitor." He said, twirling the weapon between his fingers with a practiced flourish.

Miwa's eyes searched his, but Atsumu only offered a disarming grin as he sliced through the rope. Freed suddenly, Miwa stumbled, the ground rushing up to meet her, but Atsumu was there in an instant, his hand sure and strong as he pulled her upright. He steadied her, then slowly let go, allowing her to feel the familiar ground beneath her feet, a sensation she'd almost forgotten.

Now, she was staring up at Atsumu, blinking like a newborn calf. "I don't get it.” She mumbled, all confused.

Atsumu chuckled. "Damn, I knew I had the chops for the stage, but this?” he tapped the knife against his chin with a low whistle. “Shoulda gone into actin’, I swear."

Miwa's arms snapped across her chest. She raised a skeptical brow, her foot hammering impatiently against the floor. Enough was enough. The message was clear: cut the crap and explain yourself. He sighed, the carefully constructed facade of cool indifference crumbling. He looked down at Miwa, and the shift in his gaze was unnerving. Gone was the teasing glint, the calculated cruelty. This was something else entirely, an intensity that reminded her of a time before the masks, before the games. It was a look that made her stomach clench, a look she hadn't expected to see again.

"Miwa, I was never goin’ against you," he finally said, the words stripped bare. "Yer my ally. My only real ally in all this. An’ ‘cause of that, I was willin’ ta do whatever it took ta get ya outta this shit. I had ta play the part, put on this false face, even with you. It was all fake, a way ta.. ta protect you. I'm still your ally, Miwa. Your friend."

Miwa's gaze dropped, fixing on the ground as Atsumu's words sank in. He could see the gears turning in her mind, a storm of confusion and sadness brewing beneath the surface. Though her expression was hidden, the slump of her shoulders spoke volumes—she wasn't convinced, and she certainly wasn't happy.

"So…" she finally mumbled, her voice barely audible. "It was all an act?"

"Yeah." Atsumu confirmed.

"A ruse... to help me?"

"Yes, Miwa."

Silence hung heavy as Miwa rubbed her arm, a visible tremor in her hand. When she finally looked up, Atsumu felt a pang of guilt. Her brow was furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line, a raw mix of disbelief and hurt etched across her face. Then, the words, barely a whisper..

"You were mean, Atsumu."

Those four words seemed to physically deflate Atsumu. His shoulders slumped in tandem with his crestfallen expression, and a wave of regret washed over him. He'd overstepped, no question. He hadn't just gone too far; he'd bulldozed past the line.

"Miwa…" he said softly, his voice laced with regret. "Shit, I'm—hey, look, I'm so sorry, Miwa, I—"

Miwa sighed, a weary sound. "It's fine." She brushed past him, as if dismissing the apology altogether. But Atsumu wasn't about to let her walk away. He could sense the hurt. See the hurt.

"Hey, wait," he said, gently taking her wrist and turning her back towards him. Her eyes flickered up to meet his, her expression still clouded with sadness. He noticed the sheen of unshed tears. "I know I ran my mouth, alright? I was bein' rude, I was mean, I was a fuckin’ dick, I know. An' ya can hate my guts, don't gotta forgive me or nothin', but just hear me out—I didn't mean a damn thing I said back there, I swear."

Atsumu was dead serious about what he'd just said. Every nasty word that had spewed from his mouth earlier was a complete fabrication. Excited about joining Nishinoya and Kaori's team? A blatant performance. Wanting to cut Miwa's tongue off? A throwaway line, easy to say. And the cruelest blow, the one that had clearly wounded Miwa the most? A total lie. No, Atsumu hadn't meant a single word when he'd called her cute, when he'd joked about wanting to kill her, the slow and agonising death he’d give her until she was begging. None of it was true.

But here's the million-dollar question: did Atsumu really want to kiss her? Not in this mess, not with all this bad blood. Just look at Miwa's face—a train wreck of upset, hurt, and pure disgust at the garbage he'd been spouting. She probably doesn't even see him as a friend anymore, not the loyal one she used to trust. Now he was just a teammate she was stuck with until the final whistle. Bet she'd get a kick out of burying the knife in him then, wouldn't she?

And about calling Miwa cute? Yeah, okay, she was, but Atsumu knew he'd never actually say it out loud. He'd just sound like some low-life trying to weasel his way into her pants with cheap, meaningless lines. But you're probably thinking, 'Atsumu, isn’t that exactly the crap you pull back home?' Yeah, well, maybe Atsumu's just a pathetic case, locking away his true feelings and thoughts from the world, so he gets his kicks by batting his eyelashes at a girl or two, knowing damn well he doesn't want anything real. They always come crawling back, and Atsumu always cuts and runs. Total scumbag move, right?

But now that he was here, standing in the arena, that whole stress-relief routine felt wrong. Especially with Miwa. She was different. Nobody would ever just call her ‘cute,’ like those girls back home. She was nothing like them. And if Atsumu ever got the chance to be completely honest with her, he'd say she was beautiful. Because, honestly, that's the stone-cold truth.

A heavy silence hung between them. They kept staring at each other, neither one breaking eye contact, like Atsumu was waiting for some kind of green light. He wanted Miwa to know he was still on her side.

But instead of giving him what he wanted, Miwa just said, "We should go." She pulled her arm away, brushing past Atsumu to grab her bag and weapons by the fire. Slinging her bow and arrows over her shoulders, she completely ignored him, even as she walked right back in his direction.

Atsumu didn't say another word. Miwa was clearly still pissed, needing time to process his apology. He sighed, but he understood. So, he kept his mouth shut, not wanting to make things any worse than they already were.

Atsumu picked up his weapon, taking extra care not to wake Nishinoya or Kaori. He retrieved his trident and twirled it in his grip, eager to finally get out of here. However, just as they were about to set off to return back to Tobio and Hinata, a new complication arose.

Kaori's eyes snapped open.

She fixed a hard stare on Atsumu and Miwa, her hand already moving to her belt, gripping the hilt of her sword. Seeing Atsumu, she recognised him for what he was. A filthy traitor. Her glare intensified, teeth clenched, and Atsumu and Miwa knew they were about to face a fight. She swiftly awoke Nishinoya, and soon they were being pursued by both.

Back at the bush, Tobio and Hinata caught sight of the commotion. Finally, this was their cue. They rose, weapons at the ready, but the two were running in different directions. Tobio charged towards his sister and Atsumu, prepared to confront Nishinoya and Kaori head-on, while Hinata remained hidden, careful to stay out of sight as he scaled the nearest tree. He moved swiftly, leaping from branch to branch with practiced ease until he found the perfect spot. Then, he drew his slingshot and hefted the heavy stones.

"I knew there was something off about him," Kaori spat, spinning her sword menacingly. "He was never to be trusted!" With that, she charged at Atsumu, swinging her sword in a furious arc.

But before she could land a serious blow, Atsumu parried her attack with his trident. He grunted through clenched teeth as she pressed her sword harder against his weapon, his arms trembling under the sudden force. Unexpectedly, she seized the moment to kick him squarely in the stomach, throwing him off balance and sending him sprawling to the ground.

Shit, Atsumu thought. He knew the District Eight girl was strong, but he hadn’t realised she was this dangerous. He was in for a serious fight.

Nishinoya snatched two throwing knives from his belt, instantly targeting the Kageyama siblings. His movements were lightning-fast, matched only by Tobio and Miwa's reactions. They evaded each knife Nishinoya threw, either rolling out of its path or blocking the blades with their own weapons—a risky maneuver, given what could have gone wrong. But the siblings weren't just smart; they were experienced enough to know exactly what they were doing.

Nishinoya continued his barrage of knives until he realised his supply was dwindling. Adjusting tactics, he drew his largest dagger from his belt, spinning it once expertly between his fingers before charging directly at Miwa. Noticing the threat, Tobio swiftly stepped in front of Miwa, using his own knife to deflect Nishinoya’s dagger from his grasp, sending it clattering to the ground. Then, he slashed his knife towards the District Six boy, the sharp edge just barely grazing a tuft of Nishinoya’s dirty blonde hair. He narrowly missed cutting his face, Nishinoya’s quick reflexes allowing him to leap back just in time.

Nishinoya’s expression hardened, and he braced himself for another attack. However, he paused as a small stone whizzed past his face. Luckily for Nishinoya, the stone missed its mark. But unfortunately for Hinata, Nishinoya spotted him perched in a nearby tree, a slingshot in his hands and a bag of stones in the other.

He shot Hinata a sharp glare before turning his attention back to Tobio. With a sudden burst of speed, he charged, throwing an unexpected punch at Tobio’s face. Following up, he kicked him hard in the stomach, sending Tobio stumbling backwards, crashing into Miwa. Both of them fell to the ground.

Now his attention snapped to Hinata in the tree. Panic flared in Hinata’s eyes as Nishinoya began scaling the tree at a frightening speed. He was closing in, and Hinata was out of options. Just then, Tobio and Miwa regained their footing. Miwa swiftly drew her bow and released an arrow at Nishinoya. It missed, but the shot came close. She notched a second arrow and fired again, missing once more, though her aim was noticeably improved.

Nishinoya was now mere inches from Hinata, and Miwa knew that if she didn't act fast, Hinata would be caught—likely slaughtered to death. No. He would be slaughtered to death.

Miwa took a deep, steadying breath, focusing her mind as she reached for her third arrow. She carefully nocked it into her bow, her eyes fixed on the target. She meticulously observed Nishinoya’s every movement, anticipating his next reach, his next climb. She watched as his left hand stretched out, reaching for that final, crucial branch that would bring him within grasp of Hinata. It was now or never. So, with a sharp exhale, she made her decision and released the arrow. And with that, the silence of the forest was suddenly shattered by Nishinoya's piercing scream.

She got him.

Miwa lowered her bow, revealing the third arrow lodged squarely in Nishinoya’s left hand, crimson liquid blooming around the shaft. The sudden agony caused Nishinoya to lose his grip, and he plummeted from the tree, landing with a sickening thud on the ground. He lay there groaning in anguish, clutching his left wrist, his body trembling at the sight of the arrow still embedded in his hand.

Meanwhile, Atsumu was on his back, pinned beneath Kaori, who straddled him. He desperately used the shaft of his trident to block the relentless strikes of Kaori’s sword, preventing it from slicing into him. She pressed her blade against his weapon with increasing force, each push more brutal than the last. Atsumu's arms began to tremble under the mounting pressure. Her strength was undeniable, her power overwhelming.

But a plan sparked in Atsumu’s mind. With a swift move, he angled his leg beneath her, disrupting her balance and momentarily breaking her focus. Seizing the opportunity, Atsumu used his trident to forcefully shove Kaori and her sword away, sending her sprawling onto her back. He scrambled to his feet, gaining the upper hand. However, Kaori was far from defeated.

She sprang back to her feet, immediately launching a furious sword strike, but Atsumu parried it skillfully with his trident. The fight devolved into a whirlwind of motion, a relentless back-and-forth. Kaori unleashed a flurry of sword attacks, each met by Atsumu's precise counters with his trident. It almost felt like an unfair sword fight.

The fight dragged on, the repetitive clash of steel and trident grating on Atsumu's nerves. He needed to end this. Now. With a surge of adrenaline, he swung his trident with newfound force, the blow staggering Kaori even as she blocked it. Then, with shocking suddenness, a stone hurtled from Hinata's position in the tree, striking Kaori squarely on the temple. The impact must have been painful, for her eyes flickered shut almost instantly, and she crumpled to the ground in a heap.

She was only unconscious; a single blow like that couldn't have been fatal. But fate took a cruel turn. As she fell, a large, jagged stone lay directly beneath her. Her head struck the rock with sickening force, and in an instant, the stone was soaked in blood.

The cannon boomed.

Now she was dead.

Atsumu stood panting, staring down at her still form. He hadn't expected the fight to leave him so drained, so vulnerable. He'd been nearly powerless against her. She had almost killed him, for fuck's sake.

Atsumu wiped the sweat from his brow, his gaze shifting to Nishinoya. He was slumped against the tree, howling in agony as he ripped the arrow from his hand in a single, brutal motion. Blood spurted, tracing a crimson path down his arm, but he ignored the pain, scrambling to his feet. He had to escape before tending to his gruesome new injury.

Nishinoya’s eyes narrowed as the reality of Kaori's death sank in. He was alone now, assuming he even survived this ordeal. Nishinoya, seizing the moment, grabbed his belongings from the fire and bolted in the opposite direction. But Atsumu wasn’t letting him escape that easily. He surged forward in pursuit, Miwa's desperate cries for him to come back echoing behind him, but he pressed on, running and running until...

Without warning, Atsumu crumbled to the ground, a searing pain exploding in his head. The impact was brutal, forcing a sharp hiss from his lips as his eyelids fluttered weakly. His vision swam, the world dissolving into a murky haze as he felt himself plummeting into a dark abyss. A high-pitched ringing filled his ears, mingling with the distant shouts of his allies. Through the distorted sounds, he could make out Hinata's frantic cries, something about 'I didn't mean to hit him!'

His gaze flickered to Nishinoya's fading silhouette as he vanished into the dense woods.

That was the last thing Atsumu saw before unconsciousness claimed him, the sound of Hinata's desperate cries slowly fading into the all-encompassing void.

Chapter Text

“That’s the seventh death,” Tsukishima pointed out when the cannon went off. “Seventeen still stand.”

It was late at night when the boys sitting around the fire heard the seventh cannon fire. Well, it was really just Tsukishima and Bokuto sitting around the fire tonight. Bokuto was frying something over the fire, carefully twirling the meat on his stick and ignoring the possibility that he was burning it. Tsukishima could smell it, but he failed to point it out. He could see Bokuto was thinking about something. The District Eleven boy was sitting next to him, wrapping bandages around his leg, just beneath his knee. The bleeding from the slash had subsided; he cleaned it up when he discovered he had what he required to treat his wound, and now he was wrapping it up before it could worsen again.

It wasn’t too long ago when Kuroo went savage. After he consumed those supposedly harmless berries, he completely lost his mind and lashed out towards them all. Specifically Kenma of them all. It was as if the minute those berries kicked in, he wanted to kill the first person he saw. Kenma was the one attempting to care for him back there, holding him calm and balanced, staring into his eyes, and repeatedly ordering him to sit down. And Kuroo didn’t listen because something happened. His thoughts became a complete and total mist, and he forgot who he was and only wanted to kill.

Neither of them knows how or why it happened, but Tsukishima believes the game makers were to fault. They saw an open opportunity and were only concerned with the thrill and excitement it would bring to the people of the Capitol, not the kids involved, because that was how the games operated. They intended to kill these children for their own enjoyment, even if it meant causing someone else's suffering.

Kuroo had been tied up all afternoon, and practically all night. He was currently tied to a tree, still attempting to free himself from the ropes that wrapped tightly around his (undoubtedly) aching wrists. From the minute Bokuto tied him up, Kuroo hasn’t calmed down since. Sure, he wasn’t screaming and kicking like he was earlier, but he was still muttering angrily under his breath, lazily writhing as if he was tired. Like the yelling and screaming was finally tiring him down.

“Gonna..” Tsukishima and Bokuto could hear him still mumbling. “Gonna..kill..you..”

He had calmed down little, but only because he was exhausted. So, in order to maintain Kuroo's new tranquilly, the boys agreed to leave him alone. Eventually, just maybe, he'd fall asleep, and by morning, he'd be back to his normal, confident self. And maybe, just maybe, Kenma will be relieved to finally see that arrogant smirk he always professed to despise, since just now, Kenma was feeling nothing but this pit of misery that Kuroo was no longer smiling at him.

Kenma was walking a little further from the group, pacing around like he needed some sort of distraction from everything. From Kuroo. But he couldn’t do anything more than pace the place, sometimes pulling out his crossbow and aiming at absolutely nothing. He would also catch himself glancing back at Kuroo, like he was waiting for something. Maybe for him to say something other than ‘kill’, or for him to sleep–maybe see if he somehow changed back to normal? Or maybe he was simply checking if he was okay.

Kenma may not admit it out loud, given his reputation as a calm and cool participant, but Tsukishima and Bokuto could see he was worried. Yes, Kuroo got on Kenma's nerves most of the time, and yes, Kenma has openly admitted Kuroo was nothing more than a pain in his ass, because he felt like he was just babysitting the guy when his main focus was always to win.

However, as difficult as it was to read Kenma most of the time, his dedication and sympathy for Kuroo were as clear as an open book. He cared about Kuroo. He cared about Kuroo, despite the fact that he knows he is only an ally and a potential competitor. He cared, because he knows he’s done the wrong thing by joining his alliance—trusting him, and entirely disregarding all the warnings he gave to himself prior to the games.

Kenma walked into the Capitol believing he’d win on his own. Not needing any allies to help or betray and kill him. But now he’s plunged into this pit. This pit of sympathy, and he’s guilty. He feels guilty because he knows this situation between him and Kuroo was going to turn into a direction he didn’t want, and the last thing he ever wanted was to win the games with a broken heart.

Suddenly, Kenma halts in his tracks, the crunching of twigs and leaves falling to a quiet standstill. He’s pinching the bridge of his nose, sighing and swearing quietly under his breath. What has he gotten himself into?

As for Akaashi, he was sitting further away from Bokuto and Tsukishima, sitting elsewhere and distancing himself just like he did the night before. However, this time he wasn't sitting away from his allies not because he didn’t want to, but because he couldn’t get himself to face them. Not after the way Kenma looked at him when he realised the berries were bad. Not after learning that Kuroo's rage was entirely due to his stupid actions.

For the first time in the arena, Akaashi felt remorse for another's pain. Because Kuroo was his ally? Because the group trusted him enough to offer them the right response? Maybe. Akaashi didn't expect to gain anyone's trust when he walked into the Capitol. He didn’t want anyone to trust him. But that quickly changed when Bokuto came along, bouncing and smiling and far from angry or sad because he just wanted Akaashi to be on his side.

Bokuto was a problem. He was a big fucking problem. He exacerbated the matter by causing Akaashi to lose his sense of self. He just felt like he’d been dragged into this alliance, where he was meant to care for and aid his group, despite the fact that Akaashi's main purpose had always been to win. Of course, he still intends to win, but he suddenly felt he had carried more problems on his hands.

He had to win, while feeling guilty for his own allies' suffering. And it was all Bokuto’s doing.

Bokuto was lost in his own head. His own thoughts. He couldn’t even hear Tsukishima saying his name until the third time.

“Bokuto?” He says, finally capturing the boy’s attention.

“Huh?”

Tsukishima nods towards the fire. “Your rabbit’s burning.”

Bokuto follows his gaze, raising his stick to observe his charcoal-coated rabbit. He sighs before pressing his lips together tightly and setting his rabbit to the side, having finally lost his appetite. He places his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands together, and staring into the fire, his thoughts already attempting to consume him again.

“What’s going on with you?” Tsukishima, on the other hand, is able to force Bokuto to break free from these devouring thoughts.

Bokuto presses his hands together hard. His palms were sweating against the other, his leg bobbing up and down at a rapid and nervous pace. “I dunno’..” he’s saying. “There’s just so much we’re worrying about right now.”

“That’s the Hunger Games for you.”

Bokuto quietly huffed, deciding to run a hand through his hair, immediately cringing when he realised his palm was all sweaty. Either he was hot due to the fire, or because there was so much on his mind.

Tsukishima was re-adjusting the bandages around his leg again when he felt it wasn’t tight enough. He winced secretly when he tugged a little too hard, ignoring Bokuto’s stare. He wanted to say something. He always had something to say.

“Don’t you ever just..” Bokuto speaks up again, pausing when he attempts to come up with the right words. “I don’t know…think that maybe alliances are just too dangerous for one's own good?”

Tsukishima adjusted his glasses. “You’re asking the wrong person.” He says.

“I’m asking you.” says Bokuto.

Tsukishima stares at him, annoyed by those simple words. Bokuto should have realised by now that Tsukishima was not the most chatty member of the group. No. He was the complete opposite. Always rejecting queries with a simple 'yes' or 'no', ignoring Bokuto and Kuroo’s stupid conversations and always doing his best to hide in his own space as if that was going to help keep people away from him.

Now Bokuto was talking to him, asking questions, establishing a conversation Tsukishima wasn’t too fond of. He just wanted to crawl away and disappear because Bokuto was too much for him to handle.

Tsukishima sighs. “I was dragged into this alliance because Kuroo couldn’t take no for an answer,” he says, doing his best to make sure this conversation was done and over with quickly. “He made it clear that he was pumped for an alliance, and, well, he got one,” he then pauses, gaze falling towards Kuroo, who’s still tied around the tree, constantly catching his head when he realised he was dozing off. Then he’d start mumbling again. ‘Kill’, ‘coward’. “And look where that wounded him.”

“Hey, don’t blame him,” Bokuto says in defence of Kuroo. “He’d probably be dead by now if it weren’t for us.”

“Then who’s to blame?” Asked Tsukishima.

“No one.”

Then, Tsukishima suggests, “Akaashi?”

And Bokuto yells, “No!” in an almost whisper-like tone, sneaking a quick, secretive peak towards Akaashi, praying he wasn’t listening in on their conversation. “No, Tsuki–Akaashi.. it’s not his–”

“Fault?” Tsukishima interrupts. “What did you think was going to happen when pulling him into this alliance?”

Bokuto shakes his head. “It’s not his fault, Tsuki,” he quickly says. “He was only trying to help.”

“Don’t be so sure.” He says, and Bokuto falls silent.

He’s looking back towards the flames, watching the way the fire consumed the twigs, observing the glowing embers that float away in the wind, and listening to the crackling and sudden pops of burning wood, recalling his five year old self jumping out of fear at the sudden noise, clinging to his laughing sisters for comfort. And in this moment, the sounds that used to frighten him only goes through one ear and out the other, because he’s thinking. It feels like he’s always thinking these days.

Tsukishima watches Bokuto's silent figure and decides to continue as he knows he has his attention, despite the fact that the burning fire appears to be Bokuto's sole concentration. “This is the games we’re talking about here,” he starts, and Bokuto listens. “You wouldn’t believe the lengths people go if that meant surviving this shit. Every single one of us wants to win.”

Bokuto knows that. Of course he knows that. He knows Akaashi wants to win. He’s made that abundantly clear. But there’s one other thing about Akaashi that Bokuto has recognised, and that’s that even when he wants to win, he isn’t one to play dirty. He’ll protect his allies, he’ll win their trust, and he’ll help them. He’s a player of fairness.

However, what Tsukishima was saying made Akaashi sound like he wasn’t planning on playing the games fair. As if he purposefully attempted to kill Kuroo. As if he truly is to blame. As if he’s the participant of the Hunger Games who will go to great lengths just to survive.

No. Bokuto thinks. Akaashi wasn’t like that. He was cold and detached, sure, but definitely not evil. Akaashi knows what’s wrong and what’s right. He’s a good person, and killing isn’t something he likes to find himself doing. He was only trying to survive just like the rest of us. None of us asked to fight in the arena, but here they were.

Akaashi wasn’t a bad guy. Tsukishima believed he was, but not Bokuto; otherwise, why would he continue to make an effort to convince him to join the alliance? Bokuto knew there was good in him, even if he was still dubious about being here. Bokuto just needed to keep trying. Convince him. Help him warm up, and then, maybe things would be different for Akaashi. Hopefully for the better.

Before this conversation could proceed (though it wouldn’t have continued seeing as Bokuto was now giving Tsukishima the silent treatment), the sound of sudden wrenching drew their attention. They were quick to turn around, realising it was Kuroo; he was leaning to the side, head hunched as he threw up.

Kenma was already walking towards him, kneeling down and sitting in front of him. He observes him for a few seconds, deciding not to touch or reassure him because he’s still not himself. He then clicks at Bokuto, who hands him water and a first aid kit. Bokuto offered to help him out, but Kenma wouldn’t let him. He waved a hand, not being too talkative, but he said something along the lines of ‘let me’. Like he was insisting that he was the only one who was supposed to help Kuroo.

Kenma rummaged through the kit, noting that Kuroo was coughing up the orange and yellow fruits he had consumed earlier. The cloudberries that were allegedly labelled as safe. Kenma clutched something in his hand tightly, trying to remind himself that it wasn't Akaashi's fault. Something happened. Something wrong. And Kenma can only assume it has something to do with the game makers.

Kenma then pulls out a soft cloth and a few delicate wipes. He sets the kit to the side, looking at Kuroo who was still hunched over to the side, coughing out every last bit of that damn fruit (hopefully).

Eventually, Kuroo lifts his head up, revealing a sickly looking boy. His entire face was pale, heavy bags under his eyes, his pupils were still wide and black, and Kenma nearly frowned because he still couldn’t see those hazel eyes of his. Then he shakes his head, because he realises he’s getting distracted by the thought of the Kuroo he might’ve missed.

Kuroo glances around slowly, his head nodding every second as if he were about to fall asleep. Then, his gloomy black gaze fell on Kenma. Kenma attempts to smile. "Still want to kill me?" He says in a lighthearted yet hopeful tone. Like he was praying for Kuroo to retort back with that smug voice and cocky grin.

But instead, “Untie me,” Kuroo was saying, voice nothing more than a whisper. “Let me fight you..kill you.”

Kenma tries not to grimace, masking his disappointment when he discovers Kuroo is still the individual who wants to kill him. Kenma didn't make a big deal about it however, instead ignoring Kuroo's few disparaging remarks while fiddling with the cloth and wipes. There was nothing much he could do for Kuroo in this state. He wanted to clean him up a bit after his accident, but he was positive Kuroo wouldn't like that too much and would most likely try biting his hand when he got too close.

Only a few minutes passed by the time something in the air catches Kenma’s attention. The darkness made visibility difficult, but when Kenma squints his eyes, he instantly identified it as a small parachute floating in his direction. Eventually, the parachute lands just beside Kenma. So he gently scoops it up, knowing that it is a gift from one of their sponsors.

Inside the parachute was a small vial of liquid. Drinkable, Kenma prays, because his best guess is that it’s the antidote for Kuroo. Or maybe that’s just Kenma getting his hopes up. Before Kenma could test it out, he caught a glimpse of something else in this gift. A small piece of perfectly cut paper–a note, Kenma realises. He picks it up, reading over the neat words.

‘Give him this,’ the note said. ‘It’ll return him back to himself. Thank you, Kenma. The guy is nearly helpless without you.’

At the bottom of the note, was the single letter ‘Y’. Kenma couldn’t completely remember the name of Kuroo’s fashion designer, but he recalls that exact letter being in his name, and his best guess is that he was the one who decided to help Kuroo out.

Kenma stares at the note. “Thank you.” He mutters in quiet gratitude before he decides to finally fix the issue.

He’s unscrewing the lid of the antidote before he scoots a little closer towards Kuroo, quickly catching the back of his head when he starts falling asleep again. Kuroo snapped back awake, eyes fluttering tiredly–Kenma could still see those big black pupils. He grasped the back of his head gently, attempting to keep him in position as he moved the vial towards his mouth. Kuroo did not react to the liquid being poured into his mouth, which surprised Kenma, but he couldn't complain.

Eventually, Kuroo had swallowed the majority of the antidote, so Kenma screws the lid back onto the vial, placing it to the side. He reaches towards Kuroo without much thought, wiping away some of the liquid that dripped from his lips with his thumb, resting his palm against his cheek. He attentively watches Kuroo's lips to ensure that he swallows everything. He’s scanning Kuroo for any signals of change. Nothing yet. He was still the same tired and mumbling Kuroo.

It took around thirty minutes before Kuroo finally relaxed. He had fallen asleep peacefully, and Kenma couldn’t help but feel relieved. In this moment, he took the chance to finally clean his face with the cloth and water, wiping away the liquid that stuck to his lips and the vomit on his chin, and then eventually, Kuroo was back to being that stupid pretty sleeper. With closed eyes his lashes looked thick, his lips were slightly separated, his breathing gentle and steady. Every single feature of his handsome face softens, and finally, for the first time, Kuroo appears to be in this state of calmness. He looked so peaceful; Kenma wasn’t even sure he wanted him to wake up anymore.

However, as Kenma held the back of his head, hand and fingers tangled in his raven locks, there’s a sense of movement. Kuroo’s eyes flicker, his adam's apple bobbing once when he swallows tiredly, and Kenma’s eyes fly towards his throat for a split second because god.. Stop it Kenma.

His eyes then meet Kuroo’s. He opens his eyes. He’s looking at Kenma. He’s looking at Kenma with those beautiful hazel eyes.

Softly, Kuroo manages a smile. “Hey.” He whispers.

And Kenma smiles back. “Hey,” he whispers, not realising his fingers were running careful caresses in the back of his hair, because he was only trying to conceal his nerves, scared of what might’ve happened if he didn’t wake up. “How are you feeling?”

Kuroo went to respond, but instead he was hunching over to the side again, coughing out what he didn't realise was still there. And this time, instead of sitting there and feeling unhelpful, Kenma places a consoling hand on Kuroo’s back, rubbing reassuringly and telling him everything was okay.

Eventually, Kuroo sits up properly again, head resting back against the tree and he groans. He goes to reach a hand up towards his aching head, but he pauses when he realises he was held back by ropes. Kenma was quick to undo them, because finally, Kuroo was back to his normal self again.

Kenma is cleaning Kuroo's mouth again, wiping his chin, and Kuroo rubs his aggravating head before his gaze settles on Kenma. Kenma forces the boy to drink some water and put some food in his stomach. Kuroo wasn’t too fond of eating anything at this very moment, but he didn't argue because Kenma was making it quite clear he wasn’t tolerating any complaints.

He ate a little bit before he decided to set his dried meat to the side, feeling like he was going to throw up again if he consumed anymore. He rubs his head, eyes clenching because he had this massive headache he wouldn’t be able to get rid of unless he slept it away. His eyes then fall back on Kenma. He’s rummaging through the first aid kit, pressing his lips together in tight frustration when he realises none of these things could help cure Kuroo’s head problem.

He smiles at Kenma’s frustration with amusement, embracing the way his lips press together, the way his brows wrinkled, the way his eyes squint. And then he’s remembering something else. He stops smiling, his expression softening at the memory.

“I..” he pauses, voice soft, nearly filled with regret. “I tried to kill you..”

Kenma’s stomach sank, because Kuroo remembers. He remembers trying to kill him, and Kenma is immediately thinking the worst. He remembers trying to kill him because he wanted to kill him. Did Kuroo really want to kill him all this time?

Kenma looks down, clearing his throat. “You, uh…you remember?”

Kuroo touched his head again. “No,” he mutters, expression squishing while he tries to remember. Something. Anything. “It’s all a blur. All I remember is feeling dizzy and nauseous, and that was before everything went black. Like darkness just took over me, consumed me, or something,” he sighs. “I don’t know if that makes sense..I just knew something was wrong, and I needed to help you before I hurt you.”

Kenma turns his head away slightly, trying to hide the right side of his face as Kuroo says this. Kenma’s face softens with guilt, because yes, Kuroo did hurt him, but he didn’t need his sympathy and his endless apologies. Kuroo needed to look after himself. After everything, his own self should’ve been his number one priority. This was the Hunger Games, after all.

However, Kenma's attention was abruptly drawn back to Kuroo as he felt this fresh sensation of warmth. Suddenly, a soothing softness engulfed Kenma's right face, delicate fingers tracing his jawline as he leant in and examined the fresh scar carefully. Kuroo has long, tender fingers. His thumb would continuously brush over the scar with gentle care, his gaze locked on the wound, seemingly unconscious of Kenma's current state.

Fuck, he’s thinking. Fuck, fuck, fuck, because he’s holding back the urge to lean into his touch–his warm touch. Why was he so warm? Why was Kenma feeling this way? Because all these thoughts of losing Kuroo scared him? Shit. He shouldn’t have felt this way. He’s only known the guy for a few days, and yet, here he was, resisting the urge to feel more of Kuroo.

“God..” Kuroo breathes out, leaning in slightly to examine the scar, his thumb cautiously stroking along the lengthy cut. “Kenma, I– man, I didn’t mean to–I’m so sorry, I–”

Kenma grabs Kuroo by the wrist. “Don’t be,” he pulls his hand away from his face, and Kenma is cold again, having lost Kuroo's warmth. “It’s just a little scratch. It’s not your fault.”

“But I did that,” Kuroo says, eyes soft and glossy and full of guilt. “Fuck, I did that to you–”

“Kuro–”

“I’m sorry–”

“Stop,” says Kenma, squeezing his wrist a tad, like he was trying to stop Kuroo from talking. He needed him to stop talking or else he’d be apologising all night. “Kuro,” he captures his attention, catching a glimpse of guilt in his sad expression. “It wasn’t your fault.”

Kuroo frowns. “I know, but–”

“Kuro,” he says again, sounding a bit more stern as he cuts him off. He stares at Kuroo, golden cat eyes still and serious, and Kuroo doesn’t say anything, because Kenma was serious. His tone, his eyes, his expression, his words. “It wasn’t your fault.” He says again.

Of course, Kuroo doesn’t look fully convinced, because now that he knows he was the reason for Kenma’s new wound, he will just be reminded of his inability to control himself. He lashed out. Towards his ally. His friend. Kenma.

Kenma releases Kuroo’s wrist when he realises he’s been holding onto him for too long. He clears his throat, offering Kuroo more of that dried meat he couldn’t continue eating earlier. However, Kuroo took it, because he knows Kenma wants him to eat it. He wants him to at least try.

He takes a bite, cringing at the way his stomach rumbled unpleasantly. Eating only made him feel worse and sicker than he already was. He hated it. He hated the games. But Kenma gave him this look, which Kuroo immediately interpreted as 'eat it, you'll feel better', and Kuroo wanted to protest and claim it was only making him feel worse, but he didn't. Kenma was only trying to help him, and Kuroo appreciated it. He appreciated him.

Eventually, Kuroo eats the remainder of his dried meat, holding back a gag. “Better?” Kenma asked hopefully.

Kuroo puts on a forced smile, like he was trying to hide his green face. “Yep,” sarcastically, he says. “It’s not like I can feel it rising up already. Not at all.”

Kenma nearly laughs. “Trust me, Kuro,” he’s saying as he hands Kuroo the bottle of water. “You practically barfed up everything in your stomach. Food is the solution.”

Kuroo scoffs. “Yeah, thanks, Doc.”

Kenma nudges Kuroo in the arm in response, and Kuroo laughs before downing a large chug of water. Kenma attempted a faint smile as Kuroo laughed again. He was laughing because of Kenma, because he did something little to put a smile on that face. That soft, handsome face. The one he thought he’d never see smile again because the Capitol was evil and wanted to take something so precious away. They wanted to take Kuroo away.

Kuroo sighs loudly after his lengthy sip, screws the cap back on, and sets the bottle aside. He is looking at Kenma again, softly smiling, his eyes scrutinising every detail of his face, and Kenma cannot help but notice.

“What?” He says.

Kuroo chuckles nervously when he realises he’s been caught. “I dunno,” he shrugs. “I was just thinkin’ about the way you say my name.”

Kenma raises a brow. “How do I say your name?” He asked, genuinely confused.

“Like..man, I don’t know,” he says. “You say it in this way–like I just wanna hear you say my name over and over.”

Kenma’s heart stops.

Fuck.

Kenma looks down, strands of his bleached hair falling in front of his face purposely, because he’s trying to hide. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He mutters.

“Dude,” laughs Kuroo. “You say it completely differently from how it’s correctly pronounced.”

“No I don’t.”

“Yeah you do! You don’t pronounce the extra ‘o’.”

“Yes I do.”

“Okay, then say it.”

“No.”

“Oh c’mon,” Kuroo leans in eagerly, a completely new person than he was before. He wasn’t angry and bloodthirsty, or yelling the words ‘kill’ and ‘coward’ in Kenma’s face continuously. No. He was the Kuroo that had Kenma concealing his scarlet face behind his hair and cursing in secret, because fuck. Was Kuroo actually making Kenma nervous? “Just say it,” Kuroo grins. “C’mon, Kozume.”

“I don’t know how many times I have to tell you not to call me that.” Kenma says, making a face.

Kuroo laughs, shaking his head. Kenma couldn’t help but imagine that he was right. Did he really pronounce Kuroo’s name differently? Did he sound stupid when he forgot the extra ‘o’ in his name, and why hadn’t he ever noticed? Kenma’s expression shifts. He was an idiot, and Kuroo probably thought so too.

However,

“Hey,” Kuroo interrupts Kenma's thoughts when he notices something. He notices Kenma. He detects a difference in his expression. His mood. And when Kenma looks at Kuroo, he’s smiling as he says, “I think the way you say my name is.. It’s cute, alright?” he looks a little flustered admitting that, but he pushes through. “I like it. Seriously.”

Kenma swallows. He swallows, and he thinks he should never utter his name ever again, because, fuck..why did this have to happen? Why did Kuroo have to come up to Kenma on the second day of training in that gymnasium? Why did he have to take such an interest in him? Now Kenma was stuck. He was stuck in the middle of victory and Kuroo, and god, why Kuroo?

Kenma looks away. Kuroo was looking at him hopefully, as if waiting for an answer, or something. But Kenma can only manage out, “You should talk to Akaashi,” he says, completely ignoring their previous conversation. He always seemed to change the subject in situations that made him uncomfortable. “He’s been super quiet ever since, uhm..you know.”

Kuroo looks confused. “Oh,” there’s a pause, and then it clicks to the boy. “Oh! Right.”

Akaashi hasn’t spoken to the group; not since Kuroo lashed out due to those berries. Since then, he has accepted guilt, admitting that it was his mistake for not exercising greater caution. But it wasn’t his fault. It was the game makers doing—the Capitol’s, but Akaashi could only think otherwise. He wouldn’t listen to Kenma. He wouldn’t listen to Bokuto. He wouldn’t even listen to Tsukishima. All they had left was Kuroo, the one who consumed those berries because Akaashi told him they were safe. He needed to tell Akaashi it wasn’t his fault.

Kuroo decides to stand up, and Kenma keeps a close eye on him, afraid that he will collapse owing to dizziness, sickness, or something like that. But Kuroo was perfectly fine, standing on two feet with no trouble at all. Kenma didn't need to worry.

The moment Kuroo had his back towards Kenma, walking towards Akaashi, Kenma sighs, rubbing his forehead that had felt unexpectedly hot. His whole face had felt completely heated. Because of Kuroo? Most certainly.

Akaashi notices Kuroo almost instantly, sensing his presence from the corner of his eyes and hearing the sounds of leaves crunch beneath his footsteps. He looks up from his knife, which he was fiddling with earlier, having been drawing endless lines and circles in the dirt with no thought. He glances up at Kuroo, a sense of relief pouring through him as he realises Kuroo was okay. However, he didn’t prove he was relieved when he looked up at him.

“You’re awake.” Akaashi says, eyeing Kuroo as he takes a seat beside him.

“Awake, alive and A-OK.” Kuroo says with a click of his tongue, that usual confident smirk plastered on his face. Yep. Kuroo was back.

Akaashi hums, examining Kuroo's expression for any indications of anything peculiar. Then he focuses his attention back on the ground in front of him, looking down and scratching at the earth with his knife. He wasn't a talkative person (as they'd all noted), but his lack of speech in this situation was different. Kuroo knows exactly why Akaashi was being so quiet.

So, he decides to speak up again. “Y’know,” he says as he picks up a nearby stick. “I feel like we haven’t had the chance to properly talk. Just you and me,” he begins to draw in the dirt with Akaashi, who doesn’t react at all. “I was kinda rude to you during our first interaction, wasn’t I? I’m sorry about that.”

“It’s fine,” Akaashi answers plainly. “I understand. I was difficult.”

Compared to Bokuto, who was loud and talkative, always having something to say, Akaashi was quiet and introverted, quick and plain with his sentences because he didn’t want to talk. Kuroo nearly snickers at that thought. The thought of Bokuto and Akaashi being complete and polar opposites.

Kuroo speaks up again. “I just care about Bokuto, that's all. I didn’t like how many times he asked you to join the alliance only for you to turn him down every time. I still don’t exactly understand why he took an interest in you, but he likes you. A lot,” he shrugs. “I mean, you’re not so bad.”

Akaashi doesn’t know what to say other than, “Thank you?” sounding a bit unsure, Kuroo actually laughs.

“Look,” Kuroo says, gaze shifting from the dirt to Akaashi. His tone lost all sense of cockiness and smug. He’s being serious now. “You are a good person, because you do care. I know you do.”

Akaashi’s grip on his knife tightens. “What do you know about me?” he mutters. “You should be mad at me. I could’ve killed you.”

“But you didn’t–”

“But I could’ve.” Akaashi says again.

Kuroo’s brows wrinkle. Akaashi was so distant and quiet, but it was so clear he did care. Somewhere in this boy, Kuroo sensed he cared. He wasn’t a bad person. He hated the games, just like everyone else. He feels bad for those he kills, and he feels bad for those who are considered allies. He wasn’t evil. He was just trying to survive.

Kuroo sighs. “Akaashi,” he then places a hand on his shoulder, capturing his attention. “It wasn’t your fault.”

Akaashi then looks away. “I told you they were safe.” He says, continuing to blame himself.

“And they were,” he explains. “They were safe up until the Capitol did something. The game makers–I don’t know..I just know they messed around with those berries and then..” he pauses with a sigh. “It wasn’t your fault, Akaashi.”

Akaashi doesn’t look at Kuroo. Not once. He was so caught up in this idea that everything was his fault. Giving into Bokuto's persuasion. Nearly getting Kuroo killed. His parents. He’s grown up believing he was a child of bad luck, causing others suffering only to end up suffering himself. That’s why he distances himself. He doesn’t want to trust anyone, because he’ll attach himself and he knows in the end it will hurt, but he somehow gets pulled in the same mess every damn time.

When he was selected as District Eight’s boy tribute at the reaping, Akaashi never imagined he’d be sitting here, talking everything out with an ally. He never imagined he’d be in a big alliance, having their backs while they have his. This was never his intention, and now he was stuck living in this manner until the games came to a heartbreaking end.

Akaashi knew the consequences. He knows they’re going to die. But he let Bokuto convince him, he let himself be pulled in, and now he was stuck. There was no turning back from this nightmare, Akaashi knows that.

Akaashi rubs his head. But something else he knows is that he hasn’t been particularly fair on these people. He's been so wrapped up in his own negative thoughts, thinking about everything he's doing wrong, that he forgets that now that he's in this circumstance, he needs to treat these people like they're his allies. Because yes, this was how the games work.

Either you treat your team as trusting allies, or your enemies.

There was a long prolonged pause between Kuroo and Akaashi. Kuroo didn’t say anything, because he knows Akaashi will end up saying something eventually. “I’ve been a bad teammate,” finally, Akaashi says. He looked guilty as he said this, and he wasn’t even looking at Kuroo. “I’m sorry for being so distant.”

Kuroo spins the stick between his fingers. “Don’t tell me,” he says, tilting his head. “Tell him.”

Akaashi immediately understands who Kuroo is referring to. He looks past Kuroo, noticing Bokuto by the fire, squinting his eyes at the flames and leaning in curiously. He even goes to reach a hand towards the fire, but Tsukishima slaps his hand, and Bokuto yells a whine.

Akaashi then looks back at Kuroo, who grins right back at him, and Akaashi pokes his tongue in his cheek, thinking. He has been an asshole towards Bokuto, and all he’s ever done was tried helping him. Akaashi didn’t like Bokuto because he couldn't handle his excitement and exuberant personality. In comparison to Akaashi's cool and serene demeanour, Bokuto was simply just too much.

However, as much as Bokuto drove Akaashi insane, continuously prompting him to consider leaving the alliance, he was really just being a good teammate. But why? Akaashi doesn’t know. All Bokuto has ever said was that he took an interest in him. That there was more to Akaashi than what meets the eye. Akaashi wanted to know what Bokuto meant by that. Why Akaashi? What separated himself from the others that Bokuto could go as far to say he was interested in him?

Akaashi would find out eventually.

Before Akaashi could say anything more, the sound of that stupid anthem music forced his and his allies' attention towards the night sky, past the tall trees and towards the ‘fallen’ title that illuminated the night. They all stare silently, awaiting to see which of their new opponents are dead.

It starts with the girl from District One, then the girls from District Three and Four. Next was Yukie from District Five, which Akaashi shifts uneasily at because he remembers those panthers ripping her apart so vividly it nearly made him sick. Then there was Kaori, the girl from Akaashi’s district. The girl was nice, but she would constantly talk to Akaashi, and he tried to make it a point he worked alone, but the girl couldn’t get the damn hint. Lastly, there was Michimiya and Misaki, and slowly, the anthem faded out.

Akaashi recalls practically every deadly tribute that is still out there, and to be honest, the prospect of them remaining alive worried him. Oikawa was a fierce player, and being from District One made him stand out even more. Saeko was dangerous, as Kuroo has stated several times. Akaashi prayed they wouldn't have to ever encounter her. Atsumu from District Four possessed great physical power, and his toothy grin indicated that he was a cunning player who should not be underestimated.

And of course, Akaashi had noticed the Kageyama siblings during training. Out of the two of them, Tobio specifically. He was quiet and composed, somewhat identical to Akaashi (without the anger issues). He would take on anything if that meant winning, because that’s what he planned to do. He wanted to survive, just like everyone else.

However, as bad as Akaashi felt about letting these tributes die, he was still determined to win. He intended to win, even if it meant surviving against merciless opponents like Tobio Kageyama.

Chapter Text

Atsumu’s subconscious plunged into a completely new world beneath the water's surface. One of quiet and peace–one where he feels like he can finally breathe for the first time.

Swimming was almost like a stress reliever for Atsumu. The sensation of gliding through the water–making him feel completely free and weightless. The way the hot sun would hit his wet face when he came back up to the surface for air, drying his skin so quickly he longed to dive back in to feel that soothing coolness. Being alone–swimming alone, a method for him to detach from the world above because he is continuously stressed, and it was his source of serenity. His freedom. His getaway from everything bad in his life.

Atsumu wasn't sure how long he had been holding his breath for. Growing up near the water, by the lakes, the ocean, he's become so accustomed to submerging his head in the water that he can now simply breathe it at this point. If Atsumu's family hadn't grown so accustomed to his ability to hold his breath for over two minutes, they'd think he was drowning.

There was this one time when Atsumu was six years old. His parents took him and his twin brother swimming one summer afternoon, and Atsumu found some golden trinket of the sort at the very bottom of the deep end of the river. He hadn’t come back up until three minutes later, and when he came back up his parents were freaking out, his mom sobbing and yelling at him and he wasn’t allowed to swim for a couple of weeks later. They had thought he’d drowned.

However, following that minor fright, Atsumu's family had become quite accustomed to his peculiar breathing talents, as well as his love of water. Most afternoons Atsumu would come home from career training, throw off his clothes because, god, was it hot and he needed to cool down and just swim. Relax. He’d dunk his head in the water so many times to the point he lost count, and every single time the feeling grew better and better, more loveable if that was even possible.

Some days he’d swim for the fun of it, because he absolutely loves it. While on other days, he’d swim because he needed to escape from reality. From the stress of everything around him, and the water was like magic. He’d jump in from the wooden dock, the water would engulf him and every bad thought vanishes. All that weight on his shoulders, all that bottled up pain, all that faking–it’s all thrown out the window.

It felt like Atsumu had been hidden beneath the surface for much longer than he’d ever been before. His highest record had been around four minutes and twenty five seconds. That was a stressful day, and god, was that one relieving swim. It was as if the longer he was under water, the more stressed he was. Atsumu blinked slowly, eyes nothing more than a blur when he stared into nothing, and he’s counting. Five minutes.

The next thing he knows is that his face warms the moment he swims back towards the surface, the orange and pink sunset hitting his perfectly tan face, and it feels like the sun is offering warm afternoon kisses, and it’s nice. It feels nice. He didn’t want that feeling to ever go away. He wanted to clutch onto that feeling and keep it forever, experience it whenever he wanted—whenever he was down—and never let go.

He closes his eyes, letting that warm feeling seep in, and he almost smiles, but his thoughts are too swamped with everything that’s happening right now; everything bad, and he can’t force that smile. He just tries to enjoy that warm feeling before he has to say goodbye again.

Too lost in his thoughts, Atsumu nearly misses his name being called out. “Tsumu!” He hears his brother calling for him by the dock, waving him over, and Atsumu wants to complain or ignore him, hide himself back beneath the water again for another five minutes–maybe he should try to go for ten minutes. Doesn’t that sound good?

Atsumu doesn’t though. He’s already swimming back over towards his brother, pulling himself back onto the dock and sitting on the edge with a loud sigh. “Always callin’ me back inside just a minute before sundown,” Atsumu exhales breathily, running a hand through his damp golden hair that practically dripped all over the place, and he’s looking up at his twin brother, saying, “Huh, Samu?”

Osamu shrugs. “Y’know how ma is,” he takes a seat beside Atsumu, examining the gap between them because he doesn’t want to get wet from his twins dripping figure. “She freaks the hell out if her eyes ain’t on ya after five. Yer always out and about. Might as well give her a heart attack if yer not under her eyes before curfew.”

Atsumu scoffs a snicker, shaking his head and looking up ahead, taking in the sunset that warmed his wet golden body, and it’s a comforting feeling. Compared to everything in his life–everything terrible, the sun drying his body was so comforting.

Osamu pulls his twin brother back to reality again when he says, “Yer got a letter,” holding out a thin white envelope for Atsumu, the stamp that concealed the pieces together bright and red and noticeable. “Got yourself another secret admirer?”

Atsumu goes to wipe his wet hands on his shorts, but the material of his bottoms are equally as soaked, so he goes to wipe his hands on Osamu’s sleeves. Osamu grimaces, and Atsumu laughs before he takes it from his brother. He carefully analyses the letter, his visage changing with nervousness for a single second because he knows exactly what this envelope holds, but he quickly conceals his anxieties with that familiar smile.

“Yeah,” he hums. “Yeah, probably.”

“Man,” scoffs Osamu. “I dunno how ya do it.”

“Well, I guess we know who the more attractive brother is in the family, huh?”

Atsumu jokes, and Osamu playfully nudged him, and Atsumu laughed because sometimes it was hard to find these kinds of moments with his brother. It was either they were fighting, ripping at each other's throats because someone said something out of pocket or the other stole food that was strictly stated to be theirs. It was always one or the other. Or it was either Atsumu was being a dick again, putting on a show in front of people and completely dismissing his twin or humiliating him, and Osamu probably hated him. God, he hated him. How couldn’t he when he treated him with nothing but shit?

Atsumu fiddled with the thin paper in his hands, picking at the edges and running his fingertips over the red stamp, resisting the want to rip it off, but he couldn't. Not when Osamu was here to witness what the letter contained. To see what Atsumu was hiding from him.

“Y’know,” Osamu speaks up again. His tone drifted to one of seriousness now, and fuck, maybe Atsumu should jump back into the water and avoid this. Avoid everything. “I haven’t had the proper chance to talk ta ya about, uhm,” he looks at Atsumu for any signs of understanding. He was quiet, staring off into the distance. “Y’know..about dad. Ma.”

Atsumu squeezed the envelope, because if he fiddled with it any longer he was going to shred it open by accident. “Ah, and here I thought I was doin’ a good job at avoidin’ it.”

“Clearly not, seein’ as yer just told me.” Osamu scoffs.

Atsumu puts on that carefree smile and throws his hands up in defeat. Then he loses that careless demeanour and toothy grin, his eyes landing back towards one of the trees in the distance, the sun shining beautiful beams of light through the leaves and right back onto his tan face. His expression was soft under the orange sunlight, and Osamu could finally see his brother. Not that dumb boy who pretended to be someone else in order to gain attention and popularity—but his brother. The boy he grew up with. His best friend.

Osamu studies Atsumu. “How are ya doin’ with all of this?” He asked, because even in this moment where he can see Atsumu for who he really was, he still needed to know. Was his brother okay? Beneath all that confidence and fakeness?

Atsumu stretched his arms out. “Well,” he whistles. “I think whoever dad works for is a sack of shit. And that ma’s boss is an even bigger sack of shit.” He quickly adds.

“I think that’s how we’re all feelin’ right now.” Says Osamu.

After Atsumu’s stretch, he sighs out, “Yeah.” before resting his hands against the edge of the dock, right beside his thighs.

Osamu also sighs. “Yeah.”

So, it turns out that the new tension with their father was far more serious than Atsumu had thought. Back to that day when the twins were fishing with their class for career training, Osamu had told him some drama was taking place with their parents, and Atsumu had dismissed it because it couldn’t have been that important, right? But he was mistaken.

Atsumu and his family weren't exactly in the best situation right now. It turns out that their father has been experiencing disagreements with his coworkers, including his boss, for years. Their father was stubborn and refused to accept responsibility for any wrongdoing, even if it meant he had done something wrong. He didn’t like having to admit he was wrong, because in his words, he was always right.

Due to these unresolved issues that the twins are still unfamiliar with, one day their dads boss just completely lost it. All of a sudden, dad's income has dropped to the point where he is earning nothing, and it's almost as if he is working for nothing—no money earned at all. Because of some ludicrous going on between their father and some douchebags, he's losing money, his job, and they're bankrupt. Dad comes home with nearly little, hardly enough to feed two people, and it's bad.

It had gotten so bad even their mother had to step in and attempt something. She talked to her own boss, suggesting extra shifts for more money, something, anything, but her boss was mad, screaming something like ‘you’re not the only one who needs money to live. Either you stick to what you get, or you beat it’. God, if Atsumu was there, he would not have allowed that idiotic woman to finish her sentence in front of his mother. Not when she is hurting and struggling and still prioritises everyone else's needs before her own.

The twins were told about their parents' lack of payment issue a few weeks ago, and the situation was only gradually worsening. Meals have grown smaller, snacks have been reduced to a minimum as they must be saved, water use must be handled properly, and everything is just hard right now. And what’s worse about this situation is that it’s only going to get harder from here.

Osamu shuffled uncomfortably beside Atsumu, which the blonde noticed almost instantly as he was already looking at him, compelling him to spill it. Osamu wipes the palms of his hands on his shorts, breathing a sigh and looking away. That was never a good reaction.

“Uhm..” Osamu is mumbling. “Ma came home not too long ago,” he pauses before saying, “She was cryin’.”

Atsumu looks perplexed. “Y’know why?” He questions.

Osamu looks back at Atsumu, he’s frowning. He’s frowning as he says, “Heard her sayin’ ta dad she got caught stealin’ from the store,” he pauses again. “She got fired.”

Atsumu also frowns. “Shit.”

“I know,” he says. “I mean, we were kinda relyin’ on her the most with money. Even dad. He didn’t sound happy, either.”

“We wouldn’t even be in this situation where we feel the necessary ta steal an’ take if it weren’t for our old man. He shouldn’t be mad at ma, I mean, she was only tryna help.”

“Yeah, but there’s consequences ta every action, and unfortunately bro, she decided ta take that risk.”

Atsumu groans into his hands, hiding his face beneath his drying fingers that were slowly beginning to wrinkle. Atsumu really was right. Things were only getting worse from here. Everyone was doing their best to help in some way, yet every attempt proved to be a mistake. A plan destined to fail. Atsumu wants to help. He wants to help since, before long, he and his family would be without food if their parents do not find jobs, and they will starve and die.

Atsumu wants to help. He wants to help because, fuck, does he feel useless. He’s never been much help. He’s only ever been a stuck up son and a stuck up brother but he really does want to help because he cares so much. His parents and Osamu probably don’t realise how much he cares because he’s so hidden away in his own thoughts, his own life; they don’t even know who he is anymore because he’s pretending to be someone else all the time, and they hate it.

Deep down in this fake personality of his, however, Atsumu really does care.

Osamu studies his brother, expecting him to say something else–anything else, but he stays in that same position. He has his face concealed beneath his hands, elbows balanced on his knees, speechless and frustrated, so Osamu pats his brother on the shoulder before standing up.

“Come inside soon,” he says. “You’ll probably hear the same news from ma.”

Atsumu lets his hands fall from his face. “Yeah,” he sighs, staring off into the sunset. “Thanks, man.”

Osamu didn’t say another word after that. He walked off of the wooden dock and back inside, leaving Atsumu alone to ponder his own thoughts. Atsumu clasped his hands together tightly, sitting them between his legs and he heaved another sigh. He wants to jump back into the water again, hide away beneath the surface forever and just drown.

However, before he could even do that, he remembers the way his mother worries, the way she struggled and the way she loved him and his brother with all her heart, and he stops himself. Also, he remembers the letter he received, so he picks the envelope back up, examining the paper and red stamp one last time before he rips it open.

When he rips it open, he pulls out a small piece of paper with neat handwriting, slowly reading over the curves of each word carefully, because sometimes Atsumu struggles when it comes to reading anything fancy (or maybe he was just dyslexic).

Atsumu finds himself shifting uneasily as he reads, because he’s questioning everything he’s doing and maybe he should stop now, but he can’t. Not when his family needed him. Not when they were on the bridge of losing everything.

They needed Atsumu.

Atsumu reads over the single sentence multiple times before it finally sinks in. And then, he’s slowly crushing the small piece of paper into a ball into his hands, because no one should see this. His family shouldn’t see this.

He throws the paper into the water beneath him, watching the way the paper falls apart, disintegrating into small pieces until there is nothing left of it. And when Atsumu knows there aren't any more traces of his plans, he stands up with the words of that letter echoing throughout his mind.

‘Meet at the same spot by the abandoned warehouse, same time, 1am. Taking action tonight. No backing out now.’

And Atsumu lets those last few words repeat over and over, pushing away the thoughts of what could go wrong, and just reminding himself that in order to solve their issues, actions needed to be taken, even if that meant this was wrong.

There was no backing out now.

…

Atsumu awakens to discover a familiar face. A face that avoids his nightmares, one that would save Atsumu from his bad dreams.

Atsumu’s eyes flutter a few times, blinking away the sleep and the blur and eventually, Atsumu can see. He sees black hair and dark blue eyes, a concerned expression staring down at him; a soft smile slowly forming onto her face when she realises Atsumu is awake. He can feel delicate fingertips drawing small patterns from his forehead down his cheek, and Atsumu almost sighs because it feels so nice and good, almost reassuring, as if nothing else matters but the touch of Miwa Kageyama.

Miwa caresses his cheek, rubbing small circles just beneath his eye, and she smiles. “There he is.” She says, her voice soft and quiet but clear enough to sense the warmth in her tone.

Atsumu blinks again, his brown eyes never losing hers, and he smiles back. “There she is.” He responds, his voice a little raspy because he’s been asleep for–wait, how long was he out for?

Atsumu groans as he decides to sit up, a sharp pain shooting through the back of his head when he moves, and he groans painfully.

“Hey, take it easy,” Miwa quickly says, already assisting Atsumu as he sits up. “You took that knock to the head pretty bad. You were asleep all night.”

All night? When Atsumu looked around, he hadn’t realised it was morning until now. Seven to eight-ish, maybe? Another thing he hadn’t noticed up until now was how freezing it was. Must’ve been winter considering the days were going by seasons.

Atsumu shivers, so cold that he starts to draw the sleeves of his jacket down to cover his hands, but Miwa is already doing so, assisting him and pulling down his sleeves and zipping his jacket all the way up. She even pulls the hood of his jacket over his head, probably taking note of Atsumu’s shivering figure.

She then continues to run her fingers along his cheek. Her warm fingers. They felt so good and warm in comparison to Atsumu's cold and shivering self, so he leant into her hand, trembling against her. "W'happened?" He eventually decides to enquire.

Miwa lets her fingers rest against his cheek when he asks the question. She goes to speak. “Well–”

“Atsumu!”

But she’s quickly interrupted.

Hinata was running over towards the two, Tobio following right behind him. Hinata was already sitting in front of Atsumu, where the District Four boy could study his expression. His eyes were puffy, cheeks and nose red just like his hair (but that was probably due to the cold weather). He looked like he’d been crying.

Hinata clasped his hands together tightly, bowing his head numerous times as he repeated, “I’m sorry!” he’d say. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

“Hey, woah!” Atsumu quickly cuts off the frantically apologising Hinata, trying to suppress a groan when he adjusted his sitting position. “Slow down, yeah?” He reaches a hand, placing it on his shoulder. “I have no idea what’ya even sorry for, man.”

“He knocked you out, that’s what happened,” Tobio says from behind Hinata, still standing up and looking down at Hinata with a grimace. He even smacks him in the head as he says, “Idiot!” and Hinata rubs his head for what feels like the hundredth time. He’s been scolded by Tobio a few times already.

Ah, now Atsumu remembers what happened.

He remembers their fight with Nishinoya and Kaori. Kaori was killed and Nishinoya had managed to free himself before Atsumu could get him. And that’s when Atsumu was knocked unconscious, and he realises now that it must’ve been Hinata who accidentally aimed his shot at him when he was really only trying to aim for Nishinoya. Hinata was good with the slingshot, but he gets pretty nervous under pressure, so that’s a possible reason as to why he messed up.

Atsumu puts on a soft smile for the redhead. “Hinata,” he starts, gently squeezing Hinata’s shoulder. Hinata looks at him, eyes glossy, filled of regret and apology. He really did feel terrible about hurting Atsumu, didn’t he? “It was an accident,” he reassures. “‘M okay now. See?”

Hinata frowns. “But what if I kil–”

“Hey, we can’t be thinkin’ stuff like that, alright?” He squeezes Hinata’s shoulder again. “Not when I’m still here. Alive an’ okay,” he smiles. “Okay?”

Hinata looks unsure, but he doesn’t say anything more. Atsumu almost loses his calm act, a frown forming on his face before he smiles again. Hinata was young and innocent and he didn’t want to be here. No one did. But Hinata was just too kind for the games, sympathising for everyone, including his allies. Yet, he still wanted to win. He was competitive, and he’s made that quite a point to Tobio.

Someone needed to tell him. Someone needed to tell this kind hearted kid that you can’t win without killing people. It wasn’t how the games worked.

Atsumu’s hand on Hinata’s shoulder loosened when he gave it a lighthearted punch. “Hey,” he says, attempting to lighten the mood a bit. “Those stones ya got there are pretty powerful, huh? Knocked that girl right ta sleep.”

Hinata tried to laugh, but suddenly he's reminded that he killed her. Fuck, he killed that poor girl, and oh god, what has he done? The remorse and grief were gradually setting in because Hinata wasn't as merciless as he claimed to be. He wasn't the supposed winner he aspired to be. No. Hinata is the boy who refuses to look at the squirrel he killed as he carries it home for his family. Hinata is the boy who makes friends on a daily basis in District Nine, trusting everyone he encounters because he is too sweet to look into a person's negative and untrustworthy attributes. Hinata is the boy who cries after almost killing an ally. A friend. Someone he shouldn’t care about but he does because he is Shoyo Hinata.

Shoyo Hinata is a kind hearted soul who can’t even process the fact that he has killed someone. Someone who was only trying to survive this shit thing known as the Hunger Games, just like everyone else. No one was evil in this arena. They were only trying to survive because the real evil people were the Capitol. The people who forced innocent children to fight to the death, and for what? Entertainment? Enjoyment?

The Capitol was disgusting. Filled with sick people who laughed at death because it was entertaining. It was enjoyable, they had claimed. They probably knew by the look on Hinata’s face right now that he’s never felt more scared in his life that he’s killed someone, and right at this moment, they were laughing and smiling, dismissing the fact that the family of that poor girl were probably grieving.

Fuck. Fuck.

What has Hinata done?

“Hey,” suddenly Hinata is snapped out of his thoughts when Tobio throws another smack to his head. He looks up at him, frustrated by his endless scolding. “Were you not listening? Me and you are going to hunt for Atsumu. Let’s go.”

“Oh,” Hinata blinks. “Right.”

“I’ll look after Atsumu while you guys do that.” Miwa says.

Atsumu goes to stand, saying, “I told ya, I’m fine ta start gettin’ goin–” but Miwa pulls him back down.

“No,” she says seriously. “Everytime you move a single inch your hand goes straight to your head. You’re resting, whether you like it or not.”

Atsumu grins. “Feisty.”

“You really wanna do that again?” She raises a brow.

Atsumu offers a smug smile, and Miwa shakes her head. It wasn't long till it was just Atsumu and Miwa. Tobio and Hinata had strolled off into the trees, looking for something simple to shoot down, squabbling as usual. Hinata was oddly quiet, but they all assumed it was because he still felt bad about hurting Atsumu.

Miwa was rummaging through one of the backpacks, pulling out a solitary bottle of water. She takes a quick sip before she offers Atsumu some. It was empty by the time he took his sip, but they would refill it again when they found water. She’s then zipping up her own jacket, breathing into her cupped hands in the hopes of warming up somehow, and Atsumu can only silently watch as she does this. The delicate fog would fall from her perfect lips and straight into her hands, and she’d do it numerous times because she wasn’t warming up as quickly as she wanted.

Atsumu smiles affectionately before recalling a topic that required discussion. So he slowly sits up again, wincing slightly, drawing Miwa's attention. "Hey," she says, immediately trying to force Atsumu back onto his back. "Lie down. You don't have to sit up.

Atsumu winces. “I don’t need ta lay down,” he corrects as he holds onto her arms. “M’fine.”

She shakes her head. “So stubborn, and for what?” She snickers.

“I prefer ta think of myself as determined,” he grins, and Miwa rolls her eyes. There was a brief pause between them while Atsumu's hands softly glided up Miwa's arms, delicate against her clothed skin. His hands were warm, even if she couldn’t properly feel the actual texture of his rough skin. It was nice though. “Lay with me?” He then inquired, gently tugging Miwa in an almost encouraging manner.

Miwa manages to conceal the blush on her face thanks to the cool weather. She quietly laughs. "You're not going to lay down unless I come along with you, huh?"

“Pretty much,” he grins. “Why would I want it any other way? Plus, I can feel ya shiverin’, and I’m sure yer lookin’ for some source of warmth as well.”

Miwa gives Atsumu a look that demonstrates she isn't going to give in to him so easy, while Atsumu only looks up at her with his recognisable smile, gently tugging her by the arms because he couldn't wait any longer. So, Miwa sighs in defeat.

The next thing Atsumu knows is that Miwa is laying down beside him, settling in as she presses herself against his side, finding warmth when she rests her head against his shoulder, resisting the urge to nuzzle into his neck because god, she can only imagine how warm she’d feel hiding herself in the crook of his neck. Atsumu wraps a single hand beneath her, rubbing her arm up and down repeatedly in order to warm her up. Miwa trembles against him, resting a hand against his chest and nestling impossibly closer.

Miwa then feels her body warming. She stops shivering. She sighs in content.

Atsumu notices this. “Better?” He asked, giving her arm a gentle squeeze.

Miwa closes her eyes. “Better.” She whispers back.

Atsumu smiles because it feels good. Miwa feels good against him. So warm and so small compared to Atsumu, but Miwa thinks that Atsumu is so warm, and Atsumu doesn’t understand how but he doesn’t say anything. He just wants to enjoy the moment before he has to ruin it with a new topic.

There was a long moment of silence before Atsumu decided to speak up. “Are we gonna talk about it?” he says, his voice vibrating straight to his chest and Miwa feels it. “I was mean, remember?”

Miwa shifts against Atsumu, and he can feel her discomfort, and fuck, he wants to curse at himself because now she’s reminded that she’s supposed to hate him for what he did. Shit. Atsumu ruined things again. He’s always doing that without even meaning to.

‘Stay out of the way, Atsumu. All you ever do is ruin things. Stupid Atsumu. Stupid, stupid, stupid…’

Miwa runs patterns against Atsumu’s chest with her index finger. “Atsumu,” she sighs softly, and he can hear the misery in her voice, and fuck, fuck, fuck–he has ruined things. “I told you it was okay.”

“No yer didn’t.” He answers, because he remembers.

“Well, I’m telling you now it’s okay,” she says. “You did what you had to do.”

“I could’ve been less mean.”

“Atsumu..”

“I was so rude, and I–I should’ve been more careful with my words–”

“Atsumu–”

“God, Miwa I didn’t mean–I’m..” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m so sorry.”

“Shh,” Miwa whispered, rolling to her side, facing Atsumu. She reaches for his hand, taking his palm from his face, and he looks at her, guilty and sad and Miwa frowns for a split second before she puts on a reassuring smile. “I’m not mad at you,” she whispers, squeezing his hand. “I know you didn’t mean anything you said. It’s okay, Atsumu.”

Atsumu looks at her, gulping because god, she was so close, and even in these terrible circumstances she smelt so good. He squeezed her hand in response, because he didn’t know what else to say. Sure, there was so much he could say to this beautiful girl laying beside him, but not now. Probably not ever, given that they were in a death arena.

Slowly, Miwa interlocks their fingers carefully, resting both their hands on Atsumu’s chest. “I know you, Atsumu,” she spoke up again, blue eyes beautiful and stuck on Atsumu. “You’re a good person.”

No, I’m not, is what Atsumu wanted to say. He wanted to tell her everything. Tell her all he ever does is ruin things, goes against orders and destroys his relationships with loved ones because he can’t do anything right, even if he really was only trying to help. He squeezes his eyes shut, and he’s reminded of his family. His dad. His mom. Osamu.

Atsumu wasn’t a good person. Miwa deserved to know that.

But he doesn’t say anything. He merely opens his eyes and squeezes her hand again, and she lays back down, snuggling against him and he’s warm and so is she. She closes her eyes, and he admires her when she smiles, so close and so beautiful, and Jesus, Atsumu shouldn’t be thinking of Miwa like this. She came here to win, and so did Atsumu. Yet here they were, cuddling so close to one another on a winter day in the Hunger Games.

Atsumu breathes a secretive curse. What has he gotten himself into?

…

Oikawa takes a deep breath, hands steady as he holds his bow and arrow, brown eyes squinted as he focuses. The deer was oblivious to Oikawa and Sugawara’s presence, considering they were hidden high up in the tree. Oikawa said at this angle it would be easier for him to shoot the animal down.

Oikawa was ready to shoot, seconds from releasing the string, and–

“What weapon does Hajime typically wield?” Sugawara asked, and Oikawa’s brow twitches.

“Suga,” he snaps, having lost his concentration (again). “That is the eighth question you have asked about Hajime.”

Sugawara whines from beside Oikawa. “Can you blame me? You can’t not tell me you have a boyfriend back home and just leave me with nothing,” he grabs the District One boy by the sleeve. “Give me the details, man!”

“No!” Oikawa rips his arm away from Sugawara. “And I thought I told you that you can’t call him that. You can call him—“

“Iwamoto?”

“Iwaizumi!”

“Ah, Iwaizumi,” Sugawara hums. “Gotcha.”

Oikawa shakes his head, rolling his eyes. “Look, if you want dinner tonight I’m gonna need you to be quiet. I need complete silence while I concentrate,” he then lifts his bow and arrow again, attempting to aim towards the deer. Sugawara leans in slightly, observing carefully, and Oikawa sighs. “And I’m gonna need some personal space too, please.”

Following that request, Sugawara quickly moves away, and Oikawa regains concentration. He sighs with focus, eyeing the deer which grazes at the grass below, and Oikawa’s grip on his bow tightens. Sugawara finds himself observing from their small distance, but quickly, his attention is pulled away by a noise.

He looks back, examining the bushes below, as he suspects he heard rustling. But the bushes were still and normal when he looks down at them, and perhaps he was being paranoid. However, as he returns to face Oikawa, there is another rustling sound, and Sugawara affirms that he is not imagining.

So, he clears his throat. “Uh, Oikawa?” He says.

Oikawa grumbles quietly, clearly annoyed, but he continues to keep his eyes on the deer below as he says, “One more damn question about Hajime and this deer won’t be the only one hovering over the fire tonight.”

Sugawara continues to stare down at the bush below. “No need for that,” he says. “I just think we’ve got a bit of an issue here.”

“Can I catch this deer first?”

Sugawara went to say something, but beneath the bushes, something caught his eyes. Actually, someone caught his eyes.

Suddenly there’s no time to explain. Sugawara is grabbing Oikawa by the wrist, pulling him out of the way when the District Seven girl throws a knife up in their direction. The knife lands right where Oikawa was sitting, and quickly, Oikawa understands their situation.

The District One boy is already shooting one of his arrows down in Eri’s direction, but she’s hiding back in the bush. So, he starts scurrying down the tree now, and Sugawara freezes, because how the fuck does he get down? What way did he climb up? He was following every step Oikawa made but he didn’t even get the chance to pay attention to how Oikawa got down. He was just so fast.

While Sugawara struggled to get down from the tree, Oikawa was already heading towards the bush, scrutinising every inch of the green plant, but the girl was gone. She had completely vanished. However, unexpectedly, Oikawa is kicked to the ground from behind, groaning in pain because the kick was so harsh she might as well have broken his spine.

Oikawa is already rolling over onto his back, dodging the knife she throws that lands right beside his head. He then swiftly snatches the knife from the ground, throwing it directly at her, and she screams when she attempts to dodge, but it grazes her right in the cheek, the long scar already oozing with blood. She was swift, but so was Oikawa.

Oikawa quickly stands to his feet, whipping out a knife from his belt and charging straight at her. She quickly recognised Oikawa was about to strike, so she jumps out of his path, takes out her own knife, and attacks when the opportunity arises. However, as she attempted to attack him, Oikawa caught her by the wrist and dragged her straight to the ground.

Before she could get up, Oikawa had jumped on top of her, her body wriggling beneath him because he was so strong and powerful against her that she couldn't get away. She begins crying and screaming because she understands she cannot win against the Tooru Oikawa, and she is right.

The moment Oikawa had her helplessly pinned down, he took this as his advantage to kill her. He stabbed her in the stomach numerous times, up until she stopped crying and squirming beneath him, because he knew she was dead. He knew he had killed her. And when the cannon went off, he stood up, breathing heavily because out of all the people he’s killed so far, Eri was the most vicious of them all.

Oikawa took a step back from her, scrutinising his bloodied knife and grumbling because the rest of her would be permanently stained on his knife. He needed to rinse this thing under some water immediately.

Sugawara was now approaching Oikawa, holding up his sword and gazing around frantically. He had only just gotten down from the tree? Oikawa almost scoffs.

Sugawara continues to look around in a panic until his gaze falls on Oikawa. “Where is she?” He questions, voice nearly shaky.

Oikawa casually holds up his dripping knife. “You’re late.” He says before brushing past Sugawara.

Sugawara stares from Oikawa to the red knife, gulping but not saying anything. He just follows after Oikawa who had become oddly quiet, but then he’s muttering profanities when he realises they had lost the deer.

Oikawa is adjusting the straps of his backpack before he puts his knife back into his belt. “We’re gonna need to find something before it gets dark,” he says with a tired sigh. And then, he looks up, saying, “And we’re gonna need to find some shelter.”

Sugawara is perplexed by this until he learns what Oikawa was referencing. When Sugawara looks up, he notices it is snowing. Small, gentle, but still discernible snowflakes began to fall from the grey sky, and Sugawara nearly smiled in amazement before realising the possibility of a snowstorm. That was not a very reassuring concept (even though he thought the snow was beautiful).

Sugawara looks back at Oikawa, who has already begun to walk off. Sugawara quickly caught up, walking behind him as they searched for refuge. That shouldn't be too difficult, right?

The two allies had been walking for quite some time now, and still, nothing. Finding shelter might’ve been a tad bit easier if they were by the mountains where all the caves were, but unfortunately, down in the forest, there wasn’t much shelter. Only trees and grass and a lot of snow.

It was snowing a lot more now. Oikawa and Sugawara were practically panting and breathing clouds of fog as they walked through the soft snow, ankle deep in the snow to the point they were convinced their feet were going to fall off. It was freezing. Not even their boots could save them from the cold.

It had been rather quiet between the two boys, and Sugawara is rather perplexed by Oikawa’s odd quietness. Oikawa had been very quiet with Sugawara since their abrupt alliance pact, although he would occasionally snap at Sugawara with a snide remark or jest, to which Sugawara would usually retort back at, but something about Oikawa's silent demeanour was different. Maybe it was because he killed someone? The girl from District Seven? But he was never that way when he killed Misaki that one night.

Sugawara frowns. Oikawa was a fascinating individual, albeit tough to read, but then again Sugawara wasn't always great at reading people. However, Oikawa was very different from the people back at Ten. Different. Interesting.

When the silence had gotten a little much for Sugawara, he decided to clear his throat.

“If it’s another question about Hajime I’ll lose my mind.”

However, Oikawa was quick to beat Sugawara.

Sugawara laughs nervously. “No, no, I wasn’t gonna ask anything about Haj– Iwaizumi,” he quickly corrects himself. “Just wanted to ask why the sudden quietness?”

“Can’t a guy ever enjoy a walk in silence?” Says Oikawa.

Sugawara shrugs. “It’s a bit hard to enjoy when we’re practically crawling through snow.”

Oikawa snickers softly, not responding, and continuing to stroll through the snow, heaving a deep breath with each step. Sugawara senses Oikawa's avoidance of the matter, but decides to leave it alone. He was currently stuck in his own thoughts where he’d rather not talk to anyone, and Sugawara was okay with that.

As they continue their trek, something catches the boy's attention. They pause in their steps, peering up ahead and squinting, as if they were mistaking the fog for something more strange than it really was. Up ahead of them was a thick amount of fog that was slowly floating in their direction. The strange thing about this sudden fog was that it didn't seem regular. It was almost blue, but yet quite grey, and the two boys suspect something is amiss with the fog.

Very, very amiss.

And they were right.

That grey, blue fog floating right in their direction was not normal at all.

Chapter Text

Oikawa backs away as the thick fog nears at a steady rate. He pressed himself against Sugawara, back to back against him, saying, “Stay close.” because anything could’ve happened in this moment, and as a trusting, devoted ally, Oikawa would protect both himself and Sugawara.

Sugawara gulped, holding up his sword in shaky defence, eyes darting around frantically because the fog was everywhere. It was surrounding them–circling them; there was no escape from the grey and blue. Sugawara pressed his back against Oikawa impossibly close, and he was certain the District One boy could feel him trembling against him. Either the shivering was induced by the winter, or Sugawara was completely freaked out by whatever this fog was.

As the fog circled the boys, it crept closer. Oikawa’s grip on the knife in his belt tightened, and he’s darting his gaze around frantically too, because there has to be an escape from this peculiar fog somehow, right? But no. There were no openings to an escape, no trick to jump out somehow, no nothing. Oikawa and Sugawara were trapped.

Oikawa mutters a profanity, because fuck, what were they supposed to do? The fog didn’t look normal enough to be just normal fog. Oikawa wasn’t going crazy–he knew something was wrong about this, and they needed to get out of here before something bad happened. But how? With no source of escape from this fog, there was no way they could survive. But then again, Oikawa had no clue as to what the fog was capable of.

Oikawa just needed to think. Yeah, just think, Oikawa. You can do that. He needed to think because the blue fog was growing nearer and thicker and if he didnt think now then–

Oikawa squeezed his eyes shut. Shit.

Oikawa's firm grasp frees the knife from his belt, and he shouts, "Don't breathe it in!" before slapping his hand over his mouth and nose. Sugawara quickly followed his commands, using one hand to conceal the bottom half of his face while wielding his weapon in the other.

It was all Oikawa could think of in this situation. The fog was practically caging around them now, floating and swimming and probably laughing because it was dangerous and it wanted to kill them. Maybe the fog was poison. If they breathed it in, maybe the insides of their throats would swell up and they’d be a coughing mess before they passed out and died. Yeah. Yeah, that had to be it. It wasn’t hurting them physically now that they were touching the fog, so that had to be what it was.

Poisonous fog.

But..what if..

As Oikawa eyes the fog, keeping his breath and focusing hard on their surroundings, he takes a step back, expecting to press his back against Sugawara closer yet again, but instead, he stumbles backwards, catching himself before he falls into the snow, and he’s confused, turning around swiftly only to find that Sugawara..

Oikawa’s hand fell from his mouth. “Suga?” And he’s breathing in the air.

Sugawara was gone.

Oikawa starts to feel himself tremble, his eyes darting around frantically in a panic as he finds himself all alone while he screams out for the missing Sugawara. He couldn't see, the fog making everything around him so blurry–and he was dizzy, the fog so overwhelmingly thick that he couldn’t see anything past the fog. No trees, no bushes, no nothing. Just the fog and the snow he clumsily stepped in. God, and his breathing was so scared and rapid and, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, he was breathing in the air!

Oikawa quickly slapped his hand over his mouth again, but it was too late. He had already breathed it in.

Oikawa was going to die. He finally concluded that he was going to be the ninth death of the 74th Hunger Games, because he had slipped up somehow, and now he was going to die. He wasn’t ever going to see his family again. They were going to be so disappointed in him because he made a promise to them, yet he screwed up so badly. He broke his promise to them. To Hajime. Oh, Hajime. He wanted to see Hajime…just one last time before he disappointed him.

Oikawa squeezed his eyes shut tightly, nails nearly clawing at his face as he held his breath, but he knows this is pointless because he’s already breathed in the fog, and he was going to die. Oikawa swallowed back a sob.

Hajime, his mind rang. Hajime, Hajime, oh, Hajime, my love. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, god I’m so sorry–I love you, please forgive me. I love–

“Tooru?”

Oikawa’s eyes snapped open.

What?

Suddenly, Oikawa’s shaky figure starts to ease, his eyes focusing, and Oikawa finally feels like he can breathe this fresh air for the first time (even though he was clouded by this unknown fog). Oikawa swallows down the lump in his throat because it wasn’t only a few minutes ago when he thought he was going to break down and cry because he would never see Hajime again.

But..that was Hajime’s voice just now.

That was Hajime. His Hajime.

Oikawa’s hand falls from his face, and he’s shaking uncontrollably, because he’s going crazy. God, he’s going crazy and he’s hearing the voices of loved ones, and he must be dead. He has got to be dead.

But when he turned around at the most sluggish pace, there he was. Tall and handsome, that dark hair all spikey and all over the place, the way it appeared during their last moments together at the reaping, and just like every other day. And his eyes, oh, his eyes. Such a beautiful olive green, and Oikawa is thinking, they can’t be real. He can’t be real.

That couldn’t be his Hajime… could it?

Oikawa nearly choked, holding back from breaking down just from seeing the presence of his boyfriend. “H..Hajime?” He manages out without crying, but he doesn’t last much longer when Hajime speaks up again.

“Tooru,” he says his name again, and Oikawa almost cries because his name sounded so good coming from Hajime. His voice so deep and perfect, and so real. He sounded so real. “Tooru, baby..” he’s taking small steps towards Oikawa, his arms opening slowly and hesitantly, and Oikawa couldn’t breathe.

Hajime is so close, taking one final step in front of Oikawa, and without thinking, he reaches out, hands unsteady and slow, and his hands land against Hajime's cheeks, and oh god. Oh god, oh god, he felt so real. Oikawa's fingertips brushed across every inch of his flawless face, inspecting every aspect of him. His thumbs caress his cheeks, his hands trembling against his face to the point where Hajime must reach for his wrists, his own rough fingers wrapping around his thin arms and squeezing gently—reassuringly, and Oikawa chokes out a sob.

Hajime..he was..

He was real.

Oikawa broke down. Suddenly he throws himself onto Hajime, arms wrapping so tightly around him, caging him into this tight hug, and Hajime hugs him back because he never had a choice. Oikawa would always pull him into these hugs back home, sometimes in public, and Hajime’s face would always go so red and he’d turn so stiff because he was embarrassed. Oikawa would only ever laugh, because he knew Hajime liked it. He knew he loved Oikawa.

Oikawa buried his face into his shoulder, soaking his blouse with tears, and usually Oikawa would feel guilty about destroying his shirt, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. Not now. Through broken sobs, Oikawa could breathe in Hajime’s scent, and he smelt so good. Like green apple and leather, which may seem like an unusual combination, but it smelled so good. It smelled like home.

Oikawa squeezes Hajime hard, hands scrunching up into the fabric of Hajime’s blouse. He wanted to hug him forever. Hold him forever and never let go, because he didn’t want to die. He didn’t want to betray his promise to Hajime. Not when he loved him so much that he couldn't bear the notion of them being apart again. Oikawa squeezed him tighter. He never wanted to let go again.

Oikawa sobs. “I thought..” he chokes out. “I thought I’d never see you again.” and Hajime hugs him tighter because those words were just as heartbreaking as never actually seeing him again.

“Tooru, baby, no..” Hajime is saying, a hand reaching up and holding the back of Oikawa’s head, fingers tangling into his brown hair, massaging at his scalp, and Oikawa cries because it feels so good, and Hajime shushes him reassuringly. Just like he always did when Oikawa was sad. “I’m here, Tooru, I’m here,” he then pulls back from the hug, and they’re face to face, and god, Oikawa wants to hide in his shoulder again and cry but when he looked at Hajime, he started crying more. And then, he whispers, “You’re safe.”

Oikawa couldn’t take it anymore. He squeezed his eyes so tightly, tears pooling out with so much emotion and it wouldn’t stop. It was uncontrollable. And when he pressed his mouth against Hajime’s, he thought he was going to cry even harder. Because god, the way his lips felt, so nice yet so chapped and dry because he was the complete opposite compared to Oikawa, and he loved it. And god, the way they pressed so close. So, so close in so many ways, Oikawa didn’t want to let go.

Oikawa breathed in without breaking away, swallowing down this lump in his throat even as he kissed Hajime. He would hold his face as he kissed the corner of his mouth, and Hajime would gently tug at Oikawa’s brown locks, just as he always did, and oh, Oikawa didn’t want to let this feeling go. He kissed every part of Hajime. He kissed him everywhere because he was real and he needed him to be real. He needed Hajime so badly. He needed him to save him from the games because he was slowly losing his mind.

The kiss was brief, and possibly a touch wet from all the tears, but Oikawa couldn't bring himself to care. He just kept kissing him, so quickly and so passionately, proving all the love he has for Hajime, because he was scared of losing him again. He didn’t want to lose him. Please, please, not again.

Hajime is gradually withdrawing from the kiss, and Oikawa nearly whimpers, desperately chasing after his lips again because he’s forgotten what his lips taste like, and he wants to cry. “Tooru, shh,” Hajime is whispering, being pulled back into the kiss, he barely had a chance to speak. “Tooru I–” he softly sighs into Oikawa’s mouth, trying to speak. “I want to..to help you. Just tell me what you need. I’ll do it.”

You. Oikawa wanted to say. You, you, you. I need you Hajime. But he remembers where he is, the situation he finds himself in, and that he is confined, but he is no longer alone. So he squeezes Hajime's face again, kissing him one more time before pulling away completely.

He looks into Hajime’s real olive eyes, and he says, “I’m stuck, Hajime,” and his boyfriend listens, just like he always did. He would always study Oikawa’s expression, his own eyes so focused and he didn’t say a thing until Oikawa finished speaking. All his attention would be on Oikawa. “I’m stuck, and—and, I don’t know what to do.”

“Okay,” Hajime whispers, hand resting just at the back of his neck. “Tell me more, baby, I can help.”

Oikawa has to wipe his eyes because he needs to stop crying. Hajime was trying to help him and he was fucking crying. He was crying in the Hunger Games, and god, they all probably saw him as weak now. The Capitol watched him turn soft, everybody back home watched him break down, and he wasn’t going to get anymore sponsors and oh no, no, no–Oikawa was going to cry again.

"Hey, hey.." but Hajime continued to quiet him, soothing him with that voice that was usually identified as rude and hostile against others. But to Oikawa, it was sweet and compassionate, albeit still a bit rough. "It's okay," he says softly, squeezing the back of his neck slightly. "You're okay."

Hajime rubs gentle circles against the back of his neck, and Oikawa breathes. He takes deep shaky breaths, and Hajime smiles reassuringly, whispering that he was good, that he was so good and Oikawa swallows the lump in his throat and he can feel himself calming down. And when Oikawa thinks he’s calm enough to explain, he offers one last deep breath, and he looks at Hajime.

“The fog,” he starts, his voice a little shaky. “It’s, uhm..I don’t know what’s wrong with it but th-there’s something bad about it, and I think it’s poisonous. I breathed it in, and I don’t know. And Sugawara,” he adds quickly, remembering. “My frien–I mean, my ally,” he’s now looking around everywhere, because he remembers he lost him. “Suga, he needs my help. He’s somewhere out here, and I–”

“Sugawara?” Hajime repeats.

“Yeah,” Oikawa says, still looking around. “Yeah, he’s my ally.”

“You said friend.”

“I said ally.”

There was a pause, but Oikawa hadn’t noticed because he’s walking around, searching everywhere, but there’s still no sign of the District Ten boy. Hajime is still standing in the exact same spot, expression scrunched up and perplexed, and Oikawa is oblivious because his main concern right now is Sugawara. His ally. And knowing his ally, he was frightened to go up against anything on his own. He remembers the way he ran away when Oikawa nearly killed him that day. He was so scared.

Sugawara needed his help now, wherever he was.

As Oikawa continues to search around frantically, Hajime walks towards him, pausing him in his tracks when he captures his wrist. Oikawa looks at him, confused, so Hajime says, “Tooru,” and then he softly scoffs a chuckle. “You’re not serious, are you?”

Oikawa blinks. “Serious about what?”

Hajime squeezes his wrist gently. “About allies,” he says. “You’re not actually making friends, are you?”

“What?” Oikawa is confused. “What–no, Hajime. Sugawara isn’t my friend, he’s my ally, there’s a difference. But I still need to treat him as a loyal and trusting person even if that means only one of us is going to make it out of this alive. That’s what makes a good player.”

“No,” he says. “That’s what makes a weak player.”

Oikawa stares, because he’s confused and hurt, and what did Hajime just say? Was Hajime calling Oikawa weak just now?

When Hajime notices the rapid shift of hurt in Oikawa's countenance, he takes a step closer to him, rubbing delicate patterns over his wrist with his thumb, as if to comfort him despite the fact that he said such a thing. Oikawa almost pulled away, but he couldn't bring himself to. He loved Hajime too much to push him away again.

“Tooru..” Hajime sighs. “Tooru, baby, you just gotta listen to what I’m telling you. I care about you,” his olive eyes soften when he says, “You know that, right?”

Oikawa stares for a long while before he finds himself interlocking his fingers with Hajime, squeezing ever so slightly, his brown eyes staring right into Hajime’s green ones. His beautiful ones. “Of course,” he whispers, squeezing his hand again. “I know that.”

“So you should know that what you’re doing isn’t right,” Hajime says. “Treating another useless participant as someone you care about. I mean, this Sugawara guy means nothing to you and your victory, right? He doesn’t matter.”

Oikawa’s brows furrow. “He does matter,” he says seriously, but his tone was still so soft and delicate. “Everyone matters. None of these people asked to be here–I didn’t ask to be here, Hajime–”

“But you plan to win, don’t you?”

“Of course I do.”

“So these people shouldn’t have to matter to you,” Hajime states honestly, squeezing Oikawa's hand again, but something about his grip felt off. Less comforting, less reassuring, less loveable, and it hurts to think that, because Hajime’s touch was always so comforting, so reassuring and loveable. But not anymore. Something was different, as he says, “Sugawara shouldn’t matter to you.” and Oikawa’s hold on Hajime loosens.

"Hajime.." He sighs, and Hajime raises his brow, waiting for Oikawa to proceed. There was a long pause between them as Oikawa struggled to find his voice. He was afraid. He was afraid because he loved Hajime so much. He was afraid of disappointing him, and he was already doing so.

Was he disappointing him?

Oikawa sighs again. “Listen, Hajime,” he starts, finding his voice. “I need to find Sugawara,” he pauses again. “I need to help him.”

Hajime remains silent, and Oikawa gulps because this is not the response he anticipated. He wanted Hajime to hold his hand and pull him into a tight embrace, whispering sweet nothings and words of support in between kisses, and simply just be with him forever. He wanted his help. He wanted Hajime. He wanted Hajime so desperately.

But, instead, this was the reaction he got.

Hajime’s hold on Oikawa’s hand loosens as he mumbles, “Oh,” and Oikawa goes to squeeze his hand again, but Hajime pulls away, and Oikawa is cold. He’s so cold. And then, he takes a step away from Oikawa, and he’s saying, “Then I guess I was wrong about you.” and Oikawa’s stomach sinks.

Oikawa’s brows furrow, confused. He can feel his heart racing, because he was scared? Worried? Anxious? Whatever it was, it made Oikawa feel sick to the stomach, and he wanted to fall to the ground and throw up everything he’s feeling because, why did he pull his hand away like that? Why did he step back from Oikawa like he was a living disease? And why was he looking at him like that? Why? Why?

Oikawa goes to take a step towards him, but Hajime takes another step back, and Oikawa understands this as a sign that he doesn’t want Oikawa anywhere near him. His eyes were stinging because Hajime had never done that before. Even when he was mad, or when they got into pointless arguments–god, Hajime has never stepped away from Oikawa like that. Ever.

Hajime looks at Oikawa with contempt, his eyes entirely focused on him, and god. Oh god, those olive eyes were no longer recognisable, and Oikawa wanted to cry because where had Hajime gone? Where had his Hajime gone?

“What happened to you?” scoffs Hajime, and he slowly begins to circle Oikawa’s shaky figure. “What happened to you and that promise you made?”

Oikawa’s body turns to watch Hajime as he circles him. “What?” he says, almost inaudible.

“Oh, don’t act so coy now, Tooru,” Hajime snickers, and then he turns serious again as he says, “What you said at the reaping. You said you’d come home. You said you’d come back for me–so why would you lie to me?”

“I didn’t lie, Hajime,” Oikawa manages. “I didn’t–”

“And what you said during the interviews? Was that another lie too?”

“No! Hajime, no!”

“Right in front of the Capitol too,” Hajime scoffs with disbelief, and he’s still walking around Oikawa, and he’s dizzy as he watches him. He couldn’t even see his face anymore. Everything was a blur. What did Hajime look like again? What did his Hajime look like? “You wanted me to get my hopes up. Wait and wait for you only to be disappointed in the end, because you know what, Tooru? You’re just one big fucking disappointment.”

Oikawa coughed a sob. No, no, no. This is exactly what he was afraid of. Being perceived as insignificant by those he cares about, because he couldn't bear the thought of being looked through and seen as a letdown. All he ever wanted was to be loved and cared about, and have someone around to tell him they were proud, and then came Hajime. He’d tell him he loved him, that he was so special, so perfect, that he was proud, and god, it felt like someone just ripped out his heart and stomped on it because Hajime didn’t think so anymore.

He called him a disappointment. He was a disappointment. To Hajime, his family, his district.

Everything was spinning, and Oikawa’s head hurt so bad, he thinks he’s going to drop to the ground and die. Did it even matter if he died now? Hajime already viewed him as a disappointment, and he might as well die a disappointment.

Oikawa squeezes his eyes shut, falling to his knees, and the snow is so cold and it’s pulling his body into the earth. It’s so cold, and he’s sinking. He’s sinking, and all he can hear is Hajime, and god, and everything was so loud.

“I shouldn’t be surprised, should I?” Hajime would say, and Oikawa’s ears would ring and Hajime’s voice echoed throughout his head. Oikawa wept, clamping his hands over his ears, and he wanted to yell for him to stop. Stop, please. But he kept talking and Oikawa only cried harder. “Was it all a lie, Tooru Oikawa? Wanting to come back home to me? Be in my arms and kiss my lips? That’s what you said, right? You fucking said so yourself, and it was a lie!”

And suddenly, it all clicked.

Everything made sense.

Hajime keeps throwing comments at Oikawa while he continues to circle his shaking figure,

‘You’re useless’, he’d say. ‘A stuck up brat, just as they all had said.’

And Oikawa sits there, crying but he’s calming down because he finally understands. He understands what’s going on, and everything finally makes sense.

Oikawa presses his hands harder against his ears, and he’s saying, “This isn’t real, this isn’t real, this isn’t real,” over and over again, because this wasn’t real.

This was the fog.

The instant Oikawa breathed in that unrecognisable fog, he was imprisoned in this hallucination in which everything he loved simply reflected his fears. It was so believable that Oikawa looked over the fact that it would be impossible for Hajime to be here right now, and god, of course he wants his boyfriend here right now to comfort him, but that wasn’t possible.

Hajime..that wasn’t his Hajime.

He was just a hallucination.

Oikawa just needed to ignore him. Tell him to go away. Remind himself this wasn’t real because it wasn’t real, and maybe the fog will leave him alone and Oikawa will find Sugawara again and he can go home, and, and, and–

As Oikawa sobs, he could hear Hajime yelling at him, but slowly and eventually, his voice is dying away, and Oikawa tries to find his breath because it was working. He needed to calm down, breathe, and ignore the hallucination, and by the time he opened his eyes, the fog and Hajime would have vanished, and oh god, Oikawa almost started sobbing harder because what if he never saw Hajime again? What if he does break his promise? What if he never makes it out of the games alive and he doesn’t come home? Or what if—

“Stop, stop, stop..” Oikawa croaks out quietly, squeezing his eyes shut even tighter. He needed this to end. He needed the games to end. He needed all of this to end.

It wasn’t long before everything went quiet. Only the sounds of the snowstorm and Oikawa’s quiet cries were audible. Oikawa gulps loudly, breathing heavily, and he’s scared to open his eyes because what if he’s still surrounded by fog, and what if Hajime is still here? Screaming and yelling at him, telling him he wasn’t good enough and that nobody loved him, and–

Oikawa eventually opens his eyes, and everything's so blurry, and he’s trying to blink away the tears, but despite his best efforts, he still couldn’t see a thing due to the snow. The snow had gotten worse. A lot worse. Oikawa was shivering so bad, teeth chattering, and he could see the clouds he breathed out, and god, he’s still breathing so heavily because he was scared. He was so scared.

Oikawa examines his surroundings, looking for any evidence of Hajime and the fog, but it is gone. Hajime and the unusual fog had vanished, and Oikawa breathed a jittery sigh of relief. His hands fall from his ears, and he’s hugging himself now because he was so cold and he needed to find shelter, and, fuck, he needed to find Sugawara.

Oikawa gulps again, frantically looking for any signs of Sugawara in the snow. He curses beneath his breath because he thinks he’s nowhere. However, as he turns to look behind him, he spots a dark lump in the snow just a distance away, and Oikawa has to squint his eyes because it was so hard to see and he has no idea what that was.

But then, suddenly, Oikawa gasped. He’s clumsily tripping to get onto his feet, his legs so wobbly and weak, but he’s running towards the lump in the snow, and when he’s close enough, he falls to his knees, and he rolls the figure over.

“Shit,” Oikawa curses, because it was Sugawara.

When Oikawa rolled Sugawara over onto his back, he was unconscious, his face so pale yet so red, and he was shivering, covered in snow. He was shivering so violently, and Oikawa cursed again because who knows how long Sugawara was laying in the snow for. A few minutes? Maybe even a few hours? That fog could’ve be capable of anything, even hallucinations that make hours seem like just a few minutes.

Oikawa shakes Sugawara’s cold figure. “Suga!” He’d continue to yell out, but Sugawara didn’t answer, nor did he move.

Sugawara was cold, pallid, and unwell, and he wouldn't wake up. And because of one stupid mistake he performed, Oikawa may be unable to save him.

Chapter Text

Sugawara thought he was suffocating.

He sees his family, his house–his barely standing house, and he can hear the cries of farm animals, and it’s raining, and it’s cold. It’s so cold. Everything was grey. Sugawara felt grey. See through. Uninteresting. Unnoticeable. And Sugawara wanted to say this was typical, that he was used to it, but he also wanted to cry. He was used to the way he stood there, unhelpful, somewhat abandoned by his family. God, he really wanted to cry.

Sugawara shivered, water falling through his shirt and down his spine, the droplets of the rain resting against his eyelashes, and he blinked, but they remained where they were, and it’s so blurry. He could barely see. Every member of his family just looked like a blur, unrecognisable, and Sugawara wanted to see them. He wanted to see them, even if they didn’t want to see him, and maybe he should cry just from the thought, but he’s cried enough back home, waiting for someone to just ask him those three words.

‘Are you okay?’

And then Sugawara would cry harder, not because he would blurt out everything—that he wasn’t loved. But instead, he’d cry because he realised he wasn’t invisible, that he was a real person who deserved real appreciation from his real family.

But that was only a dream. This was a dream.

This dream becomes nothing more than a blur when Sugawara can feel himself waking up. He wakes up feeling colder than he really was in his dream, trembling harder but he’s encased in a sleeping bag. He pulls the covers closer towards him, attempting to find more warmth, but even the blanket and the fire in front of him wasn’t enough to warm the sickly boy.

Sugawara remembers where he is. He coughs, and god, that hurts. He’s looking around through tired, half lidded eyes. He sees the orange and yellow flames of the fire, the thick wood burning beneath it, and he sees that it was no longer snowing like it was earlier, but the grass was still covered in the white ice. Sugawara shivers, because it was so cold. Why was it so cold?

“And here I thought you’d never wake up.” Says a familiar voice.

Sugawara’s tired gaze fell on his ally, Oikawa, who had been seated across from him on a simple log. He’s got his bag of arrows seated in between his legs as he rummages through them, examining the ends of the arrows and counting how many he had left. He didn’t look at Sugawara, having been so preoccupied with doing something else, and Sugawara simply thinks he’s fiddling because he’s hiding something.

Sugawara shifts, attempting to sit up, but he stops himself when he coughs again, and he groans. God, he feels like absolute shit. He was coughing, he was ice cold, shivering, and it only made him feel more sick everytime he moved just an inch of a muscle. He felt weak. So weak and small. What was going on with him?

Sugawara merely shifts his body so he gets a better view of Oikawa. “What, uhm..” he clears his throat quickly, his voice weak. “W’happened?”

Oikawa pulls out a single arrow from his bag. “Two-way street, man,” he says, examining his arrow casually. “Something happened to you, and something happened to me. I found you lying in the snow, because somehow you disappeared,” he then looks at Sugawara for the first time, using his arrow to point at the sick boy. “So, where did you go? What happened to you?”

When Oikawa looked at him, Sugawara was able to observe the changes in his expression. He appeared serious, his eyes dark and threatening, practically piercing into Sugawara as if he had done something wrong. Aside from the gravity of his look, Sugawara took note of the puffiness of his eyes, the way his face appeared softer than usual, the way his beautiful soft locks had been all messy and damp from snow and tears, and Sugawara nearly frowned because had Oikawa been crying?

Sugawara tries to remember what had happened. He remembers being back to back with Oikawa, holding his sword with long shaky arms, and he remembers being caged around that mysterious fog, and–

“That fog.” Sugawara says, remembering, and Oikawa watches the District Ten boy, expecting him to say more, but he is left with nothing but silence. So, Oikawa speaks up.

“You saw something,” he says. “Didn’t you?”

Sugawara tries to nod. “Yeah,” he mutters weakly, coughing again. “What was that?”

Oikawa clenches at his arrow when he says, “Hallucinations,” because he’s remembering what he saw, and he wants to yell and scream at the Capitol for what they did. “Illusions, magic type shit, given the fact that the games are capable of almost anything,” he then pauses before he asks, “Did you see loved ones?”

And Sugawara wants to hide away in his sleeping bag and go home, the knot in his stomach tightening, and god, he felt so sick. “Yes,” he says plainly, his voice dry and raspy. “I did.”

Oikawa does not respond to that. He then returns to tinkering with the number of arrows in his bag. Watching the District One boy from his reclining posture led Sugawara to feel that, while he was lost in his own terrified thoughts, Oikawa also saw something back there. Something equally as dreadful and heartbreaking, and while Sugawara wasn't particularly good at reading people's emotions, Oikawa didn't disguise his sentiments too well today.

He was so fidgety, counting the number of arrows he had left like he was distracting himself from the bad thoughts, bouncing his leg up and down rapidly, voice dry and casual, words so short and plain. His expression was dark and unreadable, because he wanted to appear stronger than he really was, but Sugawara knows deep down in Oikawa there’s this little kid who just wanted to cry. Spill all of these untold feelings, and Sugawara’s chest tightens because Oikawa…Oikawa was still just a kid, just like every other tribute here in the arena.

There was a long moment of silence between the boy’s until Sugawara finally spoke up. It took him a moment to overcome his nerves, but he does so by playing with the inside of the sleeping bag, which is soft and warm in comparison to the texture of nylon on the exterior, and it's wonderful, even if Sugawara is too sick to feel totally comfortable.

Sugawara’s gaze falls on Oikawa when he says, “You saw him,” and he pauses, because Oikawa clenches a single arrow, out of anger? Sadness? Guilt? And then, he adds, “You did, didn’t you?” because he knows.

He knows he saw Iwaizumi.

Oikawa runs the pad of his thumb against the single arrow in his grasp. “Yeah, so what,” he says, voice low. “What about it?”

Sugawara could hear the distaste in his voice, and Sugawara immediately regrets asking because it must’ve been so heartbreaking for Oikawa. To have to see someone he so desperately loved only for them to be a fake all along? The fog was so powerful it just completely overwhelmed Oikawa’s sense of reality.

Sugawara shifts. “I saw my family.” He says.

Oikawa didn’t look at Sugawara when he asked, “What happened?”

And Sugawara sighs a shaky breath, because just at the thought–the way the whole scene replays in his mind is–

Sugawara groans, eyes clenching shut and his heart aches at the remembrance. The way his father dismissed him, the way his brother ignored him, his uncle walking right past, his cousin not letting Sugawara get a single word out to speak, and his mother–

Sugawara coughs, his hand reaching towards his chest, fingers pulling at the fabric of his jacket and he groans again, because god. God, his heart was beating so fast and it hurt. And oh, his mother. The way she looked at him, except she wasn’t looking at him, because in her eyes, Sugawara wasn't there. Sugawara wasn’t seen by a single member of his family. His mom looked straight through him like glass, and she walked right through him and–

His heart was aching so bad, and he hadn’t even realised Oikawa was kneeling in front of him, shaking him and saying his name repeatedly. But Sugawara couldn’t hear him, nor could he hear a thing over the ringing in his ear, and he groaned because fuck, it hurt. Everything was hurting so bad, just at the remembrance of the fog.

The way she walked through him. The way they all walked through him..

Oikawa squeezes Sugawara by the shoulder. “Suga, what’s going on? You’re freaking me out.” And Sugawara wanted to answer but he was breathing so hard, and his heart was beating so fast, and– “Fuck, I knew you were sick but I didn’t think it was this bad.”

Sugawara clenches his chest, pushing down the lump in his throat and he manages, “I don’t..I don’t think it’s because of the–” he coughs mid sentence. “T-the cold.”

Oikawa squeezes his shoulder. “What?” He says, confused.

A shot of pain flew through his heart again, and Sugawara clenched his teeth together. He’s trying to find his voice, the right words to tell Oikawa, but he’s shivering so terribly, cold as a ghost, and he couldn’t breathe, his chest aching so bad and he needed to push away the remembrance of the fog.

But then, he looks at Oikawa. “The..” he grunts. “The fog wasn’t just capable of hallucinations, Oikawa.”

Oikawa’s brows knit. “What do you mean?”

And Sugawara’s brows knit together too, because he realises Oikawa didn’t suffer the pain like he did. Or, at least, nothing too violent happened to him because he was able to escape the fog before the Iwaizumi illusion jumped to anything horrible. And thank god for that, because just thinking about that clone hurting Oikawa only forced Sugawara to imagine the fear and heartbreak he’d experience. How traumatic that would be.

Unfortunately, however, for Sugawara, things took a different turn.

And because of that, there was no doubt Sugawara would have that much time to live.

…

“Hey, check it, Akaashi!”

Akaashi pauses in his tracks to see whatever it was Kuroo wanted to show him this time, and with a slight annoyed roll of his eyes, he turns to find the District Two boy kneeled on the ground by a tree, grinning. However, Akaashi realises it wasn’t the tree he was fascinated by, but the mushrooms he pointed towards that grow around the tree in the grass.

Akaashi stares, unimpressed, and Kuroo grins, raising a brow as he says, “What’s the bet they’re magic?”

And Akaashi appears confused. “Magic?” he murmurs. “Like magical powers kind of magic?”

“More like the kind that makes you see colours and talk to trees,” grins Kuroo. “That kinda magic.”

Akaashi scratches the back of his neck. “Uhm, those are just regular mushrooms.” He says.

“Edible?” Kuroo’s grin grows impossibly wider.

And before Akaashi could give him a right answer, Kenma had already come walking up from behind Kuroo, grabbing him by the hood of his jacket, pulling him up to his feet (with a tad bit of aggression to it). “Nope,” says Kenma. “We’re not doing that again.”

And Kuroo whines and complains, calls Kenma a party pooper, but Kuroo is so oblivious. He doesn’t realise how much seeing Kuroo turn that way after consuming those berries a few days ago actually affected Kenma. It scared him to see Kuroo lash out and attack him, claiming that he was going to kill him, and he didn’t want that to happen again.

Kuroo didn’t realise Kenma had such a soft spot for Kuroo, but Akaashi could tell.

It was the fifth day in the arena. It was coming close to being a week. They were currently sitting in spring, with a pleasant temperature and remarkably tranquil surroundings as they resumed their trek. Compared to yesterday, this was much nicer. During that snow storm the boy’s couldn’t exactly do much other than sit around, because if they walked out in that snow, either someone was going to blow away (Kenma) due to the strong winds, or someone was going to sink into the snow (Bokuto).

The weather today was much more preferable than yesterday; much more refreshing. Considering this was the Hunger Games, Akaashi hadn’t expected himself to admit that the walk was nice. Walking along the bright green grass, by the soft pastel flowers, the warm sun so bright and warm when it hits his face through beams of the tall trees. It was really beautiful.

Kuroo was walking beside Akaashi, watching Kenma walk in front of them after picking Kuroo back up onto his feet before he ate something unusual again. Kuroo seemed to have a close eye on the boy, gaze soft as he observed him from behind, and Akaashi noticed almost instantly.

Akaashi’s curious gaze then falls back on Kenma, and he stiffens up because he was already looking back at him over his shoulder, stare cold with golden eyes piercing into him like a cat. And Akaashi felt like the mouse in this situation. Eventually, however, Kenma looks away, staring back ahead of him as he walks.

Akaashi feels the knot in his stomach that he didn’t even know was there loosen, because somehow, Kenma had this way of making people feel frightened without even trying. Was it his eyes? His golden eyes? The ones that gave off the appearance of a cat who was ready to pounce for its prey?

Akaashi felt like the prey right now, and he has an idea as to why.

Akaashi sighs quietly, and Kuroo notices almost immediately. “I don’t think Kenma likes me very much.” He then says.

“Dude, no way!” laughs Kuroo. “If anything, Kenma doesn’t like me.”

Wrong, Akaashi wanted to say, but he continued.

“He hasn’t talked to me since the berry situation,” Akaashi explains. “He thinks it’s my fault that you ate those berries, and it is my fault–I told you they were safe to eat, and then you lashed out and hurt Kenma, and he has every right to be mad at me, and–”

“Hey, woah,” Kuroo grabs Akaashi by the shoulder, pausing him from rambling on any longer, because god only knows how long that would go for. He squeezes his shoulder, saying, “We already talked about this. It isn’t your fault, and I’m okay now, see?”

Akaashi wanted to argue as he looked over Kuroo, but he refrained. He wanted to say that it was his fault, that he would accept the blame because he was already carrying so much guilt on his shoulders–and oh man, he feels bad. He feels so bad that he was the reason for someone else's suffering. It was already bad enough that he’s killed people already. He didn’t need to be feeling bad for anyone, but he was, and for fucks sake, this wasn't good.

Akaashi looks away, shrugging Kuroo’s hand off of his shoulder. “I don’t think Kenma hates you, Kuroo,” he says honestly, shifting the subject slightly. Just to avoid being the main topic in conversation. “He’s constantly worried about you. Most of the time. Especially recently, after the berries and everything.”

“Aren’t we all worried for each other?” Kuroo scoffs, and Akaashi raises a brow in question, forcing the District Two boy to elaborate. “I mean, we’re all allies here, right? We kinda have to care and protect one another for the time being until..” his expression shifts for a second, his mind wandering off to Kenma, what could happen to him, and– He quickly clears his throat, forcing the thoughts away. “Look, Kenma’s just taking his job as an ally very seriously. He’s not evil or anything. He’s loyal. We both know that.”

Akaashi hums in response to that, examining the way Kuroo’s expression shifted for a split second, but he doesn’t point it out. “Well,” the silence is quickly broken again however. “I assume you don’t dislike the guy either, considering you called him cute not only two nights ago.”

Kuroo gasped, face going all red and Akaashi couldn’t help but offer a smug smile. “You eavesdropping little–” he stops himself, deciding to wrap an arm around Akaashi’s shoulders, saying, “How about we talk about you and Bokuto, huh? Don’t even think for a second I haven’t noticed the way you’ve been avoiding him recently.”

“I haven’t been avoiding him.” Akaashi says.

“Really?” Kuroo snickers, gaze falling in front of them. “Then go talk to him.”

Akaashi follows Kuroo’s gaze, looking up further ahead of Kenma, seeing Bokuto laughing and rambling with a dissatisfied Tsukishima walking beside him, having to deal with Bokuto’s bubbly personality for the day. Akaashi stares, blocking out the sounds of everything else around him, and only hearing the mumbled voice of Bokuto and his laughs, and Akaashi gulps because maybe he had been avoiding Bokuto.

Akaashi shrugs Kuroo’s arm off of his shoulders, looking away, and Kuroo grins because he knew he was right. “I knew it.” He says victoriously, and Akaashi huffs, ignoring him.

Kuroo was right. Akaashi hasn’t spoken to Bokuto for a while, because he had been avoiding him. Ever since his conversation with Kuroo that night, Akaashi had been unable to muster the courage to approach Bokuto and apologise for being the stubborn, cold-shouldered guy he was. Kuroo wanted Akaashi to talk to him, and believe me, Akaashi wanted to talk to him too. All Bokuto has ever done was help Akaashi, made him feel welcome even if it truly never worked, but that’s just how Akaashi was.

A lonely orphan who distances himself from the world around him. From people like Bokuto.

Bokuto posed no threat. There was nothing about him to be intimidated by. He was happy, always so bubbly and joyful whenever he cooked his rabbit over the fire, not burning it like he usually does, always excited to play a game to buy some time, wrestling with Kuroo because no one else would (plus they were practically the same person), and maybe that’s what Akaashi was intimidated by. His lack of care for their current situation, the Hunger Games, and death.

He was so happy, so innocent–it was as if the games didn’t scare him at all and he really was happy to be here. Akaashi didn’t like that. He didn’t like that Bokuto was just so innocent, forced out into this arena to feed someone else's enjoyment, and god, if Akaashi knew it would be Bokuto to be selected at the reaping, he’d tell him to run as fast as he could and never come back. But unfortunately, here he was, stuck in a life or death situation, and still, all he could do is smile.

Akaashi keeps a tight eye on Bokuto, noting the way he throws his head back when he laughs, which is so loud and contagious, yet Akaashi couldn’t find it in himself to laugh because of their situation. Akaashi grumbles to himself. What could Bokuto be laughing about right now that could be so funny?

“Y’know, lucky for you–or maybe I should say for me,” Kuroo says from beside Akaashi. “You have a watch shift for the first half of the night, while Bokuto has the second half,” when Kuroo hears Akaashi groan tiredly, he laughs. “You’ll have to talk to him then, won’t you? He’s also a deep sleeper so good luck with that.”

Akaashi groans not because he is tired, but because he knows Kuroo is right. He would need to talk to Bokuto if that meant waking him up for his turn to watch out for the night, and god, Akaashi wants to rip his hair out and bury himself alive, because why did talking to Bokuto have to make him so anxious? The bubbly, happy, carefree Bokuto?

Akaashi pinches the bridge of his nose. If he was going to be this afraid of a happy, innocent tribute, how the hell was Akaashi ever going to survive this shit hole?

…

Akaashi can feel himself starting to nod asleep, but he quickly stops himself, despite the prospect of sleep sounding rather appealing. Thankfully, however, it was Bokuto's turn to keep watch for the rest of the night, allowing Akaashi to get some sleep.

It was late at night, beyond twelve, and Akaashi was growing more and more tired as he watched out for nothing. Awaiting for nothing to come for them during their sleep. Sometimes he’d sneak a quick glimpse towards his allies, observing how naked Tsukishima’s face appeared without his glasses, noticing Kenma using Kuroo’s arm as a pillow, and he looked comfortable even if he wouldn’t admit it. And, of course, Bokuto was lying flat on his back, arms and legs stretched in all different directions like a starfish, his hair a complete and utter mess, and god he’s loud, snoring with his damn mouth open like always.

Akaashi grumbles into his palm, his elbow sitting against his knee, his face resting against his hand. He watches Bokuto, having watched him throughout most of the night whenever he’d start rolling over again because he was an everywhere sleeper, and it seemed to take Akaashi by surprise every time. He had to roll Bokuto back over at one point of the night, because he was rolling too close towards the still burning fire. It only forced Akaashi to imagine how fucked Bokuto would be without allies. He may be strong in appearance, but Jesus, was he clumsy.

Akaashi blinks towards the snoring Bokuto tiredly, resisting the impulse to fall asleep now, but he knows he has to wake Bokuto up before he sails off into his own dreams (or nightmares). Just like Kuroo had been saying earlier that day, Akaashi had been avoiding Bokuto. He didn't want to talk to him because if he said a single word to start a simple conversation, Bokuto would flood Akaashi's mind with nonstop rambling about something stupid like his favourite food or odd hobbies, or worse, he'd tell him about his family, and Akaashi didn’t need that.

He didn’t need Bokuto to talk his ear off or act as if they were friends because they weren't. They weren’t friends, and Bokuto needed to get that through his thick skull before he got the wrong idea, because the last thing Akaashi wants is for something to lead into the wrong direction. This was the Hunger Games. Anything good in the games had always led to something bad, and Akaashi couldn’t afford that. Not when he’s grown up alone and distrustful all his life.

Akaashi studies Bokuto for a little longer before he sighs, seconds away from falling asleep, but he perseveres because he has to. He stands up slowly, walking towards Bokuto carefully, stepping over the others and assuring he doesn’t wake them up from their own blissful slumber. He can only imagine how frustrated Tsukishima would be to wake up to Akaashi’s foot to his stomach.

Eventually, he’s sitting beside Bokuto, his snores and breathing so much louder now that he is closer, and Akaashi wants to curse because he remembers Kuroo telling him he was a deep sleeper.

Gently, Akaashi shakes him. “Bokuto?” He whispers, muttering his name a few times, but Bokuto remains asleep and happy, using his bicep to scratch his nose casually in his sleep.

Akaashi’s brow twitched. God, Akaashi was going to be here all night.

Akaashi shook him a few more times, each time harder than the last, but it was pointless. Bokuto only appeared more in sleep the harder Akaashi tried waking him up. Slapping him has come closer and closer to enticing, but however,

Bokuto’s eyes fluttered, looking up at Akaashi through lazy eyes, and he still looked trapped in a dream, a happy one–but Akaashi was making progress. So he lightly poked his shoulder, trying to speed things up so Akaashi could go to sleep himself. Bokuto merely grumbled tiredly in response, attempting to roll over again and reposition himself for comfort. Akaashi was quick to roll him back over, however.

“Bokuto,” he says again, voice quiet yet stern (and so tired), squeezing his arm. “It’s your turn to take watch.”

Bokuto muttered something in his sleep. Akaashi could only imagine it to be a ‘no’ of disagreement, not being too fond of the idea of waking up just yet.

Akaashi rubbed his eyes. He was getting impatient. “Bokuto,” he says sharply. “Please.” And oh god, that probably sounded so desperate coming from the District Eight boy. He presses his fingers to his eyes harder, wishing to escape into his oblivion and hide away forever.

It wasn’t until then when Akaashi felt gentle fingers circle his wrist, and Akaashi flinched, eyes flying towards Bokuto, going to pull back, but Bokuto whined in his sleep, his hold on his wrist tightening, and god. Oh god, Bokuto was holding him by the wrist and softly pulling him forward, almost encouragingly, and Akaashi stiffened, looking down at Bokuto with uncertainty.

Akaashi couldn’t tell whether or not Bokuto was actually awake. He looked so peaceful, even with his bottom lip sticking out when he whined, and Jesus, he was so childish when he did that. Always whining and complaining like a little toddler, getting all quiet and sad or pouty when he didn’t get his way, his hair drooping just like his frown. Akaashi grumbled, attempting to pull his wrist back again, but of course, Bokuto persisted.

Bokuto shifted in his sleep, fingers against Akaashi’s wrist gentle even as he tightens his grip, and he whines again. “Kaashi..” he mumbled out, and Akaashi noticed the way he said his name, so tired and completely missing the ‘A’ in his name, and he must be asleep. He has to be asleep.

With his free hand, Akaashi gently shook Bokuto by the shoulder. “Hey, c’mon,” he was saying, offering his shoulder a tight squeeze (which was difficult because Bokuto had oddly hard shoulders). “Bokuto?” he says again. “Are you awake?”

No response. All Akaashi got was another tired whine and another squeeze to the wrist. Again, Akaashi grumbles because he was getting impatient, wanting to go to sleep, but preventing him from doing so is the idea of what might happen to him and his allies if he fell asleep now. No one would be awake to tell Bokuto he needed to be keeping an eye out for anything suspicious. They’d all be dead.

Akaashi doesn’t like that idea too much. So, he goes to shake Bokuto again, and again..and again. It was getting repetitive, and still, there was no progress. Waking up Kuroo to work his magic on Bokuo was growing even more tempting.

However, before he could even consider that thought..

“Akaashi..” softly, Bokuto mutters, and Akaashi leans in slightly because he’s so quiet. Was he talking in his sleep? Was he awake?

“Bokuto?” Akaashi whispers. “Are you awake?”

Bokuto shifts, grumbling something but Akaashi wasn’t able to hear it. And then he’s pulling Akaashi impossibly closer to the point he gasped, because god, now he was really close. Akaashi could practically identify every feature on Bokuto’s soft face, eyelashes long and the hairs of his brows so thick–the few invisible freckles you’d only be able to see up close so light, and his lips..Jesus, his lips.

Akaashi blinked, flushing so hot because his mind wandered straight towards his lips for a split second and oh god, oh dear fucking god, why the hell was he thinking about his lips right now?

Akaashi snapped back to reality, hand pressing to Bokuto’s chest for a split second when he attempted to sit up, pushing himself away from Bokuto, and he went to take Bokuto’s hand off of his wrist, but his hold was tightening again—and of course it fucking was.

Bokuto squeezes his wrist. “Mm..Kaashi..” and he’s whining and his voice is so sleepy–so tired, and Akaashi wants to smack him, yell at him, and, and, and– “S’pretty..”

And Akaashi pauses.

He blinks.

And then he flushes red.

Shit.

Chapter Text

Akaashi didn’t get any sleep that night. It was as if all of Akaashi's previous exhaustion had evaporated into thin air, leaving him wide awake and unable to fall asleep because he was up thinking all night.

Thinking about Bokuto.

But could you blame the poor guy? Bokuto had just completely flustered him, and now he couldn’t get himself to face Bokuto at all, which wasn’t that great considering he’s been avoiding him enough as it is. He called him pretty. What the hell was that for? And because of that Akaashi left Bokuto to sleep, while he stayed up all night, watching out for anything suspicious, but he could barely focus on anything but him. Bokuto. His ally.

Akaashi has even been avoiding Bokuto all morning, turning elsewhere when he sees Bokuto approaching, talking to Kuroo instead and dismissing every mention of Bokuto because he just couldn’t. He couldn’t deal with Bokuto right now, and he couldn’t deal with him at all, and Jesus, Akaashi was a mess.

He was so tired, yet his brain was still flooding with Bokuto. Only Bokuto. Bokuto, Bokuto, Bokuto..and his words continuously reverberated throughout his throbbing mind.

‘Just imagine it. The two of us working together, side by side, eliminating those who stand in our way, and winning this thing. Together.’

‘I took an interest in you, Akaashi. I felt there was much more to you than what meets the eye.’

‘So pretty.’

And Akaashi goes red again, condemning himself because this is exactly what he was afraid of. This is exactly what he was afraid of. God, this would’ve been so much easier if Bokuto wasn’t so persistent. He shouldn't have listened to him. He shouldn’t have given into Bokuto’s persuasive nature so easily. Because maybe, just maybe, if Bokuto died in this arena, it would be so much easier, and Akaashi would be able to win the Hunger Games all on his own without any heartbreak to it.

Akaashi wouldn’t be going all red right now, thinking about Bokuto and the possibility of the two of them surviving this shit and returning back home. And maybe Akaashi wouldn’t be alone anymore, living off of that damn orphanage, and maybe he’d meet those two sisters he wouldn’t shut up about, and man, when he talked about them they sounded so nice, so loving, and Akaashi wanted that and–

Akaashi pinches the bridge of his nose. No. No, he couldn’t be thinking about that because there was no such thing as two winners. There wasn’t going to be the two of them, and there wasn’t going to be a District Five to go to. Akaashi had to push these thoughts aside because now he really was getting distracted by the thought of the impossible, and shit, this was bad. This was really, really bad.

Akaashi takes a deep breath and rubs his sweaty palms against the fabric of his slacks to help him cool down. He needed to distract himself because Bokuto was making this extremely hard for him to win, and he needed to win, even if that meant it would only be him left standing in the end.

Akaashi was currently searching for animals to catch, while the others remained where they were. They decided today would be a good day to take a small break from walking seeing as it was rather hot today. It was the sixth day, meaning they were sitting in the centre of summer, and god, it was really hot. Akaashi would generally object, arguing that they didn't have time for breaks and that they needed to keep moving, but in all honesty, the heat was wearing him down just as much and he was tired. He was so, so tired, and he could only blame Bokuto for his exhaustion.

Speaking of Bokuto, while Akaashi was walking, he spotted the District Five boy not too far away, and Jesus, he wished he didn’t look because fucking hell.

When he looked over, the boy was standing waist deep in a small lake, jacket and shirt, and Jesus, his pants, all thrown to the edge of the water on the grass, and Akaashi could only pray he was wearing bottoms because he couldn’t see, the water concealing his legs nearly teasingly, only his upper half having been revealed and god.

Akaashi felt himself heating up, ashamed, because was he seriously hiding behind a tree and studying the features of Bokuto's physique right now? He felt like an enthusiastic teenage girl in high school with a secret crush, observing the way his biceps flexed everytime he moved, how toned every muscle was, and his chest and his arms and his stomach, and oh, his stomach...and he definitely worked out. There was no doubt about it given how muscular he was.

Akaashi knew he was big even with his clothes on, but Jesus, he looked even bigger now without a shirt.

Akaashi feels his stomach twist, and he wants to curse at himself because he shouldn’t be feeling like this. It was bad enough that Bokuto’s presence was so nerve wracking, and now here Akaashi was, hiding behind a tree and blushing because the sight of a half naked Bokuto standing before his eyes was making him more nervous than ever.

Akaashi came here to win the Hunger Games. He doesn't recall obtaining unwanted feelings being on the list. Akaashi had no idea what these feelings were—but whatever they were, they needed to go away. And fast.

“Akaashi!” When Akaashi hears his name, he is jolted back to reality, and god, did he want to hide because when he glances up, Bokuto is smiling and waving directly at him. And Akaashi considers looking anywhere else but his face or his chest or his arms or– Jesus..these feelings really needed to go away.

Akaashi doesn’t walk away, however. He knows he’s been an asshole. He is aware of his coldness and distance, as well as his rudeness. He’s been so rude, and he knows he needs to stand up straight and face Bokuto again and just tell him he’s sorry, because he can’t keep running away. Not like he always does.

However, just because he apologises does not imply that the two are friends. Akaashi understands that nothing else can happen, because he is smart enough not to let emotions get in the way of victory. His victory.

But the big question is, does Bokuto know that? Is the District Five boy smart enough to not let feelings get in the way?

When Akaashi approached, Bokuto had sunk deeper into the water, leaving only his shoulders and head visible. He was beaming broadly up at Akaashi, and Akaashi wanted to grimace and walk away, but he restrained himself from doing so. He’s walked away enough already.

Akaashi stopped at the edge of the lake, taking a slight step back when the cool water got too close to his boots due to Bokuto’s constant movement. The guy never seemed to be able to stop moving. He was like a big ball of energy. So joyful and lively, but so obnoxious.

The first thing Bokuto said to Akaashi was, “You should jump in!” and Akaashi grumbled just imagining it, swimming around with Bokuto, attempting to cover himself up the entirety of their swim because he wasn’t as comfortable as Bokuto was. “It’s really nice in here,” the boy adds. “Refreshing!”

Akaashi has got to admit, he was feeling really hot. He could feel himself sweating under his clothes, and everyone must think he’s insane for not having taken off his jacket yet. He can feel his shirt sticking to his skin, and it’s gross–Akaashi feels gross, and it would be nice to take a swim or a cold shower or something, but,

“No,” Akaashi declines, trying to come off as kind but he wasn’t sure if that worked. “Uhm, no, thanks.” He quickly adds, but he still failed miserably at sounding polite, and he wanted to slap himself, curse at himself, because fuck.

Bokuto shrugged casually, that ‘if you say so’ smile plastered on his face–his stupid face, and he was so nice, and for what? He shouldn’t have to be so kind. Not in the Hunger Games of all places. Akaashi shifted from foot to foot, fingers fiddling with the hem of his jacket, gaze falling towards a small flower, a regular leaf, a pebble–anywhere but at Bokuto because he can feel those happy golden eyes scrutinising him all over like an owl. And Akaashi felt awkward.

Eventually, the awkward silence was broken with a, “You didn’t wake me up last night.” from Bokuto.

And Akaashi fiddled with the zipper of his jacket, eyeing that small pebble that sat further away from the others by the water, and he said, “You looked peaceful.” and maybe that was the wrong choice of words, because now Akaashi was feeling even hotter than before. Maybe he should take off his jacket.

Even while Akaashi stared at this single, dull pebble, which he saw as himself in comparison to the other rocks, alone and remote, he could feel Bokuto's gaze penetrating into him so hard that he had no other option but to look. When he does look at Bokuto, he’s squinting his golden eyes, puckering his lips in thought and poking his tongue in his cheek, appearing contemptuous as he eyes Akaashi, and he feels awkward again. He looks away.

Finally, Bokuto clicks his tongue. “Liar,” he says, as if he’s figured out the puzzle to an unsolved riddle. “I’m not a peaceful sleeper,” he then shrugs when he adds, “Or so I’ve been told.” most likely referring to his older sisters.

“I just..” Akaashi rubs his hands against his pants because he was sweating. “I couldn’t sleep.” He was sweating so much.

“Why?” Bokuto asked.

“It doesn’t matter.”

It was silent again. Another long pause of silence while Bokuto stares at Akaashi without looking away, while Akaashi does his best to not give into those golden eyes, because somehow, they always seemed to pull Akaashi into his wants and needs like some night owl, and he hated it. He hated how persuasive he was, how he managed to draw Akaashi into this alliance on that day, and how he even managed to get him to stand here today and find the bravery in himself to say,

“I’m sorry.”

Bokuto offers an all tooth grin. “Ah, don’t sweat it,” he says with a wave of his hand, flicking water everywhere. “Just be sure to wake me up next time. I feel bad enough as it is knowing you didn’t get any sleep while I practically snoozed my brain off all night! I’ll feel more guilty if that happens for a second time–”

“No,” Akaashi quickly cuts him off. “No, no, that’s not what I meant.”

Bokuto’s brows crinkle together with confusion as he looks up at Akaashi, as if silently waiting for Akaashi to elaborate on his words. So, with a sigh and another wipe of his sweaty palms on his pants, Akaashi speaks up.

"I haven't been a very good player. Uhm, ally, I mean," he corrects. "I've never been adept at cooperation or anything involving more than myself. I didn’t prepare for a team, I never prepared for anything. Just that I would work on my own because that’s what I’m used to. And I’m not very good at talking about things like this,” he pauses, sighing. “What I’m trying to tell you is that I just want to–need,” he corrects. “I need to apologise.”

Bokuto’s brows furrow sadly. “No, don’t be sorry–” he tried saying.

“No,” but Akaashi cuts him off again. “I am sorry, Bokuto.” And Akaashi actually looks at Bokuto, because he means it, and he needs Bokuto to know that he means it, even though Akaashi knows this is wrong. He knows he’s doing the wrong thing, getting too close to Bokuto when his plan all along was to win this game on his own without any distractions. And Bokuto was a distraction.

A really, really big distraction.

Akaashi then looks down at his hands. His fiddling hands. “I figured you’d have hated me by now.” He blurts out without any thought to it, squeezing his eyes shut because god, he sounded pathetic.

Akaashi expected such an answer. A ‘I do hate you’, ‘you are pathetic’, kind of answer. And maybe that would be for the best, because Bokuto really was turning into a distraction, and it was bad. Everything about this was bad and it needed to stop because it was only going to get worse from here.

But instead, “I said I saw good in you, Akaashi,” Bokuto says. “I still do. I don’t think I could hate you, even if I wanted to–but there’s nothing to even hate you for. I understand your reasonings for being so closed off compared to me,” he then pauses, and he’s smiling. He’s smiling.. “So, I’m sorry too. I must be a real weight on you and the others, huh?”

Akaashi blinks. All he had to do was push Bokuto aside. Brush past him and forget. It was that simple. But no. No, no, no, he was giving in to Bokuto even more, and things were becoming worse and fuck. Bokuto obviously had no idea how much power he held, and heck, with his cheerful and distinctive attitude, he might as well win this thing.

Maybe this would be how Akaashi dies, because he couldn’t care less about the games anymore and all he could see was Bokuto.

Bokuto, Bokuto, Bokuto..

Again, the long pause was broken by Bokuto. “Look,” he starts. “We have our differences, we’re not that close, but we could be?” And Akaashi’s heart jumps. “Instead of being so distant maybe we could be, I don’t know,” don’t say it. “More than just allies at each other’s backs to protect, but..” don’t say it. “..friends? Maybe?”

No. Akaashi wanted to say. No, no, no, we can’t be friends because being friends with you is a fucking death trap just waiting for me, and I need to be alone forever, and god, what am I doing here with you? This was all such a big mistake and I want to go home. Please, let me go home.

Akaashi was silent for a moment before saying, “Maybe.” and he clenches his fists tightly because fuck.

“Cool!” Bokuto smiles brightly before he chuckles nervously. “Uhm, okay then, okay,” he runs a hand through his damp hair, and Akaashi gulps because he was only now just realising his hair was no longer spikey, all wet and covering his forehead, strands of white and black sitting around his golden eyes perfectly and it was different. A good different. “Maybe we could, I don’t know, maybe we should start over then.”

Akaashi didn’t have much time to think about what Bokuto meant by that, because in the next second, Bokuto was stepping out of the water, and Akaashi turns his gaze away for a split second only imagining he had nothing to conceal himself, but thankfully, he was wearing bottoms. Even still, Akaashi couldn’t get himself to actually look at Bokuto. He could feel himself heating up, either because of the hot summer air or because of Bokuto’s lack of clothes and close proximity. Jesus.

Akaashi looked to the side, anywhere but at the smiling Bokuto who held out his hand for Akaashi, and quickly, the District Eight boy understood what he meant by ‘starting over’.

“This is really unnecessary,” Akaashi says, looking from Bokuto’s hand to his enormous grin, and then he’s looking at his stomach and his chest and his– “Uhm,” Akaashi clears his throat awkwardly, looking anywhere else again but at the dripping figure in front of him. “Can you please put on some clothes?”

Bokuto grins, leaning in almost purposefully as if he knows what kind of effect he has got on Akaashi right now. “Not unless you shake on it.” He says, holding out his hand much more, and Akaashi wanted to slap him.

Akaashi steps back, nervous. “You’re dripping everywhere.”

“You don’t like that?” He says, flicking the remainder of water on his hand at Akaashi as if to be annoying.

Akaashi groans. “Bokuto–”

And Bokuto’s grin grows wider, holding out his hand much more, proving he wasn’t listening until Akaashi gave in. So, Akaashi sighs because he knows he isn’t winning this one, and he takes Bokuto’s hand in his own. Surprisingly, Akaashi’s hand is a lot bigger than Bokuto’s, fingers longer and gentler, whereas Bokuto's are rough but yet incredibly soft. Bokuto squeezes Akaashi’s hand, wetting his palm and Akaashi grimaces, wiping his hand on the material of his jacket the moment Bokuto pulls back.

Fortunately, Bokuto was now snatching up his things, pulling on his trousers and boots and effortlessly throwing his black shirt over his head. Akaashi tried not to look at the way each and every muscle flexed with every movement when he got changed, and he tried not to look at the way his shirt stuck to his body, his shirt already soaking because Bokuto hadn’t decided to dry off at all.

As Bokuto strolled back over, he shook his hair, splashing bits of water everywhere, including Akaashi. Bokuto smiled apologetically, while Akaashi only observed Bokuto as some kind of dog. One big, happy dog. He also wondered if Bokuto’s hair would stay like this for the remainder of the games. Wet, strands covering his forehead and eyes, beautiful. Or did he simply have naturally unruly, spiky hair that would eventually dry to its former fluffy state?

The two were walking side by side now, heading back towards the others, where they found themselves relaxing for the day. Again, Akaashi was not very fond of the thought of resting, given that the man had hardly relaxed in his seventeen years of living. But he decided not to complain.

The walk between the two was quiet, but Bokuto seemed fidgety from beside Akaashi, constantly running his hand through his damp hair or whistling a cheerful melody that Akaashi didn't recognise. Akaashi didn't think much about it until Bokuto cleared his throat. Akaashi glanced at Bokuto, who was already looking at him.

“Uhm, considering that we’re friends now,” Bokuto says, and Akaashi immediately tenses up at the word ‘friend’. Fuck. “What if we, I don’t know! I’m just throwin’ out ideas, or whatever. But, like, what if we get to know each other more?”

Akaashi’s brows wrinkle. “Get to know each other more?” He says slowly, and he wants to crawl away from this conversation already and just die.

“Yeah!” Bokuto beams. “Like, see, I’ll ask you something,” he scratches his chin in thought, pressing his lips together tightly, and god, Akaashi was one hundred percent certain that Bokuto escaped from a cartoon. He then clicks his tongue, saying, “What’s your favourite food? Mines yakiniku! I can only have it on rare occasions though because we can’t always get all the ingredients due to money. We have to be careful, you know? I also love all kinds of barbecued meat, but beef is definitely my favourite because how can it not be? It's just so perfect and juicy and tasty and…”

Bokuto continued to ramble, and Akaashi listened. In all honesty, Akaashi wasn’t too fond of the ‘sharing personal experiences’ and ‘getting to know each other’ stuff. Akaashi wasn’t very good at talking about himself, usually becoming mute and perplexed when asked a simple question about himself since all he could think about in the moment was 'do I even know myself?'. As for Bokuto, he was the complete opposite. He could ramble on and on about himself for days and he would never know when to stop talking.

Akaashi looks at Bokuto and he’s still talking. “...also really into physical activities. I like to move around a lot. Whether that means just running or punching a sandbag or kicking a ball around. I like to hit it. It’s so much more fun that way! I usually have to get my sisters to throw it up in the air for me and it’s always hard convincing them which totally sucks! Do you like to work out? I like to work out. I get so much out of it and it’s like…”

Bokuto continues, asking Akaashi questions and yet still, he couldn’t get a word in, but who is Akaashi to complain? He wasn’t much of a talker anyway.

“...Plus, it’s like super more difficult that way, and I’m always up for a challenge, and–” Bokuto suddenly pauses, going red and smacking his forehead, because he finally realises. “Crap! I’m sorry!” he curses. “I didn’t mean to ramble. I never even realise but I get so carried away and–ugh! Sorry! I’m so sorry!”

It was quiet now, as Bokuto hid his face in his hands, mortified that he virtually rambled Akaashi's ear off without pausing once. Akaashi looks at Bokuto, observing the pink tips of his ears, the way his hair is slowly drying and returning to its fluffy state, and noticing Bokuto's mild grumbling, most likely regretting himself for failing to recognise how to stop talking.

And softly, Akaashi manages a smile.

“I like boiled rapeseed plants,” he manages out, causing Bokuto to look at him, still blushing a slight pink. Akaashi nearly turns pink himself. “Especially with karashi mustard dressing. Which is also rare for me.”

Bokuto was staring for quite a few minutes, really causing Akaashi to turn pink this time because why was he looking at him like that? Did he say something wrong? Did he sound stupid? Was there something in his teeth?

And then, his expression softens when he says, “I don’t think I’ve tried that before. Is it good?”

And Akaashi’s expression also softens. The two talk for the remainder of their walk, and for some reason, Akaashi finds himself walking a lot slower when he realises they were getting closer to the others. Because he didn’t want this conversation to end? Because he was comfortable? Because he finally found comfort in Bokuto?

Whatever it was, Akaashi felt relaxed, for the first time in his seventeen years of living. And it was good.

It was good.

…

In the Control Room, Sakusa eyes Bokuto and Akaashi on the big screen. He rubs his chin with gloved leather fingers, scowling as he observes the two, eyes dark and sinister, threatening and full of tremendous thoughts that no human should ever be capable of.

Sakusa has been attentively monitoring the District Eight boy, as he has with everyone else. However, Akaashi was very different from the other tributes. He was quiet, closed off, distant, and in all honesty, Sakusa believed he had a trick up his sleeve to kill off these people. He believed he had a trick to kill his allies.

He was a strong participant, one who scored a point of eleven during the performances. He was dangerous, quick, intelligent. Yet, the boy was still hanging around his so called allies, and Sakusa is beginning to think the group is growing on him. Especially Bokuto, tribute to District Five.

After watching their interaction from the Control Room, Sakusa senses a change in Akaashi. A change that will cause much more heartbreak because when Sakusa claims he is capable of anything, he truly does mean it. He knows when and how to use deceptive tricks. He knows how to mess with these kids. And he knows how to get these children to lash out in rage and anguish, which is exactly what he intends to do.

Sakusa’s gaze falls from Bokuto and Akaashi to Kuroo and Kenma, to Atsumu and Miwa, Yachi and Kiyoko–all the tributes who share something much too big for the games, and much too big for them—and Sakusa can only find himself grinning beneath his face mask knowing how everything will end.

His gaze falls on the District Eight boy, Akaashi, one last time before he finds the exit to the Control Room. His steps are loud against the marble flooring, echoing throughout the hallway to a specific someone’s office, because he knows he can’t commit to his plan without confirmation. At least, not in this plan.

This plan was far too large for him to decide alone.

Chapter Text

Sakusa's footsteps are loud against the marble surface, reverberating throughout the hallway and the entire mansion, his black leather shoes heavy and ponderous—menacing. But they couldn’t be anymore frightening than the specific individual just down the hall. Sakusa is smart enough to know that.

Sakusa wielded considerable power. He was commanding. And while some may argue that he was the most fatal man alive, that’s where Sakusa would have to disagree. Sure, he was capable of almost anything. The deaths of these tributes, the heartbreak and the enjoyment for the Capitol–but there was someone who sat much higher on the power list.

Sakusa adjusted his tie, wiping away the microscopic fluff particles on his tux and pulling at his collar because he needed to appear presentable for him. Regardless of how well he knew the guy or how close they were, he could never go unseen as presentable. Not in front of him, at least. But that was just how Sakusa was. He desired admiration, attention, and recognition because, indeed, Sakusa would do anything to be appreciated for his full ability by him.

Him..

The president of Panem.

Every year Sakusa came up with something new. Something substantial to incorporate into each year's games. Like last year, he unleashed a tsunami to wipe out the final few players, only to leave the District Two tribute for the victory. Another year, he caused a stampede of safari animals throughout the arena, making it nearly impossible to escape; yet, the tribute of Four prevailed that year, because someone will always win. That’s how the games worked.

Every year Sakusa comes up with something new, something bigger to kill off these kids, and to impress the president because he wanted that acknowledgement. He needed that acknowledgement because he was Kiyoomi Sakusa. A man of tricks he kept up his sleeves to show off to the one man more powerful than him.

Because one day, the president's position will be Sakusa’s responsibility.

Eventually, Sakusa’s low footsteps come to a slow halt when he finds himself standing at the very end of the giant hall, just in front of a seven-foot arched door made of dark wood and ornamented with gold patterns. Sakusa could feel his heart racing, just as it did everytime he stared at the president's door. Usually, the nervous feeling was considerably much worse when he was called in expressly by the president to talk, because it could’ve been about anything and Sakusa’s death could be nearing any minute.

But that was just Sakusa being paranoid. He only ever thought bad things like that because the president was more powerful than him and could easily kill anyone with a click of a finger while Sakusa was only capable of killing the kids from each of the districts. There were some similarities between the two, but a lot of big differences, and it was scary. And that wasn’t something you’d hear Sakusa, Head Game Maker, admit aloud everyday.

Sakusa readjusted his tie for what felt like the hundredth time today, and he grimaced beneath his face mask just imagining the unwanted crinkles in the tie. He wanted to wash his clothes so bad. However, he set such thoughts aside for the time being because he had more pressing matters to attend to.

With a single leather hand, he knocks on the wooden door, the sound reverting all throughout the long hallway, loud enough to spook somebody else in the mansion, but he doubts anyone else is around but himself and the president. Eventually, after a minute or so, the door opens automatically, and Sakusa takes a quiet breath before he steps into the large room, the door closing sluggishly behind the ravenhead.

Sakusa breathed in, the familiar scent of tobacco and oakwood consuming his nostrils the minute he steps foot in the room, the tobacco mixed with oakwood already giving him a headache because it’s so rich–too rich, and the smoke must be sticking to his clothes already, and god, Sakusa really wanted to wash his tuxedo, please.

The large room was dark, lit with warm yellow lighting that always seemed to mix well with the dark wooden furniture. Towards the left, the fireplace lit with warmth, the leather loveseats sitting around the dark coffee table by a wall of endless amounts of books, a half empty cup of what Sakusa assumed to be black coffee sitting casually on a wooden stool. To the right, there were large windows which would usually reveal the breathtaking view of the city, but of course, the curtains were closed per usual, making the office seem spookier than it should. If the president had merely kept those black drapes open, then maybe Sakusa wouldn’t walk into the room feeling all sweaty.

Of course, sitting in the centre of the room is a dark mahogany desk with just the right number of ornaments on top. Small fake plants, a softly lit lamp, a few golden trinkets that Sakusa has never been particularly good at identifying, and, of course, a golden nameplate.

Sakusa had been in this office innumerable times, but still, he always seemed to find himself examining or admiring the place. His office was much bigger and richer compared to Sakusa’s, which made a lot of sense considering the president was–well, the president.

Coming from the president’s desk, “Ah, what did I tell ya, huh? I knew he was gonna show up sooner or later!” someone says, and it’s not the president. Just a nuisance of a voice that Sakusa wishes he doesn’t have to remember, but he does. “But honestly, I expected an earlier visit, Omi-Omi. Or did you not want to see me?”

Sakusa grimaces beneath his mask, wishing he waited a little longer before showing up to the president’s office, because now he was stuck dealing with this guy. Sakusa holds his hands behind his back, keeping that cool act as he says, “I didn’t come here to see you, Satori,” he says, watching the redhead from behind the desk grin devilishly. “And where did you come up with that name?”

“Heard one of your lil’ tributes say it,” Tendou shrugs casually, clicking his tongue when he says, “The District Four kiddo, I think. I thought it was hilarious! It’s honestly surprising that I didn’t come up with that one first.”

Atsumu Miya.

Sakusa was going to kill him.

When Sakusa steps further into the room, that monster of a smile on Tendou’s face became painfully more obvious. He was standing beside the president–no, he was leaning against him, who sat in his leather seat behind the desk. Tendou was oddly clingy, always sticking close to the president whenever he was around, seizing his opportunity without hesitation, and the president never really had a say in it. Tendou had an arm wrapped around the man, his long, bony fingers dancing against his clothed shoulder and gently brushing against his neck every so often, and maybe Sakusa should come back later because he hated when Tendou did this.

Tendou eyed Sakusa with downturned eyes, head tilting and he licked the top of his teeth as he said, “So,” with another click of his tongue, and he looked at the president, his fingers tapping his cheek once in order to get his attention before he gently ran his middle finger along his jawline. “What do ya think Omi-Omi wants this time, hm?”

Sakusa secretly rolls his eyes, but he straightens up again when the president speaks up for the first time. “Leave us, Satori.” He says, voice deep and commanding, and god, so fucking frightening, and he wasn’t even talking to Sakusa.

“But of course,” Tendou says easily, because he wasn’t scared of this man one bit. He then pushes himself off of the president, running his hand along his shoulders in a slow manner, his fingers lingering for far longer than necessary, before striding towards Sakusa. He's smiling, of course, as he leans in close to the ravenhead and taps his cheek twice. “If ya live to see the daylight this time, I’m shoutin’ dinner tonight at the SizzleBites. I’d say bring a plus one but knowing your love life–”

Sakusa slaps his hand away. “Aren’t you supposed to be hosting the damn game?” He hisses, annoyed, and Tendou knows it.

He points two fingers with a smile. “Lucky for you, my thirty just ended,” and then he’s waving back at the president’s desk with his skinny fingers as he opens the door, yelling, “Catch ya later, Commander-in-coolness!” obviously referring to the president before he closes the door with one loud slam.

Now it was just him and Sakusa. And suddenly Sakusa is cold.

It was silent between the two for a few minutes. Nothing but the sounds of the crackling of burning wood at the fireplace having been heard. Sakusa decided not to say anything yet, simply remaining still, hands behind his back and waiting for some sort of signal, some sort of indication in order to allow the Head Game Maker to speak.

And then, eventually, “Come here, Kiyoomi.” the president makes an order.

Sakusa listens. He takes a few steps forward until he’s standing beneath the soft red rug in front of the president’s desk. Up close, Sakusa noticed the president had a cigarette sitting between his teeth, inhaling deeply and expelling a cloud of smoke so effortlessly, whereas Sakusa would surely cough up the stuff if he tried (not that he ever would. He pledged never to touch that shit.)

The president didn’t offer Sakusa a single glance, having been preoccupied in writing something, every letter so perfectly curved as he took it slow. “You’re tense, Kiyoomi,” he then spoke up again, his voice deep enough to make Sakusa tense up even more. “We've gone over this many times, but you still walk my mansion tense and loud, and I can hear you,” he then looks up, his olive eyes meeting Sakusa’s dark ones. “The walls are thick, Kiyoomi.”

Sakusa fiddles with the leather of his gloves behind his back, because he’s trying to conceal his nerves. “My apologies, sir.” He says, and the president clicks his pen.

“No need to apologise,” he says, smoke trailing from his lips as he speaks. “I know what you’re here for, after all. We go over this every year. We both know. I simply just don't require this much level of professionalism, though I do appreciate it,” he pauses, clicking his pen again before saying, “It’s me you’re talking to. You can let your guard down now.”

The reason Sakusa demonstrates much professionalism is because it is him he’s talking to. The president of Panem. The one person Sakusa aspires to be. To impress. To leave a mark on, because recognition from him, the president, of all people is what he wants–what he needs. What he desires. Sure, he tells him that he doesn’t have to act the way that he does around him, but Sakusa just couldn’t help it. This was the way he was.

Sakusa tries to relax, reaching one of his gloved hands towards his face and taking off his face mask. “I have ideas.” He says, holding his mask in one hand and taking a simple step closer towards the desk.

“You have many ideas, Kiyoomi.” The president points out casually.

“Yeah,” Sakusa tries to crack a smile–a laugh, but he’s never been good at emotions. So, he just says, “Aside from wanting to discuss the grand climax for the games, which we have plenty of time to settle on, I wanted to mention another prospect. A different prospect."

"Different? Different in a way that elicits a more positive, gratifying response from our audience than past years?"

“It could,” he answers. “If you’re up for the idea.”

The president appears interested now, having set his pen to the side and leaning back in his adjustable chair, large arms crossed over his broad chest, and he looks at Sakusa. As if he were waiting for Sakusa to elaborate on his so-called alternative notion because he was interested, which is exactly what Sakusa wanted.

Sakusa walked around the desk so he was standing beside the president. He leans forward and taps away easily at the devices on the table, and the president watches carefully, simply allowing the ravenhead to do as he pleases. He then uses one of the devices to make a rudimentary hologram, displaying two tributes, which the president wasn’t able to identify until Sakusa created a bigger image of the two, swiping his fingers upwards, creating a larger hologram in front of them, right in the centre of the room.

Sakusa takes a small step back, and the president leans in forward, uttering, "The tributes of District Five and Eight," when he realises he is looking at Bokuto and Akaashi, who are walking alongside each other in the arena with no idea they are being watched by both the president and the Head Game Maker. "Care to elaborate?"

Sakusa crossed his arms. "You've seen Akaashi," he begins to say. "There's a significant aspect of his character that sets him apart from the others. Most tributes who claim to work alone actually work alone. They maintain their distance because they are mindful of what is ahead of them and what their ultimate goal is. That’s how I perceived Akaashi at first. Distant. Smart. However..” he points a single leather finger at the District Five boy. The smiling, District Five boy, Bokuto Koutarou. “This kid is changing the way Akaashi sees the games.”

The president eyes the Bokuto hologram carefully, squinting his eyes much more out of curiosity for the boy whenever he laughed or smiled, because that wasn’t something you’d see everyday in the Hunger Games. Most tributes had lost all colour to their faces, only representing rage and their lack of fear because they were all determined to win. However, with Bokuto, he seemed so unaware, so carefree, like the games didn’t matter and that everything around him was happy.

The president took a long drag of his cigarette before saying, “What are you implying here?” and Sakusa turns to look at him.

“That Akaashi is growing attached? Because he’s seeing something in Bokuto that he didn’t see before? Something along those lines, at least.”

“And what does the relationship between these boys have anything to do with your so-called ‘different prospect’?”

Sakusa clicks a finger before he grabs the TV remote from the president’s desk. He turned around so he was facing the back of the room, clicking the TV on, which sat higher above the president on the wall. He then places the small remote back in its original position before leaning back against the desk, staring up at the bright TV.

The president swivelled around effortlessly in his seat, peering up at the enormous screen in puzzlement. "What is it?" He questions, his gaze fixed on the photographs of each and every tribute that is still alive in the games. He uses this opportunity to reflect on who is still alive, examining those players he remembers from the chariots, the interviews, and of course, the performances. Where the president was informed on which players were the best of the best.

He eyes the District Two girl very carefully, but he doesn’t think this plan of Sakusa’s involves Saeko Tanaka, who scored the highest point of them all.

Sakusa crosses his arms. “I think this is the moment things could get a little more, well, interesting,” he says, glancing once at the president for a positive reaction before his gaze settles back onto the screen. “See, something that I’ve taken note of with these tributes, is that they all claim they’re going to win when they’ve nearly attached themselves onto someone else without even realising it. For instance, Atsumu and Miwa. Although, I don’t think the District Twelve girl was ever too fond of winning in the first place because of her brother. But if there were to be two winners, she’d do anything if that meant getting out of the games alive with Tobio.”

“I think I see where this is going.” The president says.

“Just think about it,” Sakusa says. “With two winners, it may cause a lot of want. A lot of aggression. A shit ton of fire, and that’s what our audience wants to see, sir. Two tributes–two tragic lovers, perhaps, fighting to the top if that means surviving together. These tributes are a lot different than last. They’ve made allies. They’ve made friends, which they may consider an unwise choice until we reveal the change in regulations."

The president picked up his pen again, simply spinning the object between his fingers casually as he eyes the tributes on the screen. He takes note of Kuroo and Kenma, two players who have stuck oddly close, but are quite quiet about their interactions. Or at least, one of them is quiet, because he’s not too fond of getting too close, which is always the smartest option in the games. He eyes Atsumu and Miwa, which is an interesting pair, considering Miwa shouldn’t be growing attached to anyone other than her brother if they declare two winners. And of course, he looks at Bokuto and Akaashi, and he clutches the pen in his hand tightly.

“It’s not a bad concept, Kiyoomi,” the president speaks up again after a little pause. “But tell me,” he looks at Sakusa. “Why does this have anything to do with the boy tributes from Five and Eight.”

As if knowing he was going to ask that, Sakusa offers a small grin. Like the plan was sailing smoothly. “See, I’ve taken a liking to Akaashi,” he starts. “I see potential in the kid. If only he wasn’t surrounded by those so-called allies that are just slowly changing him, then maybe he’s got a shot at winning this thing.”

“And when you say ‘so-called allies’, you’re truly referring to–”

“Bokuto, yes,” Sakusa finishes his sentence for him. “And while I suggested a two victor rule, I don’t think Akaashi needs that. Maybe once he finds out, yes, he will want that and so will Bokuto, but I’ve got another prospect.”

The president raises a thick brow in question, as if forcing Sakusa to elaborate without truly saying anything. So, he does.

“A Feast,” he suggested. “Set directly in the centre of the arena, at the cornucopia. Bags of goods, filled with all the necessities they need—food, water, medicine, tools. Anything that aids in the specific individual. And when we announce that, all the tributes should come running for it.”

“And you think that’s when–”

“Yes,” Sakusa grins, because they’re both thinking the same thing. “And after the feast, the chaos, we’ll announce the two victor rule.”

The president clicked his pen and gave a tiny grin, fidgeting with the cigarette between his teeth.

It’s not every year Sakusa throws these kinds of events into the games, but whenever they did announce it, the tributes practically went crazy. The Feast was an event set in the games where valuable items were placed at the central location, directly in front of the cornucopia, for the tributes to retrieve. The Feast often included essential goods such as medicine, food, tools, or even weapons—whatever a tribute requires to survive. Most tributes usually go directly for the Feast, risking their lives to do so, though this can be perilous owing to possible clashes with other desperate tributes. And that’s exactly what Sakusa wants.

The game makers add this little event because someone always dies trying to fight for the feast. Always. Which is exactly why Sakusa thinks this is the perfect moment. Because the moment he announces this Feast, is the moment chaos will unleash. Anger and heartbreak–everything the audience wants.

Everything the audience has been waiting for.

The president stood up from his chair. “Perfect,” he says, and Sakusa feels himself relaxing because he suggested something good–something agreeable, and it felt good. “Be sure to announce the Feast soon then, Kiyoomi,” he grabs the TV remote from his desk, looking at the tributes one last time before the screen turns black. “I’ll be looking forward to it, and I’m sure the tributes will be just as thrilled.”

Sakusa nods, beginning to walk towards the exit of the office right alongside the president. “I’ll discuss this with the game makers,” he says. “We’ll sort everything out, and everything should be prepared in a couple of days, at least. It won’t take us too long.”

When the men stop at the door, the president opens the door for Sakusa, who was about to leave,

“Kiyoomi,” however, the president halts Sakusa in his tracks. He looks at the president, anxiously waiting for him to speak. And then, "Whatever potential you think this Akaashi kid has, make sure it happens," he tells him. "I trust you and your intuition to know what the boy is capable of without any allies to keep him back. The audience expects a good show. So, give them a good show."

Sakusa knows. He knows who Akaashi is and he knows what the boy is capable of. He knows he’s got allies to help him, but they’re holding him back–Bokuto is holding him back, and Sakusa knows he can do so much more without them. He knows he’s right about the District Eight boy, so he says,

“Yes, sir. I won’t let you down.”

“Good,” the president responded, because he truly does trust him. Sakusa was the Head Game Maker for a reason, after all. He was just as evil, just as cunning, and he was perfect to take the president’s spot when his time was over. “Oh, and one other thing.” He swiftly adds before Sakusa can depart.

“Yes, sir?” Sakusa says.

The president smiles and says, "You don't need to act so professional with me," reaching out a hand that Sakusa readily accepts because he is the president. He wasn't some bubbly Capitol freak who gave the ravenhead the creeps and forced him to conjure up images of their lack of clean hands. Then the president squeezes his hand. Nor rough, nor serious, but more approachable. As if they were friends. “You and me, we work well. Understand that, Kiyoomi.”

And in that moment, Sakusa finds himself squeezing the president’s hand back, because today, somewhat, those words were easier to follow. Sure, he always acted professionally around the president because he wanted that acknowledgment. Because he needed that acknowledgement. But today, Sakusa realised something.

He realises that the president has always acknowledged him and his ideas because it was true.

Kiyoomi Sakusa and Wakatoshi Ushijima have always worked well together.

Chapter Text

Sugawara thought he was dying. This feeling–this agony..

He had to be dying.

Sugawara lay by the fire, as he’s been doing for the past three days; so unhelpful and useless, while Oikawa does everything. Everything for him because he’s sick and he’s dying. And Oikawa knows it–Sugawara knows it, yet, still, Oikawa is helping him, and Sugawara wants to scream at him, but he can hardly get a full phrase out without losing his voice, which is more of a reason for why Oikawa should just leave him–kill him, and carry on with this stupid game.

Sugawara shuddered, cold even though he was confined in his sleeping bag, knees drawn up to his chest, face nuzzling into the warm inside, but nothing helped. He was so cold, so pale, his whole body was practically turning to snow and as days went by, his illness was only getting worse. He coughed, clamping his eyes shut tightly and he wanted to cry.

He wanted to cry because this was their fault. His mothers. His family. He didn’t want to blame them–he should be blaming the Capitol, really–but it was them who he saw in that moment. He saw them in the fog, and while it was only a hallucination, did his fictitious family really differ from his real one? The one that ignores him? Looks over him and walks through him like he was invisible? Like he wasn’t really there?

Sugawara shivered harder. He could only imagine his family right now. Back in Ten, watching the games on those damn TV’s but not actually watching Sugawara. They probably didn’t even acknowledge what was taking place when Sugawara was stuck in that fog. They probably had no clue that Sugawara was crying for his family. Crying because they didn’t love him.

Even in their final few minutes of saying farewell after the reaping, they hardly wished him luck. They didn’t even seem sad or angry or upset and god, Sugawara might just cry because why? Why didn’t they love him the way he loved them? Why did they look through him like nothing when he looked up at them with love and admiration?

Because that’s how Sugawara was. He couldn’t hate anyone because he was so fucking forgiving.

Sugawara could feel his eyes stinging, and it hurt. He shivered harder, his lip quivering and chapped and he kept his eyes closed because he wanted to sleep and let death take him away. He wanted to die now because what other option did he have?

“Hey,” suddenly, his eyes snap back open at the sound of Oikawa’s voice. The District One boy was kneeled down in front of Sugawara, tapping his cold cheek a few times in order to keep him awake. He looked serious as he said, “You’re doing it again.”

Sugawara stared at Oikawa through tired eyes, his eye bags so heavy he could feel them. He wanted to sleep. He wanted to die. Oikawa, however, stood in his way.

“Sorry.” Sugawara manages out dryly, his vocabulary reduced to one or two word sentences. Even saying a single word hurt.

Oikawa remained silent for a minute, contemplating the ailing boy. Despite Oikawa’s solemn demeanour, he seemed forlorn. Like he was trying to hide the fact that he was hurting as well. Sugawara would’ve frowned, but the only expression he could maintain was this sick and tired one. He was losing his sense of colour too.

Oikawa continues to stare at him when he says, “I know what you’re thinking about, Suga,” having taken his hand off of Sugawara’s face. “But I’m going to help you. It’s bad now, I know. But you’re not going to die.”

Sugawara’s heart ached. “Yes,” he mutters out sickly. “I am.”

Oikawa’s brows pinched. “Suga–”

“I have—” he coughs. “No sponsors. No one is saving m-me.”

“But I do. I have sponsors, and maybe they’ll help you too, because we’re allies and–”

“Three days,” says Sugawara. He was struggling. “It’s been three days of this, and I’ve received nothing,” Oikawa doesn’t say anything, forcing Sugawara to say, “Wake up, Oikawa,” and he pauses again. “I’m going to die.”

Oikawa didn’t want to admit it, but he knew Sugawara was right. Sugawara lacked sponsors to help him, and Oikawa’s sponsors refused to help Sugawara because they only wanted Oikawa to win. That was the unfortunate thing about being a Career. Sponsors only cared about one person in particular to win, because in their eyes, allies were a distraction. They wanted distractions dead.

They wanted Sugawara dead.

Oikawa hated to think that Sugawara was going to die, but he knew his time was close. It’s been like this for three days now, and if he doesn’t die today, there’s no question he’ll be dying tomorrow. Tomorrow will be winter again. God knows how badly that will affect the sick boy.

Oikawa has only waited and prayed for something good to happen. Sponsors, gifts, some sort of announcement. The only way Oikawa would be able to help him is if he had some sort of medicine. Some sort of antidote that would solve all of Sugawara's troubles and, perhaps, allow him to live again.

However, one problem was, there was only ever one winner, and of course, Oikawa, like every other tribute here this evening, had every intention of winning. He wanted Sugawara to survive too, but unfortunately, it didn’t work that way, because this was the misery of the Hunger Games.

You attach yourself to a distraction, the victory of the games is nothing more than plain painful.

Oikawa stares at Sugawara, pointing out all the sickly details on his face that forced the District One boy to hold back tears. He felt terrible. He felt terrible when he looked into those droopy eyes, or when he noticed how much bigger his eye bags were getting. How purple they were. He felt terrible when he examined his ghostly skin and his shivering physique. And he felt terrible when he told him everything was going to be okay when in truth, Oikawa didn’t know how to save him.

Oikawa pursed his lips together tightly before standing up. “I’ll figure out something,” suddenly, he says before grabbing his bow and arrows from the ground, throwing his arrows over his shoulder and beginning to walk off. Sugawara was confused until he said, “I’m going to go find food.” and then, he disappeared into the woods without looking back.

Sugawara shivered again, Oikawa’s voice echoing throughout his head.

‘I’ll figure out something,’ he had said. ‘You’re not going to die.’

And Sugawara’s heart hurt more.

Why was Oikawa doing this?

It's been about ten minutes and there's still no sign of Oikawa. This was approximately the time he'd return, so Sugawara didn't anticipate to be waiting for too much longer. However, as the next five minutes passed, Sugawara had become increasingly concerned. He knows nothing bad has happened because the canon has not triggered to signify a recent death, but it didn't stop Sugawara from fretting about the likelihood that he was currently in a risky scenario. And Sugawara wasn't there to help.

Sugawara frowned just imagining it. While Oikawa was in danger, fighting for his life–fighting to survive, Sugawara was laying here. Useless. Powerless. Sick. This wasn’t how Sugawara wanted the games to go for him. He wanted to be helpful. He wanted to win. But here he was. Shivering and weak, waiting for Oikawa to come back and take care of him.

Before the bad thoughts and possibilities of Oikawa could worsen, snapping Sugawara back to reality was the sound of rustling. It was coming from behind him. Sugawara tried to turn around in his position, but his heart hurt and his body hurt, and he winced in pain. The rustling persisted, and his heart beat so quickly that he could openly declare he was terrified. He was weak and defenceless. Of course he was terrified.

For a second, Sugawara decided that it was Oikawa. However, the rustling was loud, and he could plainly hear the snapping of twigs and crunching of leaves beneath many footsteps, indicating that there was more than just one person. They were either other participants, or worse, some nasty monster Sakusa introduced into the games to hasten Sugawara's death.

Somehow, Sugawara finds the weak voice in himself to say, “Oikawa..?” but still, his voice was so quiet and scared, and god, so weak.

And then, the people, the monsters–whatever it was, stepped out from the trees and the bushes, walking towards Sugawara and he couldn’t breathe. He closes his eyes shut firmly, sensing the presence right by his side but he couldn’t find the bravery in himself to look. All he knew is that he was about to die.

But then..

“Kageyama, wait!” Says a high pitched voice, forcing Sugawara to snap his eyes back open to reveal two boys standing in front of Sugawara. The boy from District Twelve, and the boy from Nine.

Hinata was holding onto Tobio’s arm, squeezing him strongly like he was stopping him. Pulling him back. In Tobio’s hand he held a knife, which Sugawara assumed was going to be used to kill him. Hurry up and do it, he wanted to say. Quit standing there in stillness and kill me already.

Tobio shot the redhead with an annoyed look. “What are you doing?” He snaps, confused, ripping his arm away from Hinata (a little overly dramatic, for Sugawara at least).

“Are you stupid?” Hinata fires back, pointing at Sugawara, but the District Ten boy couldn’t be so sure if he was gesturing towards him. His vision was so blurry. And there was also this loud ringing in his ears. “Look at him, Kageyama,” says the redhead. “He’s sick.”

Tobio glares from Hinata to Sugawara, grimacing when he says, “I don’t know if you’re aware, Hinata, but this is the games. The Hunger Games,” he utters sharply. “He’s going to die, either by my hands, or by the cruel hand of fate.”

Hinata steps in front of Sugawara. “That’s not fair!” Like he was trying to protect the District Ten boy.

“The games aren’t supposed to be fair! Is this your first day realising that the games were made for endless unfair killings? Or are you just stupid?”

Hinata’s eyes narrow warningly. He was angry.

Tobio steps in front of Hinata. “Now get out of my way.” He says, voice deep. Almost warningly.

But Hinata doesn’t move.

Tobio was getting frustrated now. But, before he could do anything more than intimidate him, Miwa intervenes. Mainly because Tobio was holding onto that knife rather tightly to the point his knuckles were turning red. And also because she found herself agreeing with Hinata much more than her own brother.

Miwa steps between them, lightly shoving Tobio away from Hinata before things got too heated. They always looked at each other like they were seconds away from ripping each other’s throats out, and it was either Miwa or Atsumu who had to separate them and remind them that they were allies.

Tobio looks from Hinata to Miwa, confused. Angry. So, Miwa says, “Look, I know you’re looking forward to getting out of here, but seriously Tobio, look at him!” she indicates towards Sugawara, who looked oddly pale, looking up at them through half lidded eyes, sweating so bad all over his face and shivering either because of his illness or because he was scared. Probably both. “This may be the Hunger games–a death battle of complete unfairness–but we don’t kill defenceless players.”

Tobio didn’t look too happy, but he didn’t argue. Sugawara had a hunch that if the redhead had stated such, Tobio would not care and would most likely slit Sugawara's throat up anyway. But considering Miwa was his sister, he had no choice but to do as she said.

Sugawara would’ve thanked her, offered some sort of gratitude, but instead, he says, “You shouldn’t–” he pauses, coughing painfully. “Y’shouldn’t be here..”

“What?” Says Atsumu.

“Need to..y’need to get outta here..” he continues, barely getting a single word out. “He’ll be..back.”

Hinata takes a closer step towards the District Ten boy, kneeling down in front of him in order to hear him better. “Who?” He says, eyes narrowing in question. “Who will be back?”

Then there was a loud pause. A pause so deafening that Sugawara’s loud dying heart could be heard. Still pumping. Desperately. Slowly. The sick boy looks at Hinata through tired eyes, and he’s nothing more than a blob of red. He looks at the Kageyama siblings; he can’t tell who is who because it’s so blurry and he can’t see. He can’t see Atsumu–he can’t see anyone.

His eyes then land back on the redhead, and he says–like it was a warning, “He’s going to kill you.” or maybe it was a threat. A promise.

And before Hinata had time to react at all, suddenly, Hinata is rolled out of the way, towards the side. He opens his eyes, groaning because fuck that hurt, and Tobio is on the ground next to him, arms around him like he pushed him away. Rolled him out of the way–but from what?

Tobio winces in pain, one arm still wrapped around Hinata almost protectively while he grabs his own shoulder with his free hand. He pulls his hand back, staring down at his hand–his bloody hand, and Hinata realises he’s been hit. There’s a large bloody cut on his shoulder, his jacket’s arm practically destroyed. Hinata then notices the arrow that lay beside them, and then he realises something else.

Had Kageyama taken that hit for him?

When Hinata looked up, Miwa was thrown to the ground by the District One boy, Oikawa, who had fully discarded Miwa and was now aiming an attack at Atsumu. Atsumu moved quickly, blocking Oikawa's blows and fighting back aggressively. However, he was not as quick as Oikawa.

Within a blink of the eye, Oikawa whacked Atsumu in the face with the upper limb of his bow. Atsumu immediately grasped his face, stumbling to the ground and cursing in pain. That was going to leave a mark. A really red mark.

Oikawa stared down at Atsumu with annoyance, probably because he was a strong participant who was willing to put up a fight unlike some tributes he’s met already. That was because he was strong. He was a Career. Just like him. However, Oikawa didn’t do anything more as his gaze fell on Tobio and Hinata, and suddenly, Hinata felt himself freeze out of fear.

Oikawa was quick. He snatched up an arrow to place in his bow and he shot directly at the two. Tobio yelled at Hinata before pushing him out of the way, the arrow flying right past the both of them. Tobio then stood to his feet, pulled out his knife from his belt, and charged towards the District One boy.

Before Hinata even realised it, Tobio and Oikawa were fighting. While Miwa and Atsumu were on the ground, right along with Hinata, Tobio was swinging his knife at Oikawa, slashing and slicing but Oikawa dodged every single attack. Eventually Oikawa had punched Tobio in the jaw, causing him to stumble back before punching him again. Tobio fell to the ground, dropping his knife.

Oikawa gave a loud sigh. A weary one. He encircled his bow across his back and took a step towards Tobio before leaning down. He grabbed Tobio by the shirt, pulling his face close to his own. Tobio winced. He could hear his head throbbing, he could feel blood trickling from his nose and he could taste it in his mouth, and everything was fuzzy.

Oikawa shook Tobio once, forcing the District Twelve boy to snap his eyes open. “For a District Twelve tribute, you’re surprisingly strong. I’ll give you that,” Oikawa says. And when he spoke, Tobio immediately scoffed because fucking hell, was he a brat. And then, Oikawa’s hold on Tobio’s shirt tightens when he says, “And you’ve been one pain in my ass.”

“Yeah?” scoffs Tobio. “Well, even on my worst day, I’m still better than you on your best, Number One.”

“Oh, and that’s why you’re beneath me, weak as you bleed under my touch?” Oikawa tilts his head in sarcastic question.

Tobio goes mute, staring up at Oikawa with furrowed brows. He was getting frustrated with the District One boy. And a little anxious by what may happen next. Careers were dangerous. Especially if they were bratty boys from District One and the son of the one and only mayor.

Oikawa grins. “You played well,” he says, picking up Tobio’s knife from the ground and spinning it between his fingers once before he pressed the blade up against his neck. Tobio hissed in pain, eyes shooting from the knife against his neck to Oikawa, and fuck, that smirk on his face said it all.. “Now it’s lights out, Kageyama.”

Tobio Kageyama was going to die.

However, before Oikawa had the chance to cut up Tobio’s throat and kill him just how he imagined..

He fell to the ground.

Tobio's eyes widen in confusion, and his gaze shifts to Oikawa, who is unconscious on the ground. Tobio quickly retrieved his knife from beside the District One boy, rising to his feet and retreating away from Oikawa. What just happened? Not only two seconds ago was Oikawa holding onto him, preventing him from any escape, knife at the ready to kill him. It all happened so fast, Tobio had no idea what happened.

However, when he looked to the side, he noticed Hinata. Hinata held that damn slingshot in his hand, body facing Oikawa and that’s exactly what must’ve happened. Tobio then finds the stone next to Oikawa's comatose body, and he sees the red mark on his temple. And that’s exactly what happened.

Hinata had knocked him unconscious.

Tobio didn’t get the chance to process the situation completely as Hinata came rushing over. He's already assisting Tobio in maintaining his state of equilibrium, placing one arm around his waist and encouraging the ravenhead to hold onto him (luckily, he didn't complain, because if he was in his normal state, he'd push Hinata right off of him without hesitation). Tobio was bleeding from the nose and his lip, and he thought he was going to pass out. Oikawa made one strong fist, he’ll give the brat that.

Tobio wiped his mouth, blood smearing all over the corner of his lips and hand. “Holy shit,” Hinata gasped, staring at Tobio’s bloody palm with obvious shock. The poor kid could barely handle the mere sight of a little bit of blood. “How the hell are you still standing?!”

Tobio looked at Hinata, annoyed. “I got a punch to the face,” he scoffs. “I’m not dying, you moron.”

“Can you even see?”

“What the hell do you think?”

Hinata held up two fingers in front of Tobio, saying, “How many fingers am I holding up?”

And Tobio grimaced. “Don’t pull that bullshit on me. I’m fine,” he says sharply (a little defensively), pushing himself off of Hinata, that regular hatred towards the redhead showing again. It takes Tobio a moment or two to stop seeing stars, but eventually, he’s standing perfectly fine on his own. He walks towards Miwa, who still lays on the ground, going to assist her as he says, “You’ve got rope in your bag, right Hinata? Use it to tie up Oikawa.”

“Uh, right, okay,” says Hinata. “But we have an issue.”

Tobio assists his sister up to her feet, holding onto her tightly in case she loses her balance. “Hinata,” Tobio says through gritted teeth, increasingly growing more and more annoyed by the situation. “I don't need any more problems to add to our already heavy workload. What could be the issue now?”

Hinata could sense Tobio’s growing frustration, which forces the redhead to shut up for a few minutes because Jesus fucking christ, Tobio could be really intimidating when he lost his temper. Like, really, lost his temper.

Hinata ran a worried hand through his red hair, eyes darting around in worry, and finally, Tobio understood the gist of their situation. “Shit.” He mutters.

When Tobio looked over at where Oikawa had previously been laying, he was gone. Oikawa had disappeared–completely vanished within the blink of an eye. Tobio had only looked away for a minute. How could he have just escaped? That knock to the head should’ve kept him asleep for hours, but no. Tooru Oikawa was much more durable than a small fucking stone.

“Fuck,” Tobio cursed again, looking around frantically but there was no use. Oikawa was gone. He then looks back at Hinata, saying, “Why weren’t you keeping an eye on him?”

The first thing Hinata thought was ‘How do I hold back the urge to punch six foot tall jackass?’

“Hey! Don’t try and blame me in this situation,” snaps Hinata. “If anything, you should be thanking me. I saved your ass back there.”

Tobio made a ‘tsk’ sound. Like Hinata had said something so unbelievably amusing.

“What?” Scoffs Hinata, perplexed.

Tobio rolls his eyes. “I could’ve easily escaped that predicament on my own,” he says. “So don’t get your ego in a twist just because you managed to knock the District One boy unconscious. He got away. That’s nothing to be proud of.”

Hinata placed his hands on his hips, his lips curving into a little sneer. Tobio's brow furrowed in uncertainty, as well as obvious annoyance. He hated when Hinata did that. Always making a stupid face for a stupid reason. Actually, scratch that, Tobio hated when Hinata did anything.

Understanding Tobio’s look, which easily reads as ‘spit it out’, Hinata says, “But you can admit I did something good though, right?” he decides to say. “I knocked him unconscious.”

“Just barely.” Mutters Tobio.

Before Hinata could say anything else (which is a miracle, given Hinata and Tobio's tendency to argue nonstop), Atsumu drew everyone's attention. He summoned his three allies as he kneeled in front of the District Ten boy, Sugawara, who had remained in his previous position. The poor boy's main distinguishing feature is that he appears unusually pale. He shivered considerably more. And he appeared to be only minutes away from death.

He looked so much worse compared to how they saw him a few minutes ago.

How was that even possible?

Hinata panicked and kneeled down next to Atsumu. He looks at Sugawara with concern, inspecting every detail of his ailing figure. Sugawara glances up at Hinata, his eyes drained and devoid of colour, and oh god, is this what a human looked like minutes before dying?

“Jesus,” Hinata mutters beneath his breath. “Okay–shit, okay. We’re gonna help you, okay?” He then looks at Atsumu, saying, “We’re gonna help him? We can help him, right?”

Atsumu looked unsure. But he wasn’t able to give Hinata a positive (or negative) answer when Sugawara reached a shaky hand. He grabs Hinata by the wrist, and his hand is so cold and frail. He doesn’t seem real anymore.

It takes Sugawara a moment or two to get anything out, but eventually, “P-please,” he’s saying–begging. “Please, don’t make me..make me keep living on..l-like this..”

Hinata quickly takes Sugawara’s hand in his. “Everything is going to be okay,” he says, squeezing his hand gently. Reassuringly. “I promise.”

Sugawara’s face squishes uncomfortably. He knows what Hinata is doing and he doesn’t like it. Hinata was kind. He was a kind-hearted soul, someone who shouldn’t be here in the games, but unfortunately, for the poor boy, he was. He was here because the Capitol was sick. They were mean, and showed no sympathy, and it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair for Hinata–it wasn’t fair for any of these tributes.

Hinata was trying to reassure Sugawara. He was trying to tell him that everything will be okay. That everything is okay–but he knows. He knows by the look of Sugawara that nothing is okay. He knows that Sugawara isn’t okay. Hinata, being the kind-hearted soul he is, however, just couldn’t accept death. Couldn’t accept that any of this was real. The games, death, Sugawara. It couldn’t be real. Please don’t let it be real..

Sugawara tries to squeeze Hinata’s hand, but god, he was so weak he could barely move. “N-no..” he’s saying, forcing Hinata to lean in to hear him better because he’s so quiet. His voice is so inaudible, so weak, so dead, so– “I can’t ke–keep living,” he manages out. “I-I can’t win.”

Hinata feels himself beginning to tremble. “What?” He mutters.

“Kill me,” he says–no. No, he begs. “Please, kill me–I can’t do this anymore..”

Hinata instantly panics, because what? He hears Sugawara’s desires, but Jesus, Hinata can barely process what he’s being asked to do, and it seems so unreal, so painful, so sad–something Hinata could never bring himself to do no matter how much someone may beg. No matter how much pain someone is in.

Hinata tries to stop shaking. He squeezes Sugawara’s hand again as he says, “No,” tone trembling even as he tries to put on a strong face. “No, Sugawara, I can–I can help you.”

“Please..” Sugawara pleads, his cold, pale fingers slowly beginning to slip from Hinata’s grasp because he’s slowly losing feeling in his hands–everywhere, and he knows he’s dying.

However, Hinata squeezes his hand again. “No, I can figure out something,” he assures positively (although, he tries to be positive). “Yeah, I’ll figure out something and you’ll be okay. Everything will be okay, and, and–and you can stay with us! Yeah, yeah, it will work. You’ll be okay. No need to worry.”

Hinata continued to ramble, seemingly ignoring the fact that Sugawara appeared to be on the verge of death. The Kageyama siblings knew this. They exchanged covert looks, knowing that Sugawara's frail appearance was clear. Sugawara wasn't well enough to continue attempting to survive the games; his death was approaching, and it was his time.

Miwa pressed her lips together sadly, then took a little step behind Atsumu and leant down to softly squeeze his shoulder. Atsumu turned back to face the girl, her solemn yet sad gaze expressing for itself. His brow furrows regretfully, but he knows.

He knows it has to be done.

Atsumu lightly taps Miwa's hand on his shoulder once, as if seeking reassurance for himself. He always finds solace in Miwa. Eventually, Miwa walked back over towards her brother, standing beside him and taking a small breath before she took Tobio’s hand in her own. Tobio squeezes her hand once in reassurance.

Atsumu turned to Hinata, who was still babbling on, and he gently grasped his shoulder. Hinata looked at him, puzzled, until Atsumu gently squeezed his shoulder. "Hinata.." He speaks gently, his voice full of grief and earnestness, urging Hinata to realise what he means.

And Hinata's expression softens tragically, his eyes beginning to water, and his grip on Sugawara's hand tightens because he refuses to let go. But when he looks at Sugawara, he sees that he is in pain. He sees that he’s sad. He sees that he’s giving up. And he was asking to be put out of his misery, once and for all, and Hinata couldn’t do it. He just couldn’t.

But he couldn’t stand to see this poor boy suffer any longer.

Sugawara looked up at Hinata with this plea in his eyes, and the redhead felt himself beginning to cry. He slowly released the boy’s hand after one more squeeze. A squeeze of goodbye. A squeeze of congratulations for making it this far in this sickening game. And then he stood up, walking off, somewhere else–anywhere else, because he couldn’t watch. He just couldn’t. Miwa then signalled for Tobio to go keep a watch on him, and Tobio responded by listening.

Eventually, it was just Atsumu and Miwa. Atsumu turned to Sugawara, grabbing his hand and squeezing ever so gently. Ever so reassuringly. And then, he pulled his knife from his belt.

“No,” Miwa quickly steps in, squatting down beside Atsumu and motioning for him to put the knife away. She then holds out something, forcing Atsumu to hold out his hands so Miwa could give him the mystery objects. And when she places them in his hands, it is revealed to be berries. Atsumu looks at Miwa, confused. “Serenity berries,” she explains, noticing his perplexity. “They’ll bring a more..peaceful end.”

Atsumu's countenance softens as he looks from Miwa and towards the blue coloured berries. They were a delicate tint of blue, like the sky. Like a warm summer's day in the front yard, playing with your brother and rolling around in the vibrant green grass, splashing each other over and over in the lake, water so cold and wonderful, laughing and smiling and so happy and, and—

Atsumu’s fingers close around the small berries, and he squeezes hard. He shakes the thoughts away, looking anywhere but at Miwa or Sugawara, his gaze fixed on the fruit scattered throughout Oikawa's bag. He must have forgotten it before fleeing.

And then, he turns back to Sugawara–the sickly Sugawara, and Atsumu almost shed a tear just looking at him, but he held back because he needed to be strong for him. This is what Sugawara wanted. So Atsumu would do this for him.

Atsumu shuffled a little closer towards the District Ten boy, holding up the berries towards his mouth. Sugawara instantly understands. He breathes in a hesitant breath, because this was it. This was it, and he wants this. And his parents must be watching, and his brothers, his cousin, his uncle, god, his whole family, and, and—

Sugawara swallowed the berries.

And he starts to cry.

Atsumu reaches out towards Sugawara. “Hey, shh, you’re okay..” he begins to say, whispering, shushing him, trying to comfort him. “Everythin’ is okay.”

But Sugawara wasn’t crying because this was painful. Sugawara couldn’t feel an absolute thing; his body relaxing for the first time in forever, and it’s good. He feels good. But he cries because he pictures his mother. He pictures his father. He pictures his entire family sitting in their dirty living room in front of the TV, his little brothers sitting on the floor against the couch with their cousin, eyes glued to Koushi for the first time and finally seeing him.

Atsumu holds the back of Sugawara’s head, his fingers soothing as they run through his silver hair. “Don’t close yer eyes on me just yet,” he whispers, his free hand gently brushing against Sugawara’s cheek and forcing his eyes to snap back open again. And he sees it, and wow. “See that? All those colours? It’s beautiful.”

Sugawara blinked, mustering up his strength now because he can finally feel himself being pulled out from his misery, and he looks up, past Atsumu, past the trees, and he’s blinded by the beauty of the horizon. Hues of gold and crimson, the perfect shade of orange, painting the sky and Sugawara wants to cry even more because nothing else mattered in this moment. Not his careless mother or father–his entire family who only ever saw him as a joke. Nothing mattered because for the first time, peace began to wash over him.

A tear streamed down Sugawara's cheek as he admired the sky, and Atsumu tenderly wiped it away, fingers still tangled in his silver locks, which was wonderful. Atsumu watches the sunset with the boy, because even him, the boy from District Four, couldn't find the strength in himself to watch him die because it wasn’t fair. Miwa knew this somehow, for she stood behind Atsumu and put a comforting hand on his shoulder. She squeezes once, and Atsumu sighs shakily.

Sugawara blinks slowly, the world around him slowly fading away. The tall trees coated in orange and red on this autumn afternoon. Atsumu and Miwa’s presence. The last thing Sugawara saw was the beautiful painted sky, and he realises, he is happy..

..for the first time in his eighteen years.

And he is seen.

And in the next moment, the cannon went off, signalling the ninth death..

Koushi Sugawara.

Chapter Text

The next morning was cold. Not because it was winter, but because there was this new feel to the air. Not a good feel either.

The winter wrapped around Hinata like a shroud. Each breath felt heavier, as if the weight of something–Sugawara, maybe, was pressing down on his chest harder and harder, and it ached. The redhead watched the ocean, listening to the waves that crashed against the shore, and staring off into the neverending distance of the ocean, and he wondered where the water ended. Maybe there was no end. Was this arena truly never ending? Would Hinata ever escape?

As Hinata sat by the shore, he hugged himself in his jacket, feeling so cold and empty, and he wanted to go home and forget. Forget any of this ever happened, and just wake up. He wanted this to be a dream. One very bad dream. He'd wake up in his bed to find his little sister Natsu laughing about the house, desperate for someone to play with her as their mother prepared something in the kitchen. And Hinata would take a long inhale, that familiar scent of home and oatmeal consuming him, sweetened with honey and berries, and he wouldn’t ask for anything more.

But when Hinata breathes in, the air is cold and salty, and it’s different. But it’s not home.

Hinata hugged himself harder, continuing to watch the waves. His mind was all over the place, not being able to stick to one thought. The ocean. Sugawara. The Hunger Games. This neverending arena. His family. Home.

Hinata grumbled. He had a headache.

It wasn't until a few minutes later that Hinata is encountered by a new presence. The individual approaches the redhead and decides to take a seat beside Hinata. They say nothing. Hinata knows who it is, so he decides to not acknowledge their presence at all.

Tobio remained silent alongside Hinata, merely watching the waves with the redhead, attempting to figure out what the boy found so fascinating about the ocean but failing miserably. Then again, Hinata looked clouded with thoughts. Clouded with grief; he must be thinking about Sugawara, and Tobio doesn’t know what to say.

Tobio had an idea of what to say, but he can only picture how Hinata would react if he expressed his mind right now. He wanted to say Hinata shouldn’t be this upset. That he barely knew the District Ten boy. That he was only another player doomed to die in this unbelievable game. And that he–

“You did what you had to do,” instead, Tobio takes the safer approach, because he knew Hinata couldn’t deal with any more pain than what he was already experiencing. What he was already bottling up. “Don’t beat yourself up over it.”

Hinata tenses up beside Tobio, hugging himself tighter. “I could’ve helped him,” he mutters, like he was punishing himself for something he didn’t even do. “I could’ve–I could’ve saved him.”

“No,” says Tobio. “We both know that’s not true.”

Hinata buries his face into his knees, and he sighs loudly. He sighs deeply, for Tobio was correct. He was correct, and he despises that fact. He despises the games–he despises the Capitol. He despises Sakusa, and he despises Ushijima, and he wanted to go home because fuck, he despises it here.

Tobio looked over Hinata silently, and he thinks, wow, I don’t think I’ve ever seen Hinata this quiet before. It's strange. It's strange to see someone who is always so bright and vibrant, always joyful and smiling, utterly change and become so...so bland. So devoid of fun and colour, and it’s strange with Hinata. Hinata wasn't himself, and it’s so strange—no. No, it’s sad.

Hinata eventually looks up again to watch the waves in the distance. “It’s just,” he pauses, sighing. “It’s just so unfair.”

And Tobio shifts from beside the redhead. “Yeah,” he mutters, elbows resting against his knees. “Yeah, I know.”

Hinata’s words ring in Tobio’s head.

‘That’s not fair!’

He had said. He remembers Hinata stepping in front of Sugawara yesterday. Protecting him because Tobio was planning on killing him. Because Hinata had a soul like no other, and Tobio hated him for it.

‘The games aren’t supposed to be fair!’ is what Tobio had said in response. ‘Is this your first day realising that the games were made for endless unfair killings? Or are you just stupid?’

Tobio tenses slightly next to Hinata. Part of what he had said yesterday was true. The games were never intended to be fair. The Hunger Games were designed for relentless, unjust killings. It was a game that tested one's abilities to survive and win. And now, as Tobio sits with Hinata on this frigid winter morning, he regrets saying that yesterday, because fuck, look how things turned out for Sugawara. For Hinata.

“I just think it's crazy.” Suddenly, Hinata says, breaking the silence.

Tobio looks at Hinata. “What’s crazy?” He asked, perplexed.

“That people–kids,” he quickly corrects. “We are forced into this arena. Innocent kids, like Sugawara; he had to fight, to survive, he had to die, and it’s just–” he pauses with a sigh. “It’s just crazy that innocent people have to participate in this game and it's supposed to be seen as..as normal, y’know? Don’t people see that this is wrong?”

Tobio fiddles with the sand while Hinata speaks, eventually picking up a plain stone. A flat, smooth, and plain stone. He runs the pad of his thumb against the flat surface of the stone, peering off into the distance, and he notices the forming thick grey clouds, and they are coming towards them at a slow pace. It was going to rain soon. And Tobio can only imagine a very heavy storm.

Tobio squeezed the stone in his grasp as he said, “People don’t define the Hunger Games as wrong, because the Capitol has possessed people into thinking it’s just a harmless game,” he says, and it’s obvious in his tone of voice that he harbours this sense of hatred. He holds so much hatred towards the Capitol, and if he had it his way, these evil bastards would never get away with this murder. “There’s nothing we can do about it,” he continues. “This is life for us now.”

And it was true. If Tobio or Hinata won this contest, their win would change everything. Yes, they would have the life. They'd be treated like royalty, living in their new mansion rather than their barely surviving dwellings, sleeping on king-sized beds rather than single mattresses on the fractured wooden floor. Hot water without the need for boiling, a limitless supply of food—everything they wanted because they earned it.

However, despite the fact that they would have won the lottery, there was a catch.

If you survived the games, there was still no escape. Most years, various winners were required to engage on what was known as a 'Victor Tour' after winning. It was essentially a method for the Capitol to highlight their winners and remind everyone of their authority, and it was wrong. It was so wrong, because these victors were forced to travel to different districts, and it was always so tense, as it highlighted the struggles of the districts and the Capitol’s control.

In addition, some victors become mentors, and some start off very young. Tobio heard that District Ten’s mentor, Daichi Sawamura, is only eighteen years old. He is one of the youngest victor’s ever, having won the 68th games at just twelve years old, and having started to teach other tributes of Ten at just sixteen. Tobio found it insane. It was insane.

Daichi was also Sugawara's mentor, hence he had no more tributes left. Tobio wonders how he is feeling right now. Knowing that he had lost two young kids to the games and could do nothing about it.

Nothing further was said between the two boys. It was silent. Only the splashing of waves on the shore could be heard across the arena, accompanied with sudden sniffles.

Tobio tensed up, eyes falling from the waves and towards Hinata, and he realises he’s crying. The redhead looks down into his knees, wiping his eyes to keep the tears from falling, but they continue to flow like a never-ending torrent and fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, Tobio doesn’t know what to do. He finds himself staring blankly, so stiff and so unhelpful, because the District Twelve boy has never been too good at comforting. Plus, Hinata was crying. The boy he promised to kill once this was all over.

Tobio chewed on the inside of his cheek, and he looked back towards the ocean. He tries to ignore Hinata, drowning out his soft cries, but now he feels like a dick–but Hinata already thinks that anyway, right? He hated Tobio just as much as he hated Hinata.

Tobio bites hard on the inside of his cheek, he can taste blood, squeezing the stone tightly in his grasp before he releases it. This tangerine was going to be the death of him.

Suddenly, Hinata let out a surprised breath, his sniffles and silent cries coming to a sudden halt when he felt a hand placed atop his head. Hinata stiffins, realising Tobio had placed his hand on top of his head, and Jesus, his fingers gently brushed against the roots of his red hair, scratching his scalp so softly, and he knows he’s merely doing that for comfort but, oh god, what was he doing?

Hinata pressed his lips together tightly, staring at Tobio from the corner of his eye, only to notice that the ravenhead was staring in the opposite direction, where Hinata couldn't see a single detail of his face. He couldn’t read how the District Twelve boy was feeling at all because he wouldn’t even look at him.

Was he embarrassed? Was the Tobio Kageyama embarrassed because he was comforting the one boy he hated most in this game (aside from the Capitol, at least)? The corners of Hinata’s lips twitched into a secretive smile, his expression softening to one of reassurance, because maybe, just maybe, Tobio wasn’t as terrible as he thought he was.

The redhead brushed away the last of his tears and remained silent in this moment of tranquilly. He simply sat there, staring out into the ocean and relishing the way Tobio's fingertips swept simple circles on his throbbing scalp. It felt good (which is something he won’t admit outloud), and he honestly finds himself relaxing under his touch.

After a moment or two of complete silence, Hinata thinks he’s calmed down. So, he looks at Tobio again, and he nearly laughs because he’s still looking away. “How’s your shoulder?” The redhead decides to inquire.

At the sudden sound of Hinata’s voice, Tobio snapped back to reality. He quickly pulled his hand away from the District Nine boy, elbows resting against his knees now as he held his own hands together tightly. He could feel his palms sweating even in this cold weather. “Hm?” Tobio mutters in response, not fully processing Hinata’s question.

The redhead nods towards Tobio’s shoulder. “Your shoulder.” He says again.

“Oh,” Tobio grabs his shoulder, examining the small slit in his arms jacket. “Oh, yeah, it’s fine,” he says, fingers passing through the material of his jacket and touching his wound. He could already feel a scar forming. “Could be worse.” He adds.

Hinata hums in response, studying Tobio’s movements. Watching him rub his arm, watching him run his fingers along his still aching cut. He noticed the way the ravenhead tried to cover up the fact that he winced in slight pain.

Hinata then looks towards the water, chewing at his bottom lip in slight contemplation before he offers a snarky grin, saying, “You took that hit for me pretty well, huh?” and Tobio already looks frustrated.

“What?” he scoffs. “I didn’t take that hit for you.”

“Yes you did.” Says the redhead.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes you did.”

“No I didn’t–”

“You did!” Hinata blurted, cutting Tobio off. “You literally jumped in front of me and rolled me out of the way. That arrow was coming straight for me!”

“And I haven’t heard a single thank you yet either,” Tobio rolls his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. “You would’ve turned into some human tangerine kebab, or something, if it wasn’t for me.”

“See! You did take that hit for me!”

“No I didn’t!”

“Oh my god!” Hinata laughs out loud, hugging his stomach because he can’t contain himself. “You can’t even admit you did something nice for me! You did, dude! Just admit it.”

Tobio looks away from Hinata, grumbling in quiet frustration while Hinata practically loses his shit. Seriously, he was laughing so hard that all the colour he had lost was finally returning to him. He no longer seemed dull, but..happy.

Tobio nearly smiles. Nearly. Note the word nearly.

Hinata wipes a non-existent tear from his eye, heaving a loud heavy breath after laughing so hard for nearly five minutes straight. And then, he stretches his legs out in front of him, hands resting behind him, holding him steady as he looks towards the growing grey clouds. And even in this terrible weather, he smiles. He smiles happily.

Before the two could continue their banter however, suddenly, there’s a voice. “Attention, tributes. Attention.” Throughout the entire arena, a familiar dry voice echoes, and they’re quick to identify who it was.

Kiyoomi Sakusa, the Head Game Maker.

Tobio and Hinata eyed each other, their expressions completely shifting, their hearts practically dropping, as they listened to the sudden announcement. “Commencing at midday, there will be a feast at the Cornucopia,” he continues. “This will be no ordinary occasion. Each of you needs something desperately. And we plan to be generous hosts. Midday, Cornucopia, feast. Goodluck, tributes.”

Eventually, the arena grew silent again after Sakusa’s announcement, and in the next moment, Atsumu and Miwa are already walking out from the woods and onto the beach, finding their way towards the two boys.

“Ya guys hear that?” Questions Atsumu.

“Yeah,” Tobio says, standing up. “A feast. We could use it. It’s a one time opportunity to get the necessities we need before shit takes a turn.”

“Yeah, but note, it could be dangerous,” Atsumu explains. “Not all of us should go.”

Miwa nods in agreement from beside Atsumu. “Agreed. We would draw too much attention from possible enemies that way,” she says, crossing her arms. And then, “That’s why I’ll go.”

Atsumu looks at Miwa, saying, “I’ll go with ya.”

And Miwa smiles, ready to agree. However, “Hey now, hang on,” Tobio intervenes, stepping in between the two. “Leaving you alone with my sister? I don’t think so.”

Atsumu props his hands on his hips. “C’mon, man, are we still doin’ this?” scoffs the blonde. “It’s been a week in this damn arena, an’ I think I’ve proved myself trustworthy enough. Y’still don’ trust me?”

“Don’t think I’ve forgotten about that little stunt you pulled with Nishinoya and Kaori,” Tobio says, pointing a finger. “You’re not on the trust list yet.”

“That’s all it was, man. A stunt. A ruse ta save your sister.”

“Yeah, and Miwa fell for it. Who knows what else you can do with that so-called charm of yours. For all I know, you could try and kill her behind my back.”

“Kageyama–”

“No,” Tobio cuts him off. “I’m going with Miwa, and that’s final. I don’t want to hear any more objections.”

Tobio starts walking towards the woods again, most likely to pack his weapons and other necessities before he and Miwa head off towards the Cornucopia. The feast will begin in a few hours. Best they start preparing now.

Hinata had already followed Tobio, leaving Atsumu and Miwa alone on the beach. The second Hinata had disappeared, Miwa took Atsumu’s hand. Atsumu looks down at Miwa, arching a brow in question when she offers a soft smile because he knows she has something to say.

“Don’t worry,” she says, squeezing his hand reassuringly. “I’d prefer if you stayed here with Hinata anyway. Leaving him and Tobio alone doesn’t seem all that comforting.”

Atsumu smiles in agreement.

And then Miwa says, “I’ll be back soon,” as she squeezes his hand again. “I promise.”

And Atsumu wants to believe her, squeezing her hand too but something didn’t feel right about letting Miwa go now. Sakusa was a monster, full of surprises and he didn’t plan to play easy at all. This feast felt off. It felt like a death trap just waiting for all these tributes.

And he loathed the fact that Miwa was one of the tributes who might succumb to Sakusa's wicked ploy.

…

Bokuto and Kenma both began to pack their belongings after Sakusa’s sudden announcement.

Only a few minutes ago did Sakusa announce the upcoming feast. The Head Game Maker had specified that the feast would take place in the heart of the Cornucopia at precisely twelve o'clock (which is ironic given that none of these tributes could tell time. Or perhaps it was just Bokuto who couldn't.) This news was, to be honest, unsettling, especially given the large number of tributes that remained. Fifteen to be exact. And many of the still-standing tributes were dangerous. Extremely dangerous.

You'd imagine a feast would be offered later in the games, when there were only four or five tributes remaining on the verge of death, desperate for something—anything—just to survive, yet Sakusa announces it now. Perhaps this was all part of the maniac's plan. With so many perilous tributes still standing, more than one person may die if they encounter the wrong participant today in the Cornucopia. It would be risky. Going off alone back towards where they all started.

Which is why Bokuto wasn’t going alone.

Once Bokuto had decided he’d go off and receive his and his allies' feast bags, Kenma stepped in and offered to accompany him. He suggested he'd be good at protecting him from any threats from above. Bokuto agreed right away, for one reason: Kenma was a good shooter. He never seemed to miss, and he trusted him for protection. Second, he doesn't think he and Kenma have ever had a one-on-one conversation before.

Bokuto was pretty excited to get to know Kenma more. He was always so quiet and only really spoke up when he had to. And that was usually around Kuroo, so this was going to be different.

After gathering the remainder of his possessions, Bokuto threw his rucksack over his shoulders. He then picked up his axe from the grass, clutching it tightly and getting used to the feel of it again. He hasn't needed to use it in a while. Not since the Panther incident. He just hoped he didn't need to use it today.

From behind Bokuto, “Heading off now?” a new voice came into hearing.

Bokuto, of course, immediately recognises that calm voice, but he turns around because he wants to see. He wants to see Akaashi, and oh, there he was, standing there so casually, arms crossed over his chest, thick brow arched in silent question, and god, could you get lost in those blue eyes. They were so full of contemplation and bitterness, but so much kindness, and they looked like sapphires, didn’t they?

Bokuto’s hold on the axe tightens. “Yeah,” he gulps, nervous. “It’s gotta be a while from where we are to the Cornucopia. It’s best we get going now.”

Akaashi hums softly, and Bokuto’s eyes dart towards his lips for a split second, because he’s pressing his lips together, and Jesus, Bokuto can feel his heart fluttering–does this guy know what he’s doing to Bokuto right now? And then, Akaashi’s blue–no, no, his sapphire eyes sink into the District Five boy, and Bokuto feels like he’s being hypnotised as he stares into them, and his lips are parting, and what was he going to say?

“Bokuto?” However, Kenma comes walking over, snapping Bokuto back to reality. Bokuto looks at Kenma, who comes walking over with Kuroo and Tsukishima following close behind. Bokuto looks confused until he says, “Are you ready?”

And Bokuto blinks. “Oh,” and he shakes his head. “Oh! Yeah, yeah, I’m–yeah, I’m ready.”

Kenma nods slowly–unsurely, eyes darting between Bokuto and Akaashi with slight suspicion while Kuroo offers a teasing smirk in Bokuto’s direction, and fuck, Bokuto’s going all red.

There was a long pause, until Kenma said, “We’re going,” and of course, Bokuto’s barely paying attention, and Kenma grumbles, annoyed. “Like, now.” He then adds.

Bokuto scratches the back of his neck. “Oh, right, okay,” and he’s looking down, nervous, because Akaashi was looking at him–god, he was looking at him. Why did eye contact with Akaashi have to make him so nervous all of a sudden? Eventually, he works up the courage to look at the District Eight boy, and oh.. “Uhm, so I guess I’ll see you soon, yeah?”

Akaashi blinks. “Uhm, yeah,” he says softly, feeling his face warm because why was he saying that to only Akaashi. “I’ll see you soon.”

Bokuto then offers his signature smile, and it’s so big, so bright, so joyous, and it’s beautiful. Akaashi nearly smiles himself. Bokuto eventually turns his attention from Akaashi to Kuroo and Tsukishima, offering a simple goodbye (he also did some stupid handshake with Kuroo), and then, in the next moment, he and Kenma are starting to walk off, taking the route straight to the Cornucopia.

Akaashi watches Bokuto. He feels his palms sweating, forcing him to wipe his hands against the fabric of his pants, and crap, Bokuto was walking away and Akaashi was watching him walk away, and was this really a good idea? What if Bokuto was walking into a death trap right now? What if this was Sakusa’s plan? Draw participants into the centre of the arena only for them to suffer a brutal death—what if Bokuto dies a brutal death?

No, Akaashi thinks. No, no, no, you can’t be worrying about Bokuto right now because he doesn’t matter, remember? He’s just another irrelevant player in the games. Someone who stands in your way of victory, and you’ve got to remember victory is your main goal. Winning is your main–

“Bokuto!” Suddenly, Akaashi blurts out without thinking.

And Bokuto is already turning around, rushing back over towards Akaashi and the others in a hurry, and he looks worried while Kenma looks nothing but annoyed. And in the next second, Bokuto is standing in front of the ravenhead, holding one of Akaashi’s arms, and oh, he was touching him.

“What?” Bokuto says, worry hinted in his voice. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

And Akaashi sees that Bokuto is worried. He was genuinely worried that something was wrong, because Akaashi has never called out to him like that before. And now Akaashi has to think about what he was going to say because he didn’t think about this part. He just called his name out blindly without offering a single thought.

“Uhm,” Akaashi mumbles, and he’s trying to think, but all he can think about is the gentle grip Bokuto has on his arm. Don’t let go, he wants to say. Hold onto me forever, please. And then, “I just wanted to say..be safe.”

And then, after a moment or two of silence, Bokuto’s expression softens, along with his grip on Akaashi’s arm. “I will,” he says, his voice so reassuring, and oh, he was so nice. Why was he so nice? “You too, kay?”

Akaashi nods. “I will.”

Bokuto clings onto Akaashi's arm for far longer than required, but Akaashi can't bring himself to point it out and order him to let go. Because the truth was, he didn't want him to let go. He didn't want him to leave, because what if it meant he'd be gone forever? Akaashi did not want that. He could not have that.

But, eventually, Bokuto lets go. As he releases his hold, his hand slowly glides down Akaashi’s arm, and he shivers because god. And then, Bokuto is taking a few steps back, eyeing Akaashi for a little longer, before he turns back around, and walks away with Kenma.

Akaashi watches Bokuto. He watches Bokuto hard, the corner of his lips twitching into a small smile, and Jesus, he had to be blushing.

From beside Akaashi, “Hey, be safe.” Kuroo teases, mocking Akaashi, nudging him with his elbow.

Akaashi’s brow twitches. “Stop.” He mutters, embarrassed.

But, of course, Kuroo continues to tease him, mimicking every single thing Akaashi had said just now, but eventually Kuroo’s voice fades away because Akaashi is thinking. As he continues to watch Bokuto slowly disappear into the trees, becoming nothing more than an invisible dot, Akaashi is thinking.

He is thinking about Bokuto. He is thinking about the feast. He is thinking about how sudden the announcement is, and he is thinking that maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe, Akaashi was being paranoid, or maybe he was being dramatic, but something about letting Bokuto go now didn’t feel right.

But then again, when you were imprisoned in the midst of the Hunger Games, when did anything ever feel right?

Chapter Text

Tobio's hold on his knife tightens as he stares at the table, which is stacked high with feast bags.

Tobio was currently at the Cornucopia, simply hiding in the bushes and the trees as he eyes that damn table, because he knows he’s not the only one out there right now. There had to be a couple of other tributes doing the same as Tobio. Hiding. Watching. Maintaining their distance. Waiting for the right moment to jump out. He wants to run out and collect those bags, but his grip on his knife tightens as he urges himself to take the safest option.

There is a large round table with a snowy white cloth sitting at the front of the Cornucopia, with many weapons and other remaining bags from the beginning of the games sitting inside the mouth. On the table sit fifteen bags, all labelled with the numbers of each tribute. Saeko's bag, labelled with the number two, was enormous, undoubtedly stuffed with numerous weapons. There were two medium bags labelled seven and nine, as well as a little bag labelled with a six. The rest of the bags were around average size. It’s only been a week into the games. Not everyone is on the verge of death just yet.

As Tobio recalls his and Miwa's strategy, he keeps a close eye on the table. Tobio declared that he would be the one to walk into the Cornucopia and fetch their bags, leaving Miwa to wait. If Tobio gets into any difficulties while heading out into the arena, Miwa will be able to step in, protect him, or grab the bags if he has things under control, and flee while she still has the chance. Miwa knows her younger brother. He isn't entirely useless; he might even be stronger than her (maybe).

Tobio doubts he'll have to confront anyone. His goal was to simply wait. Sit here and wait for a tribute more dangerous than him to run out and acquire their bag first. Tobio shivered just imagining who he’d see today. Saeko. Kuroo. Kiyoko. Fuck, maybe even Nishinoya again.

Tobio’s grip on the knife tightens just imagining who he’d see. Who he’d face. Who he’d fight up against. But Tobio promised himself that if he had to fight someone today, they wouldn’t go unkilled. Not like what he did with Oikawa, as that bratty tribute was still out there too, because Tobio didn’t take the chance to kill him while he still could.

However, things would be different today.

Tobio had been sitting here for quite a while now, but still, nothing had happened. He notices the sky is getting darker, greyer; heavy clouds begin to hover over him and the Cornucopia, and the sounds of gentle thunder reverberate throughout the arena. The storm would be soon. Tobio knows it.

Suddenly, Tobio's attention was drawn back from the black skies to the Cornucopia, as someone was finally making a move. Tobio hastily slipped deeper into his hiding spot as he watched the tribute run out towards the table, easily identifying who it was, forcing him to conceal himself even further, because fuck, he didn't want to fight them.

Saeko was swift. She ran up to the Cornucopia, stopping at the white table before grabbing her bag with the number two labelled on it, tossing it over her shoulders, and hurrying away. Before she ran away, she looked around carefully and cautiously, her countenance furious and dangerous. And then she vanished into the woods.

Tobio exhales with relief, not realising he was practically holding his breath that entire time. Saeko was just frightening. Ruthless. Fucking dangerously insane—he couldn't muster the courage to fathom battling her. The fight between these two would undoubtedly end in a flash.

The next tributes to come out from hiding were Kiyoko and Yachi. Yachi was walking towards the Cornucopia with caution, and it was so obvious she was scared because Tobio could see her shaking even from this distance. However, she had little need to be worried. No one was going to come out and attack her, seeing as Kiyoko was proving a point as she followed the blonde girl. She held up her two katana’s, looking around continuously and carefully. Tobio had to retreat deeper into his hiding spot when she looked in his direction.

The two girls eventually collected their feast bags and disappeared into the woods so quickly that Tobio didn't even notice. Then it was quiet again. Tobio returned to waiting. Watching the Cornucopia from a distance, but after the three girls appeared, nothing else occurred. Perhaps the surviving tributes in hiding were waiting for something else to happen, just like Tobio. Waiting for the last perilous tributes to be unleashed so they may avoid their painful demise.

But, after a few more minutes—maybe five—Tobio assumed that no one else would make a move. Either that, or Tobio and Miwa were the only tributes hiding for now, waiting for nothing. So, in this moment, Tobio drew a cautious breath, squeezed his knife so hard that his fingers turned purple, and emerged from the bushes.

Suddenly Tobio is slowly walking towards the Cornucopia, taking slow and cautious steps, gaze darting around just imagining someone would come out and attack him. Kill him. But he would be ready. He would be prepared. And as Tobio walks towards the white table, he feels little water droplets on his face and clothes, and it begins to rain. He best hurry if he doesn't want to catch a cold.

So, Tobio quickened his pace because he needed to get out of here. Before anybody else comes out. Someone far too dangerous for him to face off against. Someone capable of killing him in a split second. And when he approaches the table loaded with everything they require..

A twig snaps from behind him.

Tobio doesn’t even think about it, because he knows. He knows, and he immediately turns around, swinging his knife and in the blink of an eye blood splashes everywhere, and the District Five boy, Bokuto, is stumbling backwards, clutching the left side of his cheek, and blood is running between his fingers. It’s dripping everywhere–and Tobio must’ve cut deep.

As Bokuto staggers backwards while maintaining his equilibrium, he draws his hand away from his face, and his entire hand is covered in his dark blood. He looks up, his gaze settling on Tobio, and he does not look happy. Tobio appears to be prepared to battle, with his knife poised. And fuck, he's swinging the knife again.

Bokuto immediately dodged it, stepping backwards so quickly that he may have fallen to the ground. But he held his balance, gripping his axe tightly and swinging hard. Tobio’s eyes quickly snapped open because, fuck, how can a little dagger go up against that big ass thing? Tobio managed to dodge however, rolling to the side when Bokuto went for a second strike.

Then, Tobio swung his knife at him, but Bokuto caught his wrist and squeezed tight and fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, his grip was so tight, his skin was almost scorching. Tobio cursed loudly, using his free hand to punch Bokuto in the nose, forcing the District Five boy to release his hold on Tobio’s wrist. He stumbles backwards, everything is blurry, little dots obscure his vision, and crap, he had dropped his axe.

Before Bokuto had the chance to look for it, he got another punch to the face. He feels his nose dripping with blood. He feels his whole face aching so bad because Tobio was strong, even without weapons to guide him. And then, Bokuto falls to the ground, looking up, the heavy rain hitting his face, smudging the red liquid all over his face, wetting his hair, and he can’t see. God, he can’t see.

The next thing he knows, Tobio is looming over him, grabbing him by the shirt and pressing his knife against Bokuto’s neck. Bokuto looks up at him through weak eyes, his breathing loud and pained, and he can’t feel his face. It’s so numb. Tobio presses his blade against Bokuto’s neck harder, and Bokuto hisses in pain, clenching his teeth, thick brows furrowed as he looks up at Tobio, but he can barely see him. At this point, he was just a blur. A haze of nothingness.

But this couldn't be the end for Bokuto, right? No. No, of course not, because Bokuto was persistent. The individuals in his life said so themselves. His mother. His father. His sisters. His allies. Akaashi.

And he would continue to remain persistent. He doesn’t back down, no matter how terribly he may be losing.

From the distance, high above in one of the trees, Kenma spots the situation Bokuto finds himself stuck in. He curses quietly, because he can see that Bokuto is on the ground. That he is losing to the District Twelve boy. That he is struggling. So, Kenma quickly snatches for his crossbow, clicking it into place and readying it into position. And then he aims, concentrating, and then–

Kenma freezes.

Suddenly, the District Three boy feels this chill run down his spine. He feels something warm against his skin. This wet, cold feeling. This scaly feeling. Quickly, without even having to look, Kenma realises slithering against his shoulders and neck is a snake. One, long, and very dangerous snake.

The snake’s green scales are warm against his skin, its forked tongue flickering curiously near his ear. Kenma gulps, his entire body trembling, sweating and cold, because fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck! Panic surges through him, but he can’t move; he's torn between fear and helping Bokuto, and he wants to help Bokuto, but if he moves now, Kenma will die.

But if he doesn’t do something now, then Bokuto could die.

“Shit.” Kenma hisses shakily, eyeing the snake from the corner of his eye. He locks eyes with dark crimson ones, and Kenma quickly looks away out of fear. He feels his heart racing, so fast, so hard, practically tattooing itself into his chest, and the snake hisses knowingly, slithering against his shoulders, getting closer towards his face. It knew Kenma was practically shaking under the reptile's touch.

Kenma takes shaky breaths, attempting to avoid eye contact with the snake. His eyes land back on the Cornucopia, seeing that Bokuto and Tobio were still fighting. Bokuto had managed to get back up and pick up his weapon again. As for Tobio, he had lost his knife. He was on the ground.

Bokuto was on top of Tobio, pressing the metal handle of the axe against Tobio’s neck. Hard. Tobio coughed loudly, finding it difficult to breathe. He tried to push Bokuto and his axe off of him, but Bokuto was so much stronger and heavier compared to Tobio that he could barely move under his weight. All he could do was squirm helplessly and struggle for his life.

Bokuto was ferocious. He wasn't the joyful, eager eighteen-year-old kid Tobio remembered from training. Looking up at him, Bokuto was fierce. Dangerously ferocious. He had thick furrowed brows, lethal owl eyes, blood smeared all over his face, and, oh god, was Tobio going to die? To the one person he misidentified as an innocent boy?

Tobio coughed, feeling his neck bruising under the pressure of the axe. His eyes begin to flutter, his whole mind foggy and fuzzy and he must be dying.

However, Tobio casts a fatigued look at Bokuto's belt. He surveys the row of tools and supplies with drowsy eyes, his vision fuzzy yet clear enough to see what he's looking at. He then glances up at Bokuto, the bloodthirsty Bokuto, and coughs one more time before reaching for the knife.

Because Bokuto wasn’t the only bloodthirsty tribute in this arena.

…

Akaashi finds himself examining his arrows as he and the others wait for Bokuto and Kenma.

Kuroo was leaning against a simple tree, spinning his machete between his fingers casually, wondering how much longer they’d be waiting. He also wonders if Kenma is okay. He squeezes his knife in his grasp, the thought of anything bad happening to his ally absolutely daunting. Tsukishima simply sits there boredly, quiet as ever. The guy never really spoke. He usually just thought to himself. Probably about home. His mother. Akiteru.

Akaashi examines his arrows boredly, because he wants to distract himself. Take his mind off of Bokuto and the possibilities of something going wrong. Anything going wrong. He did have a bad feeling about this whole Feast situation, but he kept quiet because maybe he was being paranoid. Maybe he was thinking too much about Bkuto’s safety. And maybe he was scared of losing another important per–

Stop it, Akaashi..

The District Eight boy sighs, gripping a single arrow tightly, knowing that things between him and Bokuto have already progressed and that it is too late to reverse the situation. To reverse what has been happening between them.

He liked Bokuto. There was no denying it anymore. And now..now Akaashi viewed him as someone important in his life. 

Before Akaashi could continue thinking—being paranoid over possibly nothing, he and their group hear something, and suddenly, Akaashi’s heart sinks. Kuroo and Tsukishima look from each other to Akaashi, and they immediately see the panic in the District Eight boy’s eyes.

Because that sound just now..that was the cannon.

Akaashi didn’t even think about it. All of a sudden Akaashi picks up his belongings and takes off running. Running for the cornucopia. Kuroo and Tsukishima run after him, yelling and screaming his name, telling him to stop. To come back. But Akaashi doesn’t listen. He can’t hear them—he can’t hear anything but the ringing in his ears. The panic rushing within him.

Because the cannon went off. Fuck, the cannon went off. Someone was dead, and Akaashi’s first thought was no. No, no, please don’t let it be him. I can’t live on if it means Bokuto is dead.

But he could be wrong. God, please let him be wrong.

Yet, the haunting thought of Bokuto possibly being dead is already lingering within Akaashi, and he only prays he’s alive.

Chapter Text

Please be wrong, please be wrong, is what echoes across Akaashi's mind.

His head was pounding. His head was ringing. His entire body trembled as he ran, because what if? Oh god, what if, what if, what if? What if he was right? What if he was wrong? What if he was running into a death trap, and what if Bokuto was dead?

Akaashi pants shakily at that thought. The sole thought that compelled Akaashi to sprint faster amid the torrential rain. He didn’t care about the cold. He didn’t care that he may get sick. He didn't care that Kuroo and Tsukishima were running and screaming after him. He didn’t care about anything but making sure that Bokuto was okay.

The cannon went off not long ago, marking the tenth death in the Hunger Games. Without a doubt, the death must have occurred in the Cornucopia where the feast was taking place. That was Sakusa’s plan, after all. Lead tributes into the Cornucopia to face kids who are willing to kill. To murder everybody who stands in their way. And, oh god, what if this was all part of Sakusa's plan? To bring Bokuto, the most cheerful and innocent tribute, into a death trap that awaits him?

Akaashi’s eyes sting at the thought. No. No, Sakusa wouldn’t target a singular individual in the games, would he? Because that would be unfair. That wouldn’t be fair on anyone. And it wouldn’t be fair on Bokuto. But then again, this is Sakusa we’re talking about. The man who wouldn’t hesitate to kill anyone in the games because he desires a show. A good fucking show.

So, would he target Bokuto? Would he want to kill Bokuto?

Akaashi gulps. There was only one way to find out.

The more Akaashi runs, the more the Cornucopia comes into view. And the closer he gets, the quicker Akaashi's heart accelerates because what if he was right? What if Bokuto was dead?

“Fuck,” Akaashi curses beneath his breath, voice cracking slightly. “Please, Bo–please, be okay..”

And then, nearing closer and closer, eventually, Akaashi jumps through bushes, passes through trees until he’s standing near the edge of the heart of the arena, breathing so quickly, so hard, so urgently, and his eyes dart to the Cornucopia. He sees the white table in front of the Cornucopia, heaped high with numbered and marked bags, and suddenly...

Akaashi’s eyes snap wide open. “S-shit.” And he curses shakily, because no. No, no, no..

Lying in front of the table was Bokuto. Fuck, Bokuto was lying there, unmoving, and–and, oh no, there was blood. There was blood all over him. And then Akaashi spots the District Twelve tribute standing over him. Kageyama. Tobio Kageyama. He was holding a bloodstained knife. Thick red blood coated his knife and hands, and then it hit Akaashi like a running train.

Tobio looks from Bokuto to Akaashi, quickly spotting him, and Akaashi chokes back a sob, his face squishing violently, his eyes black and stinging so much it hurts. He snatches his bow, already attempting to shoot at Tobio but he was already running away with his feast bags, dodging every arrow Akaashi fired, and the District Eight boy cried.

He cried because Tobio was getting away. He was getting away, leaving Bokuto there on the ground to die. Leaving Akaashi there to fall apart completely. And Akaashi wanted to scream. To hurt. To kill. To kill Tobio Kageyama. But he disappears. He disappears into the woods and Akaashi sobs.

Akaashi drops his bag and weapons to the ground dismissively because it doesn’t matter. They don’t matter anymore as Akaashi runs towards the Cornucopia, towards the table, towards Bokuto. Only Bokuto matters, but is there even a Bokuto to matter anymore? A Bokuto who was alive?

Akaashi chokes. The boy falls to his knees beside Bokuto, and he immediately panics because fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, Bokuto had wounds everywhere, bleeding all over his face, his nose, his mouth–but the most serious were the deep, many slashes in his stomach. Akaashi breathes heavily, rapidly, pressing his hand against his stomach and lifting the District Five boy’s head to rest against Akaashi’s lap. 

Akaashi's eyes stung. "Bokuto?" he tries to say, but it comes out as a sob. A feeble and pathetic, desperate sob. "Wake up, p-please."

However, his eyes were closed. And they remained closed. And Akaashi wanted to think he was just sleeping. That he looked so peaceful as he slept, but god. He no longer saw those golden owl eyes, and Akaashi wanted to scream.

“C’mon,” he tries again, gently shaking the District Five boy. “Please, I know you’re–that you’re there, please, Bokuto..” 

Kuroo and Tsukishima eventually came sprinting over, followed by Kenma, and they all saw. They all saw Bokuto’s situation. And they saw..they all saw that he was dead.

Kuroo places his hands behind his head and mutters profanities under his breath because he knows. He knows Bokuto is dead, but Akaashi kept trying to shake him awake because he refused to accept his death. He refused to believe that the one person he chose to give in to was dead.

Akaashi presses a hand to Bokuto’s cheek. He brushes the strands of white and black out of his face because they kept sticking to the blood on his forehead. The blood on his cheek. And Akaashi’s lips parted because he couldn’t stop crying—examining every inch of his face. Every inch of his beautiful face that he’s been too scared to touch all this time and now he can. But at what cost? Because now that he’s touching him..oh, now that he’s touching the light freckles on his face, the small baby hairs on his jaw, Akaashi wanted to cry because he was no longer real.

Akaashi sobbed. Tears streamed from his eyes, and small droplets of rain fell on Bokuto's face, joining Akaashi in crying from the dark sky. He constantly caressed Bokuto's cheek with his thumb, relishing the last few moments he'd have with Bokuto's immobile body before the Capitol took him away from him forever. Akaashi can only fathom where he'll be taken. With additional tributes to the deceased? Trapped in a dark room? Bokuto would hate it there.

Akaashi cries at the thought. He cries because Bokuto would rather be at home than anywhere else. He would not want to be confined in a room full of dead people, knowing that he was also one of them. Because this wasn’t how life was supposed to go for him. He was supposed to be back home, in District Five, with his family, smiling and laughing and enjoying life because he was alive. And Akaashi keeps crying at the thought. Of this new version of Bokuto. The dead boy in his arms.

He cries and cries, pressing his own forehead to Bokuto’s, whispering, “Please, please, please..” over and over through broken sobs because he just couldn’t.

He holds him close. He holds his lifeless body so close to his broken beating heart, wishing to hold him forever. Wishing that they could’ve met outside of the games. Wishing that they could go home, back to District Five and live happily. Akaashi would no longer have to live off of that damn orphanage, escaping everyday and suffering because he was alone. He'd live with Bokuto and his family, and at dinner, he'd smile with his older sisters and joke with his parents over childhood memories. And then, maybe, just maybe, Akaashi would finally understand what it was like to love someone. To be loved.

But this was the awful reality of the Hunger Games. Akaashi allowed himself in. He found serenity in Bokuto even though he knew it was wrong. He knew he should’ve distanced himself when he had the chance. And now, he was gone, and there was nothing Akaashi could do about it but cry. Cry over what they could’ve had together. Cry over the beautiful possibility that has been crushed and torn apart right in front of Akaashi's eyes.

And all he could do now was cry and pray that maybe, just maybe, that in another life the Hunger Games wouldn’t have to separate them like it did in this life.

…

Minutes pass, and Akaashi still can’t seem to let Bokuto go.

The District Eight boy stayed seated in the midst of the Cornucopia, having cooled down a little, but he only wished to be alone. Be alone with Bokuto. His Bokuto, before he could no longer remember the feel of his face or the damp strands of his hair. Akaashi continuously ran gentle patterns against Bokuto’s cheek with the pads of his fingers, examining every inch of his beautiful face with his eyes because he wanted to remember it. He wanted to remember it forever.

Kuroo, Kenma, and Tsukishima are watching Akaashi from a distance. Tsukishima is sat, resting back against the tree, and he clearly wants to leave. It is not safe to sit out in the open like this. More tributes should be on their way to retrieve their own feast bags soon. But Kuroo would continuously tell Tsukishima to be patient, because he understands. He understands Akaashi, and he understands the pain he is in.

He’s not the only one grieving right now.

Kuroo and Kenma stood motionless beside one another, watching Akaashi from from afar. Watching him admire Bokuto one last time before it was time to say goodbye. Kuroo had his arms crossed over his chest, yet it seemed like he was hugging himself. Hugging himself because Bokuto, his ally, his friend, was gone, and he couldn't believe it any more than Akaashi.

Kuroo continues to peer at Akaashi through sad eyes, disregarding the constant raindrops that wet his face. And then, softly, "What happened, Ken?" he asks, taking Kenma by surprise.

Kenma fiddles with his crossbow, because he needed some sort of distraction to take his mind off of the fact that it was his fault. That none of this would’ve happened if he just took the damn shot and killed Tobio when he had the opportunity. But now, the one person Kenma was tasked to protect was dead, and it was all his fault.

“I–” Kenma squeezes his crossbow tightly. “I looked away one one minute and..” he pauses in between sentences because he was scared. He was scared of what Kuroo would think. What Akaashi would think. “I could’ve done something,” he says, sighing. “This is my fault.”

Kuroo doesn’t say anything, because he knows it’s Kenma’s fault? Because he couldn’t even look at Kenma knowing he was the reason his best friend in the games was dead? Kenma glanced at Kuroo, his whole body trembling silently beside the District Two boy because he seemed so serious. So barren of colour. He appeared to be in a condition of grief, and Kenma had never felt so bad about himself.

Kenma’s eyes fell to the ground, squeezing his crossbow in his grasp in order to comfort himself, but not even that worked. All he could think about was that it was his fault. That he is to blame. That Kuroo couldn’t even look at him because he hated him for being the reason that Bokuto is dead.

Kenma could feel splinters digging into his palm the more he squeezed his weapon. “There was a snake.” He eventually says.

And Kuroo looks at him. “You’re okay?” He inquired, the anguish in his voice unwavering even as he posed the simple query.

“M’fine.” Replies Kenma.

“No bites?”

“No.”

There was another little gap between them before Kuroo said, "Good," his gaze returning to Akaashi. He examines him attentively, noting how Akaashi held Bokuto close, how he runs small circles over his brow, and how his own blue eyes scrutinise his soft, peaceful face. And, Kuroo eyes Bokuto too.

He observes how the previously happy, jumpy Bokuto is now resting peacefully in Akaashi's lap, immobile. He has never seen Bokuto so still. So silent. So at peace. It was sad. And Kuroo would never forgive the Capitol for removing someone as happy and as innocent from this cruel, torturous world.

Kuroo hugs himself harder as he eyes Bokuto. “I don’t think..” Kuroo starts to say, voice breaking slightly, before he says, “I don’t think I could handle both you and Bo on the same day.”

And Kenma’s eyes soften as he stares at Kuroo, because he was broken. Kuroo was so broken knowing that not everyone was going to make it out of the games alive. So broken knowing that only one victor remained standing at the end of all this. Broken because it wasn’t going to be him and Bokuto, nor was it going to be him and Kenma.

Only one remained. Would it be Kuroo? Would it be Kenma? Kuroo hugged himself harder, because he didn’t want to know. It would only exacerbate the crack in Kuroo's heart.

It was quiet again between the two boys before Kenma decided to break the silence with, “Bokuto was the main reason Akaashi stayed with us all this time,” and Kuroo looks at Kenma, because he understands what he’s trying to say. “Do you think he still wants to be a part of this alliance?”

Kuroo’s shoulders deflate, sighing, “I don’t know,” because he doesn’t know. Only one person can know for sure, and that’s Akaashi. “Whether he decides to stay or leave, that’s his decision,” he says, looking at Akaashi. “I’ll respect him either way,” and then, he looks at Kenma again. “And you should too.”

Kenma says nothing, but Kuroo knows he understands. He knows he will respect Akaashi, even if that means he is no longer their ally, but rather their soon-to-be opponent.

Before the two boy’s could continue, suddenly, the sound of that well known aircraft came into hearing, and eventually, into view. The big aircraft hovered above the heart of the arena, prompting Akaashi to get up. He took a couple of steps back, watching as that claw attached to this thick wire lower and lower until it picked up Bokuto’s immobile body. Akaashi tries not to cry again as he watches the claw hold him and pull him up into the aircraft. He can’t keep crying. Not when Bokuto is gone for good now.

And then, ultimately, Bokuto's dead body vanishes into the aircraft, never to be seen again.

Akaashi wipes away the last of his tears, making an effort to toughen up because this is it. He had lost someone he cared about yet again, and at this point, he could only accept that he was a curse. That whoever he touched and loved will eventually die in the end. His mother. His father. Bokuto..

Akaashi Keiji was a curse. A big fucking curse.

After a few more moments, after the aircraft had vanished, Akaashi returned to the table, which was now heaped with only eleven bags. He immediately grabbed the bag with the number eight on it. And then, he grabs four other bags. Two, three, eleven, and five.

After he grabs all five bags, he starts walking back towards his group. He hands them all their feast bags without a word, keeping his own and Bokuto’s attached to his belt closely. Protectively. He then picks up his bow and arrows from the ground, chucking them casually over his shoulders again.

Akaashi doesn’t look at his allies once. He stares ahead of him, walking straight past them without a single word. And hesitantly, Kuroo, Kenma, and Tsukishima, all follow slowly behind him.

And in the absence of their happy, vibrant ally, the silence of their walk has never felt heavier.

Because Koutarou Bokuto was the tenth to die in the 74th Hunger Games.

Chapter Text

One wrong move is all it took to destroy Oikawa.

He doesn’t remember what happened, he doesn’t remember how, he doesn’t remember why, but as he walks up towards the table containing the feast bags, Oikawa thinks he’s going crazy. Everything is fuzzy, he’s seeing dots and he’s seeing colours–the Cornucopia looks like it’s stretching and shrinking and Oikawa thought he was going to throw up. The arena around him felt like it was closing in on him, and he couldn’t escape. He could never escape.

He stumbles a little as he reaches for his feast bag, his arm stretching so far in his vision that he figured he was going to pass out. And when he grabbed the bag, he immediately cringes because all of a sudden the texture of the bag is irritating his skin, causing these pins and needles to travel from the tips of his fingers and all the way up his shoulders. And now his whole body felt weak and cold, and it felt like he was sinking. That the ground was swallowing him up.

Oikawa tried to ignore the terrifying feeling, swallowing hard as if something was amiss, but he didn't have time for this. He didn't have time to think about the pins and needles travelling throughout his entire body. He didn't have time to think about the arena squashing and expanding all around him. And he didn't have time to think about why the sky was green and why the grass blue. He just wanted to get out of here. He wanted it all to be over. He wanted to go home. He wanted to be with Hajime.

Oikawa squeezed his feast bag hard, attaching it to his belt with shaky hands as he walked (stumbled) back into the woods. He peered about with half-lidded eyes, suddenly fatigued. Was it because of all of these colours? Or was it because all of a sudden he felt weak all throughout his body? He didn’t know. Whatever this was, it was bad.

What have I done? Kept ringing throughout Oikawa’s throbbing head. What did I touch? What did I eat? What did I do to make everything feel like I’m on toxic magic mushrooms? But Oikawa hadn’t eaten anything bad. Only the bread and nuts in his bag. And he doesn’t remember touching anything. But maybe he did? Maybe he brushed past something without realising it, and now he’s got poison running all throughout his aching body.

The District One boy groaned painfully, indicating that he was hurting. His stomach hurt. His body hurt. His head hurt. His head kept throbbing and throbbing, the little voice in his head continuing to ask him why? Why, why, why? Why is this happening? Why me? Why am I here? Why can’t I go home? Why did I leave you to die, Sugawara?

Oikawa tries to close his eyes. “Shut up..” He mutters under his breath because all of this was beginning to be too much. Too much for the District One boy.

Through closed eyes, it honestly made Oikawa feel worse. He grumbles, reopening his eyes again because he had no other choice but to wait for this to end. Wait for this feeling to go away. Wait for god knows how many more days—or weeks—to win this.

As Oikawa continues to walk, he hears something up ahead. Muttered conversation. Footsteps. And when he looks up, up ahead walking further in front of Oikawa is the Kageyama siblings. Miwa and Tobio. Even as the world around him continues to stretch and squish together, he realises that each have their own feast bags. Two twelves, one nine, and a four.

Oikawa notices that they are beginning to walk out of his sight, and Oikawa cannot have that. Not when they are responsible for Sugawara's death. The reason why he is dead. They killed him when they had the opportunity. They didn’t care that he was sick, that he was dying. But they took him out of this miserable world and it wasn’t fair.

Oikawa reaches for his bow, ignoring his weakened state. How tingling and warm his hands and arms felt. He sluggishly trailed far behind the siblings, attempting to catch up, but they were much faster than him because Oikawa was straining. He was straining as he tried to aim his bow and arrow properly. He was straining as he brushed past trees and bushes, the feeling of leaves so sharp against his skin and—

Suddenly Oikawa freezes,

and he understood.

The District One boy froze in his steps, looking down at the ground and towards his feet, and he thought he was going to hurl or pass out as the ground continued to move and stretch like water, devouring Oikawa. However, that was not his primary concern just now.

He looked down at his legs, noticing there were a number of cuts and slits in his pants. He immediately panicked, because he also noticed blood dripping through his pants. Or was it blood? He didn’t know. This stuff inside him was making everything change colours, including the blood. One second it was red, and in the next moment it was purple. Then orange, then green. Pink. Blue.

And that’s when Oikawa finally figured it out.

Poison.

Oikawa suddenly felt dizzy like never before. He looked up from his legs and back at the Kageyama siblings, but they were already gone. Oikawa stumbled forward. “No..” he kept muttering, because he let them get away. He let them get away again.

Suddenly, as Oikawa takes another step, he loses all feeling in his body, and he falls flat on the ground. He can’t feel his body. Like he was paralysed. His eyes kept fluttering, and the colours he saw were flashing brighter than before. And all he can think is why did he let them get away again? Why, why, why?

But Oikawa didn’t think for too much longer, because in the next moment, his eyes rolled to the back of his head, and his eyelids fell shut.

…

It wasn’t long before the Kageyama siblings found their way back to Atsumu and Hinata. Actually, cross that, it did take them quite a while.

It could have been between seven and eight by the time they returned. Before Tobio and Miwa left this morning, they discussed their meeting point, which was still along the shore, but it was difficult to remember their routes in such a large arena. They wounded up getting lost. Fortunately, they found their way in the end.

When they return, they notice Atsumu and Hinata standing by a fire, readying their weapons because they could never be too sure. But when the Kageyama siblings stepped closer, they relaxed when they realised it was only their allies.

Atsumu was quick to drop his trident. “Seven hours,” he says, voice demonstrating seriousness with this slight hint of worry. At least, Miwa was quick to notice it. “That was too long.”

Miwa puts her belongings down. “We’re fine,” she says. “We just ran into some–”

She didn't have the opportunity to continue her sentence as she was caught in this unexpected embrace. Atsumu hugs her. He hugs her tightly, holding her so, so close because, yes, he did hear the cannon fire today, and he couldn't help but think, fuck, what if Miwa was the tenth death?

Atsumu holds her tighter, sighing softly, his breath so warm when it hits Miwa’s neck. She blushes. “I thought I lost you.” He then softly whispers, and Miwa nearly shivers because oh, his breath was so warm against her skin, and was he really that worried? About Miwa?

A small smile finds its way onto Miwa’s lips as she slowly wraps her own arms around Atsumu. And at the sudden action, Atsumu sighs again because oh, she was so nice. So caring. So beautiful. So real, and so, so alive. And the small arms around Atsumu reminded him that she was alive. The touch of her short raven hair against his cheek. Her sweet, sweet scent of lavender still so strong even in this torturous arena.

Atsumu squeezes her again because nothing mattered. Nothing else mattered but the touch of the one person who mattered most in the games, because she was alive. She was safe and alive, and Atsumu couldn’t be more reassured.

In the next moment, Hinata had quickly joined the hug, saying something along the lines of ‘I’m so glad you’re safe’ and ‘don’t go scaring us like that again’. Miwa couldn't help but laugh, because, despite Hinata's boasts that he'll kill Tobio by the end of this, how could she hate him? He was just too sweet.

Miwa immediately throws one arm around the redhead while keeping the other around Atsumu, and they all laugh and smile as they form a happy group hug. Tobio observed the three with disapproval, but as Hinata looked over in his direction, he could tell there was some other feeling hidden within him other than distaste. Hinata’s expression shifts slightly. He watches Tobio put his own possessions away among the feast bags, disregarding them, and Hinata can’t help but wonder what he is thinking.

Eventually, the three separate from the hug. Atsumu and Miwa go and sit by the fire, chatting amongst themselves as they decide to see what was in their feast bags. As for the little redhead, he remains standing, watching as Tobio does his own thing because the guy could never seem to sit still. Hinata was a lot like that too. He was like this small bundle of energy, always wanting to run or bounce around, while Tobio was a cranky, sullen youngster who was always busy doing something.

Hinata hummed softly under his breath, walking towards Tobio who paid him no attention at all. He simply continued to disattach his weapons from his belt without looking in Hinata’s direction once.

Hinata watched his every move with curious brown eyes, before he decided to say, “I thought you died back there.” and Tobio scoffs, continuing to mind his own business.

“Yeah, right,” he answers under his breath. “I’m not that easy to kill. Especially if I’ve made promises.”

“Which is?” Questions the redhead.

And Tobio says, “To kill you.”

And Hinata stares again, not answering. Sure, Hinata should have expected such an answer, but it was often tough to believe that this boy was truly committed. Was he actually upholding his promise? Was he actually planning to kill Hinata?

Hinata shoves his hands into his pockets, rocking on his heels back and forth, deciding to keep his mouth shut. He wasn’t in the mood to argue with Tobio. Not today at least. Honestly, he kind of preferred the boy who comforted him on the beach this morning. That version of Tobio was really nice in comparison to the angry Tobio with whom he was constantly at odds with.

Not that Hinata would admit that outloud or anything.

After a few more moments of silence, Hinata decides to ask, “Who did you kill?” because just by Tobio’s slight lack of communication and distance, he has a feeling that the tenth cannon was caused by the District Twelve boy today. He seemed strangely tense.

And he was right.

“The District Five boy.” He answers casually.

“Bokuto?”

“Yeah,” the raven head says. “He was a real pain in my ass.”

Hinata hummed in response. He doesn’t remember all that much about Bokuto. Just that he was almost louder than Hinata during training. At one point, Hinata had eyed the District Five boy for quite awhile, just dying to talk to him because he thought being allies with him would greatly increase his chances of survival. And aside from that, he thought that Bokuto seemed like a fun, happy guy. He thought he’d get along with him easily. But when he met Atsumu, the concept faded from his mind completely.

But now that he’s reminded of Bokuto, he wonders what it would be like now if he had gone with him rather than Atsumu instead. Would he still be alive? Or would Hinata be grieving alongside his other allies? Hinata frowns silently at the thought. He may not know Bokuto personally, but he can’t help but feel sorry for him. For his allies. For his family. Many people would be mourning the death of the kid, and Hinata, as a kind-hearted, loving boy, sends his heartfelt condolences to everyone.

Hinata decides to shove the thoughts away as he glances up at Tobio. The raven head was still doing his own thing, not paying Hinata any attention because he was reportedly 'busy'. As always. Tobio eventually took a seat on one of the logs, keen to see what was in his feast bag.

Hinata was quick to sit beside Tobio, who grumbled in silent annoyance. But Hinata didn't seem to care; he was too preoccupied with wanting to know what Tobio had received in his bag to notice Tobio's dissatisfaction. And when Tobio opens his bag, he looks inside, reaching in with one hand and taking out a small navy blue box.

“What’s this?” Tobio inquires, examining the small hand sized box with curiosity.

“Well,” teases Hinata. “Usually you have to open it to know what’s inside.”

Hinata flashes a smug smirk, and Tobio grimaces in his direction before removing the lid. He sets the lid to the side and carefully examines what was hidden inside. And as he explores the interior of the little box, his brow furrows in uncertainty. Or was it irritation? It was sometimes difficult to tell with Tobio. He was constantly grumpy.

“What?” Asked Hinata, curious.

Tobio grumbles, “This is bullshit.” under his breath, annoyed.

“What??” Hinata asked again, a little louder this time.

Tobio doesn’t say anything. He only hands the small open box to Hinata to have a look for himself. And as Hinata looked into the box, he identified a few little things. He observed a spool of black thread, a smaller clear box containing sewing needles, several coloured pins, and a pair of fabric scissors.

Hinata picked up the spool of black thread from the box. “What’s wrong? It’s obviously for your jacket,” he says, indicating to Tobio's shoulder, which had a long gaping slit from Oikawa's arrow yesterday. “You should be grateful. Are you not?”

“It’s not that, dumbass,” says Tobio. “I know it’s for my jacket,” and then he sighs, looking embarrassed. “It’s just..”

Hinata leans in curiously. “What?” He says.

Tobio looks away. He couldn’t stand it when Hinata did that. Always leaning in closer whenever he was excited or curious. Never being able to break eye contact while Tobio could barely hold eye contact with someone for more than two seconds. Sometimes Tobio wanted to grab Hinata by the face and shove him out of the way. But then he would probably get into trouble by Miwa, so he always found himself resisting. As tempting as it was.

It took Tobio a moment or two to speak up. He was embarrassed. Hinata could tell from his lack of response and the visible flush of red on his cheeks. And as Hinata leans in a little more, Tobio hesitantly mumbled out,

“I don’t know how to sew.”

Hinata stares at Tobio for a little longer than required, inspecting every inch of his face to determine whether he was serious or not. But he was so ashamed, it was obvious he was telling the truth. Tobio Kageyama did not know how to sew.

A small smile creeps up onto Hinata’s face, his cheeks blowing up like balloons as he stops himself from laughing out loud. “You?” Hinata says, trying not to laugh. “You don’t know how to sew?”

“What?” Tobio scoffs, expressing annoyance, still obviously embarrassed. “You think that’s funny?”

“No,” Hinata snorts as he covers his growing smile with his hand. Tobio raised a brow in his direction, clearly not impressed. “Sorry,” the redhead then says. “Sorry–sorry. I just find it crazy to believe that the Tobio Kageyama doesn’t know how to take part in something so simple.”

Tobio turns redder. “God, this is so stupid.” He says as he snatches the sewing box from Hinata, going to stand up.

“Hey, wait,” Hinata laughs. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh. Sit back down.”

Tobio grumbles, contemplating for a minute before he takes a seat in his original spot beside Hinata. The redhead ultimately calms down and decides to take the sewing box from Tobio, who is now perplexed. Hinata sets the small box in his lap and examines the tools within, fiddling with the black thread and taking out a single needle.

Tobio’s brows wrinkle in confusion as he watches Hinata. “What are you doing?” He finally asked.

“What?” scoffs Hinata, continuing to fiddle with the spool of thread. “Was your plan to just aimlessly poke your jacket with a needle?”

Tobio falls silent, not knowing how to retort back to that one. Tobio could barely even handle a piece of thread and a tiny needle. Heck, he couldn’t even thread a needle. He didn’t know how to sew for crying out loud. Was his plan really to sew the slit in his jacket all by himself?

“Just,” Hinata says, voice gentle. “Let me?”

And Tobio stares, his silence providing the redhead the only answer he needed.

So, with that, Hinata continues.

Tobio continues watching Hinata's skilled use of the sewing equipment. He watches as he unravels the dark thread from the spool. He watches him measure out how much thread he’ll be needing, noticing how he sticks his tongue out in concentration. Kind of cute, Tobio thinks. He watches as he cuts the thread with the little scissors, how he weaves the thread through the loop of the needle, and he watches how he smoothly presses the two lengths of thread together before making a secure knot at the end.

He then scoots a little closer to Tobio, reaching for his shoulder but he flinches back. When Hinata looks at Tobio, he looks uneasy. He seems uneasy. He's looking aside, already starting to remove his heat-protective jacket.

“No,” however, Hinata quickly stops him. “It’s freezing. You can still wear it while I sew it back together. Unless you want to catch a cold, or something?”

Tobio’s brows furrow. “What if you stab me?” He says bitterly.

“Well, if you keep moving I will.” Hinata retorts back.

Tobio grumbles, grimacing in slight irritation. But he doesn’t argue back. He simply slides his jacket back on, Hinata scoots a little closer again, and he allows the little redhead to do as he must. He allows him to get in close. He allows him to hold his arm. He allows him to push the needle through the fabric of his jacket, dubious as he watches because he is still concerned of being pricked with that small needle. He didn’t trust Hinata very much.

But in this moment, as Tobio watches him–the always so joyous and energetic boy–he sees that he is in this level of calmness. This level of concentration. He was so intent on sewing, making sure that each thread was precise and at least half a centimetre apart, and making sure that he didn't hurt Tobio, because he really was focused. Shoyo Hinata was so quiet, so peaceful, and so concentrated that Tobio found it difficult to remain doubtful.

Because maybe, just maybe, Hinata wasn’t just this big ball of joy, but also an individual who wasn't entirely useless.

Maybe. 

It was silent between the two boy’s. Hinata continued to sew the slit in his jacket, and Tobio continued to watch quietly. Eventually, however, “Where did you learn to sew?” Tobio decides to ask, breaking the stillness.

“My mom,” Hinata answers without looking up from his progress. He was really concentrated, Tobio thinks to himself. And then, he asked, “Did your parents not teach you?”

And Tobio’s stomach suddenly feels tight. “No.” He mutters, looking away. Looking anywhere else but at Hinata, because sometimes, even in moments where Tobio thinks Hinata isn’t as bad as he thinks, he always seems to know how to ruin the slight tranquillity.

“Oh,” Hinata says, obvious regret hidden in his voice. “I’m sorry.”

Tobio doesn’t answer, and Hinata immediately regrets his words. He had completely forgotten that Miwa was all Tobio had left. He didn’t have any parents, as they had passed away during a mining accident. He also recalls Tobio mentioning his grandfather who had died due to some disease. If only Hinata had remembered this a little earlier, maybe there wouldn’t be this sudden tension again. He was just getting used to the sudden peace with his rival.

There was a long pause between them. A long awkward pause. But then,

“How old were you when..” Hinata starts to say, but he feels Tobio tense up, and he’s already regretting speaking up again. “Uhm..sorry.” He quickly says.

Tobio doesn’t answer again, and Hinata wants to yell. He wants to yell and curse his big mouth, because he needed to learn when it was time to shut up. Tobio was obviously uncomfortable and wanted nothing to do with this conversation, and yet, here Hinata was, asking so many unnecessary questions. And it was worse enough that Tobio already hated Hinata. So what made Hinata so sure Tobio would actually open up and–

“I was four when they died,” suddenly, however, cutting off Hinata’s messy thoughts, was Tobio. He was still so tense, as Hinata could sense–or feel–as he held onto his arm, but he was opening up. He then continues with, “I wasn’t exactly old enough to be taught how to sew back then.”

Hinata frowns. “I’m sorry.”

“You say sorry a lot.” Tobio points out.

“Sorry.” He says again.

Tobio looks at Hinata, and when he looks at him, there’s this genuine remorse written all over his face. He looked sorry, because he really was sorry. And Tobio has to look away again, because he couldn’t stand that look. He couldn’t stand Hinata. He couldn’t stand the way that he was always so sympathetic, so emotional, even for those who shouldn’t matter like Tobio, because wasn’t he his rival? The person he promised to kill?

So why was he looking at him like that? Why did he have to feel so sorry for him?

Hinata looked at Tobio expectedly, so, “After my parents, after grandpa, I always relied on Miwa,” he decides to continue. “I always ran after her, cried to her, got her to sew back my broken stuffed animals, or got her to attend to the little cuts and bruises on my knees,” as he talks, he can feel Hinata’s eyes. He tries not to look at him. “There were several things I learned as I got older. Like how to treat my own wounds, how to hunt, and to how to fight. But it was the little things that kept me running back to Miwa.”

Tobio glances up to look at Miwa. She was seated on the other side of the fire, sitting with Atsumu as they share the meals they received in their feast bags, laughing and smiling together, sitting so close it almost elicits this spark of annoyance in Tobio. Because that was his sister. His sister, and no one should be allowed to be that close to her. Especially in the Hunger Games. Especially Atsumu.

As he watches Miwa smile, Tobio says, “After my parents, I nearly thought of Miwa like a mother,” and he clenches his fists in his lap because what was Atsumu’s plan? What was his plan with Miwa? His sister? His only sister? “And when I found out that we were both selected during the reaping, I couldn’t think of anything else but having to protect her.”

Hinata follows Tobio’s gaze. He notices Atsumu and Miwa. He notices their happy demeanours. And he notices how tense Tobio was beside him as he watches the two, and Hinata frowns.

“I thought because she did so much for me–that she still does so much for me–I had to repay her. Had to look after her like she looked after me,” he says, continuing to eye Miwa. And in the next second, Hinata can feel Tobio trembling beside him. Out of fear? Worry? Anger? Maybe all of the above? “I don’t know what I would–” he pauses. “What I would do if I lost her,” he then sighs, whispering. “I’d never forgive myself.”

And Hinata looks at Tobio, expression soft and so, so gentle, to the point Tobio can’t get himself to look at him at all. His gaze simply just falls towards his lap, his clenched, trembling fists, and he realises he can feel his eyes stinging because oh god, that thought was haunting him. It has been haunting him ever since they were released into the arena. Ever since they were delivered to the Capitol. Ever since he was just a little kid because he couldn’t stand the idea of losing Miwa too.

He couldn’t lose her like he lost his parents. How he lost grandfather. He just couldn’t.

She was all he had, and he couldn’t let those haunting nightmares become his reality.

There was a long pause between the two boy’s that Tobio hadn’t realised until Hinata had said, “All done.” signalling he had finished sewing together the slit in his jacket.

While Hinata put the spool of thread away along with the little fabric scissors and the singular needle, Tobio examined the now closed up slit in his shoulder. The pads of his fingertips brushed across his shoulder, gently touching at the taut and secure thread that ultimately held the jacket together. Tobio admits Hinata did a pretty decent job (albeit not out loud).

After Hinata put the remaining sewing tools in the box, he set it to the side. He leans forward in his seated stance, resting an elbow against his knee and his chin against his palm while he observes the fire. As Tobio glances at him, he realises that the flames reflect in his brown eyes, making them appear redder than his hair. And he notices the quiet contemplation in those eyes. The earnestness in his gentle expression. He was thinking, and he had something to say.

“I have a sister too,” he decides to say. “I get it, Kageyama. I do.”

As he speaks, he doesn’t look at Tobio. Not once.

“I don’t know what I would do if anything bad were to happen to her as well, but I would trust her with her choices,” he continues. “Because if that's what makes her happy, I have no influence over what she decides after that. Nats-" he pauses, pressing his lips together hard, then hastily corrects himself. "Miwa's happy. But it doesn't guarantee things will go as south as they do in your nightmares.”

Tobio’s gaze falls from the little redhead to Miwa, and he sees that she is happy. He sees that she is happy as she smiles with Atsumu, laughs with him, pressing close to him. And there’s this little voice in Tobio’s head telling him that this was wrong. That she shouldn’t have to be happy with him, because they were supposed to be enemies.

However..

Hinata then, finally, looks at Tobio, and his eyes are brown again. This perfect, dark shade of brown. “Try to understand her perspective of things and relax, Kageyama,” he says, expression soft as he speaks because..because he cares? “You gotta look after yourself too.”

And, however, there was another little voice that was telling Tobio that this is the happiest she’s ever been in a long time. And that maybe he should focus on finding his own happiness too, even if that means Miwa isn’t a part of it.

…

That night, Akaashi couldn’t find it in himself to face his allies. Not after everything. Not after Bokuto.

Just like he did earlier into the games–in the alliance–he sits further away from his team, sitting against a singular tree because he couldn’t bear the thought of facing this tension. There is this obvious tension between Akaashi and the others, because Bokuto is gone, and nothing is the same. Nothing is the same without him, and everyone knows. Everyone knows, because they’re all mourning for the bubbly boy who is no longer sitting around the fire, burning his rabbit and laughing so loud he’d cause unwanted attention to themselves.

Akaashi always claimed to hate it. Claimed to hate Bokuto. But now the remembrance of his contagious laugh pulls at Akaashi’s heart, and he wants to cry.

It was getting late. The others were beginning to head off to sleep, while Akaashi decided to keep the first watch shift. Kuroo seemed very uneasy about it, but he held his tongue because he knows Akaashi isn’t looking for an argument right now. So, Kuroo decided to let it go, and decided to get some sleep.

Once everyone was asleep, Akaashi feels this want to cry. To scream as loud as he can. To find Tobio and make him pay for what he stole from him. Or perhaps jump out of this arena, find Sakusa and Ushijima, and kill them both mercilessly, bringing the Hunger Games to an end. He’d be free.

But it wouldn't change what has been taken away from Akaashi.

It wouldn’t bring Bokuto back.

Akaashi squeezes the bow in his lap, his fists practically turning white with both hatred and anger, for none of this was fair. But there was nothing he could do but sit here and mourn, and imagine those stupid impossible dreams that had no chance of happening now, because the one person he needed most was gone.

Akaashi slumps back against the tree, shivering as he pulls his hood up over his head in the cold night. He decides to examine the new arrows he had received from his feast bag. He got a fair few, which was a relief owing to the fact that he was beginning to run quite low. But the Capitol was quite aware of his lack of arrows, so of course, they were able to resolve it.

As he examines his brand new arrows, he notices Bokuto’s feast bag sitting beside him from the corner of his eye. Akaashi feels his heart tighten. He had been avoiding his bag all afternoon. He didn’t think he had it in himself to know what was hiding in there. But there was this other little voice in his head telling him he should open it. That Bokuto would want him to know what was in there, even if it was something small and insignificant.

Akaashi stares at the bag, unsure. He feels his heart squeezing tighter as he fiddles with the bow in his lap, for it may not be his place to know. Perhaps he was being selfish by being so curious. And perhaps he should just let the thought of what might be within go.

However, Akaashi's curious nature got the best of him.

The District Eight boy puts his bow and arrows to the side before he decides to pick up the bag labelled in a five. He places the bag in his lap, fidgeting with the material to calm his anxieties because, yeah, he was nervous. He was anxious. He was afraid. But he had to let go of his feelings and just go for it. Unburden himself of the complex feelings—both happy and sad—that he has for Bokuto.

Akaashi hesitates for a moment before slowly unzipping the bag. As he opens it, his gaze lands on a metal container. He reaches to pull it out, but something else captures his attention. Stuck to the lid of the container is a small piece of paper—a note.

Akaashi hesitates again, but he picks up the note from the top of the container, and he sees this beautiful handwriting written over the paper. The writing was flawless, like the individual who had written it had taken their time to write because they wanted it to be perfect. They wanted it to be perfect for Bokuto.

And he wasn’t even the one reading it.

Akaashi pinches his lips together sadly, grasping the letter tightly, but deciding to read it. And as he reads it, every curve, every syllable, his heart tightens even more, because oh, Bokuto should still be alive to see this. To read a note from his family, who anticipated him to come home..

He reads the note again.

Koutarou,

Here’s a little something to keep you going. You’re so strong, and we couldn’t be more proud. So please, remember we’re all at home waiting for you.

Keep pushing.

We love and miss you so much, baby.

From all of us,

With all our love.

P.S.

The District Eight boy is really cute.

Akaashi’s eyes stung, his grip on the note tightening. Akaashi hadn’t even noticed until now. His lips slowly part, and he lets out a shaky breath as he reads over the note again, and again, and again, because that’s what Bokuto would’ve done. He would have read over his mother's consoling handwriting over and over again while repeating to himself, 'I'll be home soon, I'm going to win,' because there is no one he loves more than the people waiting for him at home.

Akaashi’s lip wobbled as he read it one last time. He could hear his heart shattering over and over again just imagining how his family must feel at this moment. That their son–their baby–was dead. He had died before he even got the chance to read over his mother’s comforting words, and god, it hurt.

Akaashi examined the note and decided to flip it over, hoping maybe there was something written on the back. That there was a longer message for Bokuto. But when he flipped the little note over, oh..oh, it was so much more heart wrenching than just words.

Through tear-blurred eyes, Akaashi stared at the black-and-white photograph. It captured a moment frozen in time—five people, including Bokuto, all smiling. In the center, a younger Bokuto, perhaps thirteen or fourteen, enveloped in his mother's embrace, wore that recognisable all tooth grin, so bright it felt like a bittersweet ache in Akaashi's heart. Flanking them were two girls, one with all white hair and the other with deep black, undoubtedly Bokuto’s older sisters. And beside his mother stood a tall, smiling man—his father.

They all looked so happy in this photo. So, so happy before the Capitol decided to take their heart and joy, and their reason for life away. Their youngest kid. And it was torture just thinking about it. Thinking about the little thirteen year old boy they decided they’d take away from this family. And oh, Akaashi wanted to cry.

Akaashi rubbed his eyes with his free hand, his heart aching so bad it hurt. But Akaashi counted to three under his breath, because he couldn’t keep crying. He drew a shaky breath, studying the photograph one last time before he decided to slip it carefully into his pocket. He’d keep it safe. He’d keep Bokuto safe with him forever.

Remembering that wasn’t all Bokuto had received, Akaashi picked up the bag again and pulled out the container. It was hefty, Akaashi noticed. He wonders what it might be. And as he prepares to open the metal container, he stiffens because the heated aroma inside has already spoiled what was contained. But he continues to open it, until the lid is pushed to the side.

And as Akaashi stares into the container, he sighs shakily, because, oh, Bokuto had told Akaashi about this while he still lived, didn’t he?

Yakiniku.

Wasn’t that his favourite food?

Akaashi stares at the cooked meat with heavy eyes, his lip quivering and threatening him to cry. But he quickly closes the container again and pushes it to the side, and he buries his face into his knees, and shit, here come the tears.

Akaashi cries into his knees, hugging his legs so close to his chest, he can feel himself trembling. Not because it was so cold on this late winter night, but because this wasn’t fair. He didn’t care how many times he had to say it.

This wasn’t fair.

This wasn’t fair.

This wasn’t fair..

This wasn't fair because the Capitol—these horrible people—had deprived someone so valuable of the treasures of his life. They took him away from his favourite foods. From his family. From Akaashi.

And Akaashi would say it over and over again until it was his turn to die.

This wasn’t fair.

…

Oikawa blinks slowly, gazing up at the stars in the dark night sky. He tries to count the bright white dots of the night, but everything around him continues to move, and it looks like the sky is crashing down on the District One boy, making him feel sick.

Poison continues to spread all throughout Oikawa’s body. He can feel this numb, aching feeling running all the way down his legs and down towards his toes. From the tips of his fingers and all the way to his throbbing head. And he wanted to throw it all back up and just get out of here, because he couldn’t take it anymore.

He couldn’t keep playing in a game he was never cut out for. And god, if he said that out loud, he would be such a huge disappointment. To his father. His family. Hajime..

Oh, it was never his intention to disappoint Hajime. He wanted to come home. He promised he would come home, so he could be with his Hajime again, make him proud, and they would never have to worry about the games having to separate them again. Ever again. And everything would be good. Everything would be happy. Oikawa would be happy.

But here he was, sprawled flat on his back on the grass, staring up at the night sky through sick, puffy eyes, motionless, and someone might as well come find him now and declare him dead. Because he looked dead. Oikawa looked dead.

Because he was giving up.

Tooru Oikawa was giving up, deciding to let the people he hated most take him away.

Oikawa exhales one loud, unsteady breath, observing the cloud of fog escape from his lips with weary eyes. Oikawa is unable to feel his body, yet he manages to extend a feeble arm alongside him, long, thin fingers delving through strands of damp grass and dirt until he’s clasping his bow.

He does not tremble. Maybe because he could no longer feel anything. Because the poison forced his muscles to go so numb and he just couldn’t feel anything anymore. Not his arms, not his legs, not the continuous beating drum of his heart. But he wasn't afraid. He couldn't bring himself to feel afraid anymore.

Oikawa’s movements are sluggish. But eventually, as he grips his bow, he inserts a single arrow into the weapon. He then prepares his bow by holding it up in front of him, pulling the string, aiming, and then,

He releases the string, and the arrow shoots straight up in the air.

Oikawa watches the arrow fly up in the air through half lidded eyes. Careless eyes, because what else was there to care about anymore? Eventually, the magic of gravity pauses the arrow in the sky, and it comes falling back down, straight towards Oikawa, and was this it? Was this it for Tooru Oikawa? Was he never going to see Hajime again? Would he never be able to touch him? Those beautiful strands of brown hair? Those perfect lips? Those–

Oikawa closes his eyes, and the last thing he sees is the arrow hurtling down straight at him.

And then,

Nothing.

It didn't hit him. It lands right beside his head.

Oikawa’s eyes flutter open, and he lets out a trembling, frigid breath. Everything is foggy and fuzzy, and Oikawa can feel tears spring up in his eyes. His entire body is numb. Cold. So cold, and his lips quivered, and oh, was this what death felt like? Or was this just what Oikawa wanted?

But, did Oikawa really want to die, or did he just want to hold Hajime forever, live with him forever, and forget about the games? Forever. That was a beautiful word. A beautiful thought.

Forever.

With Hajime..

Oikawa blinked carefully, attempting to count the stars again but they kept moving, travelling from one spot to another. Plus, his vision was so blurry he couldn’t even figure out if one star was three. There’s also this ringing in his ear. This loud, fucking ringing. The critters of the night are loud and irritating, echoing through one ear and out the other, and maybe Oikawa is just imagining things now, but he hears the cannon.

Was that for him? Was it for someone else? Or was it all in Oikawa’s head? It couldn’t have been Oikawa. He was still alive..

Right?

That notion stays with Oikawa for a bit longer before his head throbs more violently at the sound of something approaching. Something loud and unpleasant, and so large, and then there's this bright light floating high above Oikawa. There's a surge of wind, his hair flying everywhere, and Oikawa understands. This is the Capitol's aircraft. The one that picks up deceased players.

But I’m not dead, is what Oikawa thinks to himself. Or am I dead? Am I really dead? Was I never going to see Hajime again?

Oikawa doesn’t know. The only memory that lingers is the blinding white light searing his vision and the enormous claw descending toward him, just before darkness enveloped his consciousness.

Forever?

Chapter Text

Atsumu jolted upright, a loud gasp escaping his mouth as he awoke in a cold sweat. His heart raced, pounding against his chest like a damn drum, daring to tattoo itself into his chest forever. He places a trembling hand on his heart, taking deep, shaky breaths to calm down, but the remnants of his nightmares clung to him like a shroud, refusing to leave him alone.

His nightmares only haunt him now. Osamu only haunts him now.

It was still dark. Maybe two or three o'clock in the morning? The fire had already begun to burn out, reflecting the late hour of the night. Atsumu was still trembling, sweating, breathing heavily because god, that dream felt so much more real than the others. Real, and so much darker.

He remembers being stuck underwater. He tried to swim to the surface but something was pulling him back. Holding him back. This guilt. He tried to scream, but no one could hear him but his brother. He could see his brother staring down at him from the surface, that look of hatred still in his grey eyes because god, he never was going to forgive Atsumu, was he? He had that same expression on his face just like he did that day.

And then, Atsumu was drowning. He could no longer hold his breath. It was as if that talent was snatched from him, and all of a sudden, he was drowning in his own guilt. His own guilt as a son. As a brother.

Atsumu hides his face in his hands, taking deep continuous breaths, while trying to count to ten. He needed to calm down. He had to calm down.

“Atsumu?”

Suddenly, says a sweet, recognisable voice. Atsumu quickly looks up from his hands to see Miwa. She was sitting across from him, wide awake, because suddenly he remembered that she was taking the watch shift for the rest of the night. She looked tired, but she was awake. She also had this concerned look on her face, tilting her head in silent question, brow raised in perplexity, and Atsumu simply stares until she asked,

“Are you okay?”

Atsumu takes another breath before answering. “Yeah,” one, shaky, breath. “Yeah, yeah–M’fine. Just a, uhm,” he pauses, pressing his lips together before saying, “Just another nightmare. Don’ worry.”

He says this while offering a smile. A delicate, sorrowful little smile. Because he did not want to bother Miwa. He didn't want her to look through him too, as his brother did, yet he and Miwa were similar in certain ways. They both seemed to know when Atsumu was off. They both seemed to know when he slipped on that mask. And right now, Atsumu wasn’t doing a very good job at keeping his anxieties in check.

He was still shaking, his whole body hot and sweating, his forehead red, and it was obvious. Miwa has seen Atsumu after he wakes up from his dreams. She frowns. It’s never been this bad before.

After a few moments of silence, Miwa decides to scoot a little closer towards Atsumu until she is sitting beside him. She sits there silently, eyeing Atsumu with this obvious amount of care and worry, while Atsumu lacks the strength to even look at her. She was too sweet. Too perfect. Too amazing, and how could she just stop what she was doing and try and take care of Atsumu? Does she not see? Does she not see what kind of a person he is? An idiot who commits mistakes?

Atsumu tenses, elbows resting against his knees and he continues to tremble. His face squished up into this afraid expression, and oh man, now they can all see him, can’t they? They all see that he’s afraid. That he’s scared. That he doesn’t know what he’s doing. All of District Four can see him shaking. His family. Osamu. They see him. Trembling, and he doesn’t know how to slip on the mask anymore.

Suddenly, dragging Atsumu away from his jumbled thoughts, "Hey.." Miwa gently places her hand on Atsumu’s arm, rubbing simple circles against his clothed skin with her thumb. Her eyes are soft when Atsumu looks at her. She studies his expression with so much care, so much worry, and oh, Atsumu could cry. “Atsumu..” She whispers as she slips her hand around his arm, hooking her arm beneath his.

Atsumu stares at her for a little longer, his countenance squishing into one of remorse, sadness, and everything he's been feeling over the last few weeks. He then stares down into his lap. "M'sorry.." He murmurs.

“No,” Miwa shakes her head, her arm around his tightening slightly. “No, don’t be. It’s okay.”

Atsumu presses his eyes shut tightly, keeping his head low, refusing to look up because he knows he’s going to cry. He doesn’t want Miwa to see him like this. He was supposed to be carefree. He was supposed to be charming. He was supposed to be confident and funny, everything but sad, because this wasn’t the side of Atsumu he wanted Miwa to see. The sad and regretful side of him. That wasn’t who he wanted Miwa to remember.

Atsumu could feel tears bubbling in his eyes. He squeezes his eyes shut tighter, refusing to cry. He sniffles, attempting to wipe his shielded eyes with the back of his palm, while Miwa decided to unhook her arm from his, and wrap it around his shoulders (which was difficult owing to their slight height difference, even as they were seated), and she gently leans against him, rubbing his back consolingly without saying a word.

She didn't need to say anything in this moment. Atsumu was simply grateful for her presence, even if he despised the thought of crying in front of her. He felt weak. He felt useless. He didn’t want Miwa to think that.

Atsumu continues to softly cry while Miwa holds him. Comforts him. Nothing else could be heard save the loud creatures of the night and the slowly blazing fire in front of them. Miwa would trace gentle, caring fingers along the District Four boy's back, and Atsumu found himself breathing in and out continually, slowly, taking deep breaths because, oh, it felt good. It was calming him down. Just the touch of her small fingers was enough to help him. Their proximity. The feel of her hair against his skin. Atsumu took another long breath, and he was okay.

He was okay, because Miwa was here, and that’s all that mattered.

After calming down, Atsumu finally lifted his head again, quickly wiping away at his red eyes with his rough hands in case there were anymore tears threatening to waterfall their way out. But he was okay. Everything was okay. He stares blankly at the burning out fire, attempting to ignore the fact that he let himself break in front of Miwa. He didn’t want to look at her. He didn’t want to see that look of pity on her face. Not now.

Miwa couldn't tear her gaze away from Atsumu, analysing every detail of his sad face, including the puffiness of his eyes, the crimson around them and his nose. Miwa knows that something happened between him and his family before he departed for the Hunger Games. Something so awful that it even tortures him while he sleeps. She wants to know. She wishes she could magically know so she could help him. Comfort him. And spare her the misery of asking,

“What happened?” because was she pushing Atsumu? Was she stepping over the line? “Between..you and your brother?”

And Atsumu didn’t answer. He didn’t look at her, and her gut immediately clenches because was it not her place to know? Was she putting Atsumu in a position where he felt obligated to respond? Miwa quickly tenses and decides to remove her arm from Atsumu. However,

“I was an idiot,” Atsumu says, his shoulder gently pressing against Miwa’s because he wants to be close? Because he wants Miwa’s comfort? He then sighs out, “I thought I was doin’ somethin’ good.”

And Miwa’s expression softens as he rests his head against her shoulder, his whole body practically deflating the moment he leans against her. Miwa softly smiles, leaning into his touch also. She says nothing, preferring to listen as Atsumu recounts the events surrounding the Miya twins of District Four.

…

“Idiot!” screams Osamu, as Atsumu falls into the sand, glaring up at him through angry eyes as he continues to scream, “Y’idiot!” even as he pushed him to the ground.

Atsumu sits up. He groans. “Yep. I heard ya the first twenty seven times.” He mutters bitterly.

“D’ya have any sense of responsibility?” he ignores his twin brother, continuing to express his dissatisfaction. No. No, his anger. “You an’ yer reckless behaviour. You an’ yer irresponsible self–god! Fuckin’ hell Tsumu, don’ ya realise how much shit you’ve put us through? Ma? Dad?”

Atsumu sighs, finding his way back onto his feet. “Samu, just listen–”

“Yourself?!” Osamu blurts out in a yell, cutting off Atsumu. “Don’ ya know what they’re gonna do ta ya? Tsumu..,” he pauses, scoffing, before uttering, “Tsumu, they’re gonna kill you!”

Atsumu falls silent, his expression softening, because fuck, he never considered the consequences of his plans. He never considered what this could lead to. He thought that everything would pan out. That everything would turn out good for him and his family in the end. But no. No, he fucked up.

He fucked up big time.

Atsumu’s shoulders deflate as he sighs out, “Samu..” and he takes a cautious step towards his angry twin. “You don’ understand. I was doin’ this for us. For our family.”

“For our family?” scoffs Osamu. “For our family?! You get involved with people yer don’ even know, you sneak out at god fuckin’ knows what hour, you attack the mayor an’ attempt ta steal, an’ ya wanna say you did this for our family?!”

“Yer not listenin’ ta me–”

“Yer a criminal, Tsumu! A criminal who has finally stepped over the fuckin’ line, an’ has completely destroyed our family!”

“Just listen ta me!” Atsumu yells, meeting his breaking point. “Please–god, fuckin’ please, Samu–”

“Then stop bein’ a dickhead for once in yer goddamn life an’ let me talk ta my brother,” Osamu's angry countenance alters for a second, which Atsumu notices instantly. There is a plea in Osamu's expression. His brows furrow frantically, his eyes soften but retain their apparent wrath. And his voice breaks as he begs, “Please..”

Because has Atsumu really been a bad brother all this time? All these years? Does he even talk to Osamu as Atsumu anymore? As his brother? As his best friend?

Atsumu falls silent, his look indicating this desire for his brother to understand. This desire for him to just listen to him, because this was never his intention. He never intended to worsen their troubles. He never intended to damage their family. But here they were, all at risk of disaster.

Atsumu takes a step towards his brother. “Look,” he says, speaking as calmly as he possibly could. “I talked ta some mates about our issues, ‘ight? About our financial issues, about ma, about dad. They said they could help.”

“Mates?” Osamu scoffs in disbelief. “They claim they wanna help but instead commit a crime an’ ya wanna call ‘em mates?”

“Osamu,” Atsumu says just under his breath, muttering out his name seriously. His proper name. “Please.” He says. Begs.

Osamu was practically fuming. Expression lacking any sympathy at all, only anger and disappointment, because he just couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t believe his own brother was careless enough to look over the fact that he was going to get himself killed. They were going to kill him. And there was nothing he and their family could do about it now but wait. Wait for them to take him away and oh..god, Osamu suddenly felt nauseous.

But even though he was angry and upset, disappointed and shocked—all of the above—Osamu closed his mouth, allowing Atsumu to explain himself. Explain himself and his stupid fucking decisions.

“We had been plannin’ ta rob ‘em for a while. The mayor’s place,” Atsumu continued, feeling more and more guilty with every word he uttered. “It was the only way I thought I could help. I thought with all that money I could help our family, an’ we wouldn’ be livin’ off of scraps for the rest of our lives.”

“We wouldn’t be livin’ off of scraps for the rest of our lives, Tsumu. We could’ve figured out a way.”

“I know, Samu, I–”

“Together.” Osamu states out firmly. Atsumu falls silent, and Osamu says, “Don’ ya understand what kinda world we’re livin’ in? We may be a more advanced district, but the Capitol still rules over us like we’re more pawns in their game–because fuckin’ hell, Tsumu, we are. We are still under their control. Manipulated an’ controlled at their whim.”

“An’ that’s exactly the problem,” reasons Atsumu. “We let it happen. We let ‘em control us, abuse us, and we’re fuckin’ sittin’ here doin’ nothing but drownin’ in our own poorness when we could be fightin’ back.”

“But yer not fightin’ back! You attacked the mayor, not the fuckin’ Capitol!”

“Ya think the mayor is any better than the Capitol?” scoffs the blonde. “That man sits around on his lazy ass all day an’ does jack for his district, only eating away at everythin’ he receives from the Capitol because he is supposedly ‘better’ than us. He gets treated like royalty for bein’ a careless mayor.”

“God, Tsumu! I don’ care about that!” Osamu blurts. “I don’ care about the royal treatment, because this is the world we’re livin’ in–and yer still lookin’ over it like it’s not a death trap waitin’ ta swallow you up.”

“So you think this is all okay? That the Capitol treats the riches of this district with respect while the rest of us are left ta suffer?”

“I didn’t say that,” he hisses. “I’ll never agree with the Capitol’s abuse. All I’m sayin’ is that we have ta live with it. It’s been like this for the past seventeen years of our lives, an’ it will continue ta be like this till the day we die.”

Atsumu stares at his twin brother with disbelief, scoffing, “Yer unbelievable.”

“I’m unbelievable?” and Osamu laughs, like Atsumu had said something so untrue. “You disregard the clear rules the Capitol sets for us, and ya wanna call me unbelievable?” he takes a step towards Atsumu, pointing a finger as he says, “Yer careless, immature, an’ reckless; they plan ta kill ya after tomorrow's reapin’, an’ there’s no way you can use that lil’ charm of yours ta get yourself out of it now,” his angry expression shifts for a moment as he says, “Yer a dead man by tomorrow.”

Because it was true. The Capitol was going to kill Atsumu for disobeying the rules.

Atsumu Miya was going to die.

Atsumu sighs, taking a closer step towards his brother. “Samu,” he says. “Just try to understand–”

“No!” Osamu snaps, shoving his brother away, and Atsumu can feel his anger rising, and shit. “No, just–just fuck you, Tsumu!”

Atsumu throws his hands up in some sort of surrender. “Samu, man, I’m sorry,” he says, trying to reason with him before things escalate. “I really am, I’m–”

“Yer not even takin’ this situation seriously!” he yells in disbelief. “Yer apologisin’ but that doesn’t change the fact that yer gonna–” he pauses, gulping, and oh god, he can feel this massive lump in his throat and this massive pit of forming grief in his stomach, and oh, he was going to be sick. “That–that yer gonna die.” He finishes, struggling to speak.

And Atsumu can see this. He can see that Osamu is struggling to form words. Struggling to form the word ‘die’ because he didn’t want to believe that his brother–his only brother–was going to be killed. But if he didn’t believe it, who was going to remind Atsumu he was going to die? He wasn’t taking any of this seriously, and someone needed to get it into his thick head that he wouldn’t be breathing by tomorrow.

Atsumu’s expression shifts, and he steps towards Osamu. “C’mere.” he’s saying as he wraps his arms around Osamu’s now trembling body, pulling him into this tight embrace, because he could see Osamu’s pain. He could see his fear.

Osamu’s eyes stung. He can feel tears forming. Suddenly, his face squishes angrily, and he’s shoving Atsumu off of him as he yells, “Get off of me!” because he couldn’t stand it. He couldn’t stand Atsumu. Trying to comfort him as if he cared. As if he wasn’t going to die.

Atsumu stares at his upset twin brother, staggering slightly as a result of Osamu's hard shove, which knocked him off balance in the shifting sand. It twists something inside Atsumu's gut to see Osamu so distraught and overwhelmed by anger. No. No, this isn't just a fit of anger; Atsumu can't recall ever seeing his brother so angry. It’s as if the ground beneath them is trembling with the intensity of Osamu’s emotions, and Atsumu doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know how to help, because Osamu was only pushing him away.

How can he help his brother if he keeps pushing him away?

Atsumu tries again. He steps towards Osamu, and he can see the glossiness of his eyes, but he dismisses it for now as he says, “Samu..,” as he grabs his twin brother by the shoulders, squeezing him tightly. “Samu, y’know I love ya, right?”

Somehow, at those words, Osamu’s expression turned redder. He grabs Atsumu by the collar tightly as he says, “If you loved me you wouldn’ have hidden away all yer fuckin’ life, ditchin’ me, leavin’ me all alone,” and his voice starts to break, and his hold on Atsumu’s collar tightens. “Yer a coward who dismissed me when I needed you most–when I needed my brother–an’ now yer leavin’ me again, an’ ya wanna say that you love me?” he scoffs, outraged. “Yer a lyin’ piece of shit an’ I’ll never fuckin’ forgive you.”

Atsumu’s brows wrinkle, and he opens his mouth to speak again–

“Fuck you, Tsumu!” Instead, Osamu yells. “Jus–just fuck you–you claim ta care but you can’t even find it in ya ta talk ta ma, who’s crying inside knowin’ that she won’t have a son by tomorrow. An’ dad? Fuck, you probably have no idea that that man is tryna reason with the mayor an’ the Capitol, goin’ as far as offerin’ himself because he doesn’t want you ta die.”

“I never asked for this!” Atsumu snaps.

“Bullshit!” Osamu squeezes his collar again. “Ya think I don’ know my own brother?”

“Samu, I don’ wanna die–”

And Osamu had finally broke.

In the flash of an eye, suddenly, Atsumu was on the ground, groaning through gritted teeth as he immediately reached for the left side of his eye because fuck, it ached like hell. And when he glances up at Osamu, his shoulders heave up and down, his breathing pattern is erratic, his hand is clenched into a fist, and he looks so angry. So upset. With Atsumu.

Atsumu stares up at his brother with a mix of emotions. Regret. Anger. Sorrow. He didn’t know how to feel, but what he did know is that he was afraid of the person he had turned Osamu into. All because he left him alone all these years, dismissing him like he was trash on the sidewalk, and now, finally, Osamu has just lost it completely.

He had finally snapped after all these years.

Osamu took a tentative step towards his brother, hovering over him, his eyes scrutinising him like prey, but he hesitated. There was this obvious amount of hesitation in those eyes. He then leant down and grabbed Atsumu by the collar again, janking his face towards his own. Atsumu winced painfully. That punch from earlier was bound to leave a bruise.

Osamu stares at Atsumu with this red glint in his eyes for a little longer, before he scoffs out, “Was this yer plan all along?” and oh, Atsumu can’t help but wince at the sound of his voice breaking. “Yer a walkin’ piece of shit. Yer a sad walkin’ piece of shit, always wanderin’ off elsewhere durin’ the day, or–or hidin’ in yer room–an’ don’ think for a second I don’ know what’s wrong with ya. You were just waitin’ for the right opportunity ta die, an’ now here we are.”

Atsumu doesn’t say anything. He merely stares up at his angry brother with this look of guilt, and he gulps, because he doesn't know what to say. He didn’t know how to get himself out of this one. Not even his charm could save him anymore.

Osamu’s eyes begin to water. “You don’ care about anyone but yourself,” he says. “You dismiss yer family's perspective on things. You dismiss everyone. You dismiss me. You had the life unlike anyone else, an’ you, Atsumu fuckin’ Miya, wants to kill himself because he realises now how miserable his fuckin’ life is for dismissing the real good people in his life?”

Atsumu gulps again, and he can feel his heart in his throat, and it’s beating so fast, and he wanted to run away, drown in the ocean around them, and fuck, he couldn’t take it anymore.

Osamu squeezed his collar again, but his hold was a little less aggressive. “Tsumu..” and his expression softens. “Tsumu, why didn’ you ask for help? Why did you hide away from us?” he pauses, voice cracking as he says, “From me?”

And as Atsumu looks into those pleading eyes, he sees that he wants an answer. That he needs an answer before the Capitol takes him away for good after tomorrow's reaping. And he sees that he’s desperate, because he loves Atsumu. He loves his brother and wants to help but it was too late.

There was no saving Atsumu now.

Atsumu’s eyes fell, because he couldn’t look at Osamu anymore. And there was this lump in Osamu’s throat because he knew. He knew there was no saving Atsumu now. He could’ve. Fuck, he could’ve done something to protect him all these years but he didn’t, because maybe Atsumu isn’t the only coward in the Miya family.

Osamu squeezes his eyes shut so tight because he couldn’t allow himself to cry. Not when their mom was in there struggling alongside their father–he just needed to stay strong. He janks Atsumu by the collar, immediately pulling him into a strong hug, and he wants to cry. God, he wants to cry. But he doesn’t.

“Idiot..” Osamu whispers strongly, holding Atsumu so firmly because he knows he'll never get the opportunity to be this close to his brother again. “Y’idiot..”

Because by tomorrow, Atsumu will be killed.

And there was nothing he could do about it.

Or so, that’s what they originally thought.

…

The day of the reaping felt more intense than before.

Most years it wouldn’t be any different. Atsumu would stand beside his brother along with every other girl and boy his age, they’d watch that stupid ‘inspiring’ video on the Hunger Games, that pale skinned escort dressed in something overly shiny would speak into the microphone, always so overdressed even though she had the personality of a bored teenager who wanted to go home, she would draw two names from each glass bowl, and the Miya twins would be safe from the games for yet, another year.

But this year was different. Very different.

Still, Atsumu stands alongside Osamu, and he doesn’t look at him once. But could he blame him? Atsumu was as stiff as a board, watching the video on the screen up front, just as he did every year. He’s even memorised each and every word to it. As he watches the clip, he can feel the mayor’s eyes on him, practically blazing a hole into his head with those angry eyes, but Atsumu refuses to make eye contact with the man. He doesn’t want to face him again. Actually, it feels like everyone is looking at him, and it makes Atsumu feel sick, because they know..

They all know.

Atsumu tries to ignore the feeling of the hundreds of eyes on him, but he can feel his palms sweating, and he wants to go home. The reaping was never a good place to be. Always feeling so tense and uneasy alongside everybody else knowing that your name was in that bowl, hearing the cries of parents and family, knowing that their kid was going to be sent off to fight in an arena, likely to die and never return. Atsumu might have sworn he could hear his own mother's weeping, knowing he would die after the reaping, no matter what happened. The blonde attempted to wipe his sweaty palms against his slacks, but it did not help. He was as nervous as tiny prey surrounded by predators.

Eventually, after the video had concluded, the bodies around Atsumu felt a lot more tense than before, because this was it. This was the moment they learned whether or not they'd been selected for the forthcoming Hunger Games.

The lady escort said nothing, apparently eager for the reaping to be over and done with so she could return home. She trotted over to the glass bowl containing the girls' names, murmuring something along the lines of 'First the girls..or whatever.' before reaching into the bowl and fidgeting with the papers before deciding on one.

The first selected tribute ended up being a girl named Jessie, a blonde, tan, seventeen year old who seemed uneasy as she walked up onto the stage. But with that strong expression, she was able to readily hide her fears. Atsumu could tell she was afraid. He was adept at looking through people considering he knew every trick in the book for maintaining a decent poker face.

The lady escort wasted no time, already walking towards the boy’s glass bowl without even acknowledging the blonde girl. She really wanted this to be over. Usually, Atsumu would feel as tense as ever when she reached into the bowl containing the boy's names. He’d usually hope and pray and whisper under his breath that it wasn’t him, because it scared him to near bits. However, this year, Atsumu couldn't bring himself to be nervous because he was going to die anyhow. If he is selected today, he will die attempting in the arena. And if he isn't selected, the Capitol will execute Atsumu for defying the mayor of this wretched shithole.

There was no winning in this situation. Atsumu was going to die.

So, as the gleaming escort stretched a long pale hand into the glass bowl, playing with each and every piece of paper until she chose one, Atsumu couldn't get himself to feel nervous at all. However, as she scooped up a single piece of paper and walked back towards the microphone..

“Osamu Miya.”

It was as if the nerves rushed back all at once.

Atsumu’s eyes blew wide. His hands started to sweat even more, and god, he was shaking because no, no, no, why now? After all these years of surviving the reaping together, why now of all times does it have to be him? Osamu? His brother? Oh god, he couldn’t breathe.

When he looked over at Osamu, his expression didn’t seem to shift at all. He looked as calm as ever as the people around him and Atsumu backed away, clearing a path for the grey-haired twin and Atsumu wanted to scream no. No, no, no, don’t take my brother away, please. But Atsumu was at a loss for words, completely taken aback as he stared at his carefree brother like this is what he wanted. Like this is what he’s been waiting for all these years–no. No, no, Osamu hated the games. He hated the Capitol. This is not what he wanted.

Right?

Osamu doesn’t look at Atsumu once. Atsumu wants to say something. Anything. But Osamu is already travelling down the route that the people have created for him, towards the stage and shit. Atsumu's hands tremble by his side, his breathing is out of sync, he hears his mother crying, and he wants to shout for Osamu. He wants to cry. He wants to apologise. For everything. He wants to make it up to Osamu for what a terrible brother he was–god, how can he make it up to him?

There is a ringing in Atsumu's ear. How can I repay him? Continues to reverberate throughout his disorganised mind. I treated him like dirt. I was mean. I am a bad brother. I want to make things up to him. I need to make it up to you.

I’m going to make it up to you.

In an instant, the nerves vanished entirely. He stopped trembling, stopped sweating. Clarity returned, and it felt like his feet were moving of their own accord. He navigated through the kids around him, weaving his way through the crowd until he found himself in the middle of the pathway. When he got close enough to Osamu, he halted him in his tracks, gripping his wrist firmly.

Osamu turns around, his eyes wide and filled with confusion as he looks at his brother. Atsumu meets his gaze, an unmistakable mix of apology and newfound confidence shining in his eyes. But was he actually confident about this? Fuck no.

Atsumu squeezes Osamu’s wrist once before his gaze shifts to the lady escort, who watches them with clear annoyance. Her expression screams, ‘Can these stupid kids take any more of my time?’ So, with that…

“I volunteer as tribute!” Atsumu announces for everyone to hear, and a wave of astonishment ripples through the crowd. Gasps echo around them, mingling with the sound of their mother’s cries. Osamu stares at Atsumu, his eyes blown wide with shock and disbelief and—

“What are you doin’?” Osamu whisper yells, and Atsumu squeezes his wrist.

“It’s okay,” he says, and he’s trying to sound reassuring but Osamu is starting to tremble. It’s definitely not helping Osamu in the slightest. “I know what I’m doin’, Samu,” he squeezes his wrist again. “Trust me.” and now he’s walking towards the stage, just as he releases his brothers wrist. 

Osamu feels as if he cannot move. He stands there, puzzled and shocked; is this really happening? Did his brother just volunteer for him? And that's when it struck him. Like a bolt of lightning.

“No..” Osamu is saying, already attempting to go after Atsumu but the Peacekeepers are already holding him back. “No! Tsumu, wait!” He struggles against their hold, desperately screaming after his brother, but Atsumu doesn’t turn back. He can’t summon the strength to look back at Osamu.

He can hear him screaming at Atsumu, the mayor's complaints ringing out with frustration, because he wanted him to be killed now, and the escort is scoffing as she examines the volunteer, already assuming Atsumu and Osamu must be brothers. In the next moment, he’s shaking hands with the girl, Jessie, while Osamu’s voice fades into the background as he’s dragged away from the crowd. Atsumu tries to steady his breath amidst the chaos.

He breathes in. He’s doing this because he has to. Because he needs to. He breathes out. He doesn’t know what he would do if that meant Osamu, his only brother, was forced to play the games and die in the process. He would never forgive himself if he just stood in that crowd and just let them take him away after Atsumu has treated Osamu with nothing but crap all their lives, and god, he just couldn’t stand there.

He breathes in again. And he breathes out. In, out, in, out..

This was the only way he thought he could make it up to Osamu.

And if he couldn’t forgive him now, it didn’t matter, because Atsumu vowed he wouldn’t just stand by anymore and let the bad things strike Osamu like a bullet. No, Atsumu would be there to take the hit for him, no matter what it took.

From now on, and forever.

…

The fire was completely burnt out by the time Atsumu stopped speaking.

Even in the dark, with no fire to illuminate his beautiful features, Miwa could see the sadness in his eyes. The sorrow. The regret. All that depression he’s been bottling up ever since day one. He was silent after he explained his situation in Four, but his eyes spoke for itself..

Atsumu Miya was grieving, but those eyes conveyed so much more. He loved his family deeply, and would do anything if that meant keeping them alive and safe.

Miwa didn’t say anything. She understood. She understood Atsumu so much, and on a far deeper level. She too, would do anything for her family. For Tobio. If that meant keeping him safe at home, god, she’d seize the opportunity in a heartbeat with no hesitation whatsoever. She loves Tobio, just like Atsumu loves Osamu.

Miwa still had her arm wrapped around Atsumu, caressing his back ever so gently, ever so reassuringly. She sat close, resting her head against his shoulder without saying a word, and it was just what Atsumu wanted. She didn’t need to say anything. The silence was perfect. Her touch was perfect. She was perfect. He couldn’t ask for anything more but her presence.

It felt good to open up. Maybe the nightmares won’t be so bad anymore. Maybe things would be okay. Maybe he will see Osamu again, and they’d be brothers. Not the constantly-at-each-others-throats brothers, but brothers who could be seen as best friends. Best friends who would be at each other's side, no matter the obstacle.

Atsumu melted into Miwa’s touch, sighing, demonstrating his appreciation. Demonstrating how much Miwa meant to him, even if that meant they wouldn’t make it out of this together. He just wanted to relish this moment.

This moment of serenity before things decide to go south.

Just like they always do.

Chapter Text

Of course, as anticipated, the walk the following morning was enveloped in silence.

An uneasy silence.

Akaashi wasn’t much of a talker. Never really was. At least, not until he warmed up to Bokuto in this five-man coalition (now down to four). He was more himself around Bokuto; free to talk and enjoy himself though he had a way with expressing his enjoyment. But even with his differences, his ways of looking at things, and doing things, he was happy. He was happy with Bokuto.

Kuroo used to feel a sense of unease around Akaashi. He recalls their first interaction vividly; things got pretty heated after the panther incident on the second day of the games. Akaashi didn’t make it easy to like him, even though Bokuto had painted him as a genuinely good person, despite barely even knowing him. He trusted Akaashi. That was just the kind of person Bokuto was.

So, when Akaashi kept turning him down, it ignited a mix of annoyance and resentment in Kuroo. He couldn't understand how Bokuto could believe that Akaashi was such a good person or that he would actually contribute anything meaningful to their alliance. It seemed obvious to Kuroo that Akaashi disliked Bokuto and wanted nothing to do with him. So how could Bokuto smile and say he liked Akaashi? Little did Kuroo realise, though, that Bokuto would eventually bring out the best in Akaashi, leading him to rethink his priorities and change his perspective on their harsh reality—the brutal life they lived in the Hunger Games.

It was obviously hard to figure and change the District Eight boy, especially with his trust issues resulting from a life without parents. But this was Bokuto we were talking about. Bokuto Koutarou, the once joyful boy who navigated the arena of the Hunger Games, who managed to draw out something in Akaashi that was never meant to surface. Because this was never part of Akaashi's plan. Bokuto Koutarou was never part of his plan.

Kuroo was quick to recognise the differences following Bokuto's death. Akaashi grew less open, retreating back to his old, introverted self. He started distancing himself both mentally and physically, clearly not wanting to engage in conversation. He wouldn’t even sit and walk with the others. He was miserable without even showing it, attempting to present a brave, strong face. But it was obvious. It was so obvious.

Even as they walked together on this warm spring morning, Kuroo could see the sadness in Akaashi. He noticed how Akaashi walked further ahead of the rest, clearly miserable. Kuroo desperately wanted to talk to him, but he held back, knowing that Akaashi was doing his best to avoid any mention of Bokuto or feelings—his feelings. He couldn't bear to open up those doors again and trust anyone who showed him kindness so quickly.

He’s done that enough already, and look how it turns out. Every damn time.

Before Kuroo could let his thoughts spiral further, he paused in his tracks just like everyone else. He stops beside Kenma, who stares up at the sky with confusion, which forces Kuroo to do the same when he realises someone was speaking throughout the entire arena. An unfortunate, recognisable voice.

Kiyoomi Sakusa.

He was never good news.

“Attention, tributes,” he starts, his voice reverberating all throughout the large arena. It was terrifying. “Today, I bring forth an unprecedented change to the rules.”

This immediately keeps Kuroo’s group’s attention. That couldn’t be good.. At least, that’s what they think..

The Head Game Maker then continues with, “Effective immediately, two tributes will now emerge as victors.” and Kuroo’s eyes immediately snap wide open, before they land on Kenma, but he doesn’t look at him. Not once. But this was news. Very, big, and sudden news, that they will all need to think about. That Kenma will need to think about.

So why does it look like he’s trying his best to avoid looking at Kuroo right now? Because he doesn’t agree with this new two victor rule? Because he doesn’t want to win alongside Kuroo? Kuroo tries not to dwell on it too much, but it feels like his heart was ripped out from his chest and stomped on over and over, because maybe he was wrong about Kenma and what he thought they had.

Maybe he had looked too far into this, and he and Kenma were never cut out for one another.

Kuroo decides to look away, a tad broken, but he keeps a brave face. He somehow always does. “We keep an eye on those who choose alliances,” Sakusa continues. “So if you choose to collaborate and successfully navigate the challenges ahead, both will be declared winners. This modification is intended to test the limits of strategy and alliance,” he then pauses before saying, “Proceed with caution, tributes. And may the best two tributes win.” but there was no care in his warning.

There never was, because he was Kiyoomi Sakusa. The Head Game Maker who only wished death upon all his players.

Once they all knew the announcement was over, there was silence again. An uneasy silence. And in this silence, Kuroo couldn’t shake the thought that maybe he and Kenma actually did have a chance at winning together. Perhaps Kenma saw him the same way Kuroo saw him. And god, Kuroo desperately wanted to talk to him—he wanted to clarify that if they were to win this thing, it would be Kuroo and Kenma left standing.

And in this silence, Kenma tried his best to look away from Kuroo, thinking please stop looking at me, please, because he couldn’t. He just couldn’t. Something about this didn’t feel right. It was as if a big lump of fear was resting in the pit of his stomach, holding him back and telling him, no, no, no, not Kuroo.

‘I don’t think I could handle both you and Bo on the same day.’

Kuroo's words ring all throughout Kenma's head, and he tenses because his words can only mean that Kuroo is looking past the worst-case scenario—death—and is willing to give it all up for Kenma. And has he not learnt? God, does he not see the state Akaashi is in right now because Bokuto is dead?

Even if Sakusa proclaimed a new rule in which there would be two winners, getting attached was still a risky move. Sure, Kuroo and Kenma had a shot at escaping this game together, but death could still be lurking around the corner. There were plenty of other tributes in the arena aiming to win as a pair too. That didn’t guarantee that it would be him and Kuroo standing together in the end.

And Kenma wasn’t taking any chances.

Tsukishima couldn’t shake the way Kuroo looked at Kenma—desperate and hopeful. Those eyes seemed to plead, ‘Please, look at me. Tell me you feel the same way, and we can win this thing together.’ It filled Tsukishima with annoyance, frustration, and a sense of betrayal. But deep down, he knew he should’ve expected this. Of course, Kuroo would rush to Kenma after that sudden announcement, and Akaashi would never contemplate the possibility of winning with someone else, such as Tsukishima, because the District Eleven boy was constantly overlooked in this alliance.

He didn’t matter. He wasn't a choice if it meant winning alongside someone else. So why haven’t I left yet? Is what Tsukishima continues to question himself. Why am I continuing to deal with this mistreatment from my alleged 'alliance' when they barely even look at me in a bad situation? Why am I still here? Why? Why?

Was it time to consider leaving? Was it time for Tsukishima to move on from the alliance who never cared for him?

As for Akaashi, he couldn’t seem to tear his gaze away from the sky. He looked up at Sakusa, at the president—Wakatoshi Ushijima. This rage and hatred were etched across his face as he glared up, consumed by anger. He had never felt this angry in his life. Was this just another one of Sakusa's tricks? Another trick to his evil plan? Announcing the two-victor rule right after Bokuto's death?

Akaashi's eyes narrow, his hands curl into fists by his side, his brows press together so tightly that he fears wrinkles will form permanently, and his eyes sting. Not out of sadness. It was rage. Pure, seething, unbridled rage—because he knows..

He knows Sakusa intended to kill Bokuto on purpose, only to reveal this new rule after his death, leaving Akaashi enraged and desperate for violence and vengeance.

…

“Oh, can you feel it ladies and gents?” As Sakusa and Ushijima watched the big screen in the Control Room, Tendou bursted out, “Can you feel all that tension in the air?” because Sakusa had just announced the big news. The big change.

He had finally announced the two victor rule.

As Sakusa and Ushijima stand there, “Our tributes are not just fightin’ for survival, but now they’re grappling with some exciting new rules that have everyone buzzing! Just look at me. I’m buzzing just sitting in my seat!” Tendou laughs out loud, apparently the most thrilled about this news as he leans over his desk.

Sakusa nearly regrets making the announcement. The excited version of this Tendou was a whole lot worse than just regular Tendou. And regular Tendou was exhausting to deal with. He has no idea how Ushijima copes with it every day.

Tendou stands from his seat, pointing and saying, “Look!” in that excited tone. “I mean, just look at that fierce glare from tribute number eight, Akaashi Keiji–you can practically see the flames of rebellion in his eyes while he looks up at us!”

Sakusa's gaze falls from the big screen with Tendou hosting to a smaller screen depicting Kuroo's group, where Sakusa, Ushijima, the other game makers in the room, and all of Panem residents can see Akaashi Keiji staring—no. No, glaring up at the camera, most likely directed at Sakusa because he's angry, and Sakusa can't help but smirk in triumph beneath his face mask, for this is exactly what he desired.

And Bokuto Koutarou was just the tip of the iceberg. Things were bound to get a whole lot worse for the District Eight tribute from here on now.

On the other TV screen, “Wow,” Tendou says with all his breath as he flops back into his chair. “I can’t be the only one completely taken aback by this news, huh? I mean, two victors?” he slams a hand on his desk. “Yeesh!” he yells dramatically. “You’ve really out done it this time Omi-Omi.”

Who did Tendou say nicknamed Sakusa as that? Atsumu Miya, right?

Oh, Atsumu really was in trouble now.

Tendou then exclaims, “But I gotta hand it to ya, buddy. Way to spice up the games!” He cheers, clapping loudly as Sakusa rolls his eyes at the enthusiastic redhead. “Anyways! Let’s shift our focus to our favorite boys, Carrot Top and Crappyama,” Tendou continues, effortlessly changing the subject. As the loud, talkative host he is, he ensures he never misses a moment of the games. “They’re bickering for the umpteenth time this morning, and they’re the only ones keeping us entertained for now. Cheers to them!”

Sakusa thought he was annoying. He had no idea how so many people adored this man.

Sakusa was ready to turn to Ushijima– “Oh, shit!” however, laughs out Tendou. “Carrot Top ain’t playin’ around today! No more tolerating his bullying—oh, get his ass, Shoyo!”

“Uhm, Tendou, sir,” a woman’s voice cuts in. It’s probably one of the camera crew members or something. “Must I remind you that profanity is prohibited on live television.”

Tendou waves a dismissive hand. “Ah, that’s okay, Sheril,” he responds casually before he grins towards the camera, saying, “I’ll get scolded for that lil’ slip up later. Won’t I, Wakatoshi?” And he flashes a wink and blows a kiss towards the camera—specifically aimed at Ushijima, and oh god, Sakusa rubs the bridge of his nose, wondering if that guy can ever be serious for even a single second in his life.

Sakusa waves his free hand at one of the game makers, signalling for them to switch off the TV that streams Tendou, while pinching the bridge of his nose. When the TV went black, Sakusa focused his attention on the president, who maintained his usual, cold, threatening demeanour. Of course. The man's expression never seemed to waver. Even when Tendou flirted with him or tried his hardest to fluster or embarrass him.

Seriously, how was this guy not fired?

Before Sakusa could say anything, “It’s all written in his eyes,” Ushijima says, beating him to it. He’s watching the screen displaying Akaashi, who still stares up at them with anger. He then says, “That remorse and want for revenge,” and then, he turns to Sakusa. “I never doubted you, Kiyoomi.”

And Sakusa's expression shifts slightly beneath his face mask for just a second, as he feels that appreciation wash over him all over again. That affirmation for taking on something with no difficulties at all, and the president, Ushijima, regarded it as a good outcome. And it was a good feeling. All that praise and validation.

The feeling never grew old.

“Thank you, sir.” Sakusa replies.

“But it’s not over yet. Not for Akaashi, at least,” he pauses, eyeing Sakusa carefully, as if he knows the curly headed man has more up his sleeve. “Is it?”

And he was right. Sakusa had a whole plan in mind for Akaashi Keiji. Bokuto Koutarou marked only the beginning. The start of his misery and remorse. This was the moment things took a shift for the District Eight boy in the arena. A big, awful shift.

The president keeps his gaze fixed on Sakusa, seemingly reading him like an open book. He then says, “Let’s go for a walk,” before striding towards the exit of the Control Room.

Sakusa wasted no time in following. Soon, the president and the Head Game Maker were strolling along the path outside the president’s mansion. They took slow, medium-paced steps through the garden, clearly savoring the tranquility around them as they delved into the main topic of conversation.

As they stroll past a vibrant row of tulips, Sakusa removes his face mask to enjoy the sweet fragrance, only to be met with the unwelcoming scent of smoke as Ushijima casually lights up a cigarette. Inhaling deeply, Ushijima then exhales a cloud of thick smoke, and Sakusa instantly regrets his decision to take off his mask. He can't stand the smell of cigarettes.

Before Sakusa could even decide to put his mask on, however, “We both see potential in Akaashi. Something the boy doesn’t quite fully see himself,” the president speaks up, flicking the ashes off of the butt of the cigarette. He then pulls the cigarette back towards his mouth, asking, “So, what’s our next plan of action?” before he takes another drag.

Sakusa’s eyes darted towards Ushijima. “You want me to decide what takes place next?” He inquires, a little surprised.

“You are the Head Game Maker, correct?” The president says, brow raised.

Sakusa’s fingers fiddle with the material of the inside of his pockets. “I just assumed, sir, that you would guide our next steps,” he says. “I’ve observed your ongoing interest in the boy these past few days.”

Ushijima hummed, impressed. “You’ve always had a good eye. And that’s why I like you, Kiyoomi.”

Suddenly, Ushijima and Sakusa come to a halt. The president takes one last pull of his cigarette before dropping the remainder to the ground. Sakusa makes an effort to ignore the fact that the president had just littered in his own garden, focusing instead on what might come next in their conversation.

“Kiyoomi,” he starts, thick smoke falling from his lips as he speaks. “You initiated the discussion regarding your plans first. When one begins a task, it is their responsibility to see it through to completion. As president, it’s a simple task I must follow myself.”

Ushijima shoves his hands into the pockets of his pants, studying Sakusa with that intimidating stare that still sends shivers down Sakusa’s spine, even after all these years of working together. Those cold olive eyes manage to bring goosebumps to his pale skin. It’s always difficult to read Ushijima; his dark expression rarely shifts, leaving Sakusa uncertain of what he might be thinking.

However, in this moment, Sakusa could read that there was question written in those dark olive eyes. Can you handle the duties of being a president, is what Ushijima’s eyes say. Can you decide on a plan and continue to finish it until you’re satisfied. Sakusa continues to tinker with the insides of his pockets because Ushijima is questioning Sakusa's ability to face the challenges of becoming president. The president of Panem. Because one day, some day, the job would be Sakusa’s to take on.

Sakusa stiffens at the thought. It’s always been an interesting thought. Keeping him awake day and night, because it was a big step from being Head Game Maker to all of a sudden, the president. Could he handle the struggles? The duties?

After a slight pause, “You do have a plan in place with Akaashi,” Ushijima speaks up again. “Don’t you?”

And was Sakusa ready? To take on the struggles? The duties?

“Yes, sir.”

Ushijima grins in satisfaction. “Well,” he puts a hand on Sakusa’s shoulder, and they begin walking through the garden again. “Let’s hear it.”

Sakusa was ready, because maybe, just maybe, Sakusa was just as evil as Ushijima–if not, worse. Much, much worse.

…

As Kiyoko makes her way back to Yachi, “I found a few things while I was gone.” she says, taking a seat beside the blonde girl on the log.

Yachi does not say anything. She merely watches as Kiyoko throws her backpack into her lap. She watches her take out a few items, including a new full canteen of fresh water and some reddish-pinkish berries. Yachi examined the little fruits carefully, unsure.

Kiyoko snickers softly, saying, “You’re making that face again.” because she was always so quick to notice.

It made Yachi feel a little bit more self-aware when she pointed out these types of things. And a little bit more nervous, because a pretty girl kept pointing out the little details about Yachi, and oh god, she must be all red again. The attention was both flattering and overwhelming. Yachi couldn’t take it.

Kiyoko lets out a soft giggle, her eyes sparkling. “It’s okay, Yachi,” she reassures, reaching for the District Nine girl’s hand. Her fingers, delicate and slender, contrast sharply with Yachi’s, sending a flutter of warmth to her cheeks. “Try one.” She encourages, gently placing a single berry in the palm of Yachi’s hand, the gesture making her heart race as it climbs up to her throat.

Yachi attempts to ignore the persistent fluttering sensation in her stomach and the powerful tingle in the back of her palm, feeling a pang of sadness when Kiyoko releases her hand. But she decides to do as Kiyoko says, because she trusts her. As an ally, and as a friend. And now with the announcement of the two victor rule, Yachi dares to hope that she might escape this torturous game alongside Kiyoko. A secret smile spreads across her face, bubbling something inside her. Joy? Love? Whatever it was, it made the blonde girl feel a little sick. A good sick. If that made sense.

In the next moment, Yachi decided to eat the little berry, trying her best to avoid eye contact with Kiyoko because she was so close. So, so close as she watched Yachi, searching for a positive reaction. “Good?” She inquired hopefully.

And after Yachi swallowed the remainder of the berry, “Good.” she answers, nodding and smiling softly, which elicits another positive reaction from Kiyoko.

Cute, Yachi thinks.

“You’ve really come a long way over this past week,” Kiyoko suddenly points out, taking Yachi by slight surprise. She then says, “You’re not so skittish. Not like you were the day we met.” as she decides to try a singular berry as well.

“With all due respect, I have to disagree,” Yachi says, pushing a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. “I’ve always been skittish.”

“You know what I mean,” chuckles Kiyoko. “You’ve grown a little more used to my presence. Some might say you’ve grown comfortable towards me.”

“Ah!” the blonde girl yelps, freezing, burning red. “I–well, I guess. I mean, not that I’m not comfortable around you, I am! I didn’t mean to sound like I was disagreeing, I’m sorry, I sounded so rude–what I meant was that I..”

Yachi rambled on, and Kiyoko couldn’t help but smile softly. The District Six girl had quickly grown accustomed to Yachi’s nervous rambles. She’d start with saying something so simple, and then suddenly she’d turn all red, her words tumbling out faster than her thoughts could catch up. Kiyoko knew for sure that Yachi was an over thinker. And it was somehow endearing to Kiyoko to watch her get all flustered.

Yachi continued to ramble on for several more minutes. Kiyoko snickered beneath her breath, amused. And then she reaches out, gently resting a delicate palm on her shoulder and—oh. Oh, that quickly paused her.

Yachi’s voice was trapped in her throat all of a sudden. Her eyes go wide with a jumble of nerves, but they’re so quick to dart towards the hand on her shoulder. Kiyoko’s hand. The beautiful girl, who Yachi still refused to believe could even look in her direction, had her hand on her shoulder and oh.

Yachi gulps, eyes darting towards Kiyoko, and she’s smiling, and she’s saying, “Yachi,” and her voice is so soft, so kind, so sincere, and, and, and– “I’ve grown comfortable towards you, too.”

And suddenly, Yachi’s voice disappeared completely.

She really wanted to win with her.

Yachi can’t find it in herself to respond, but she smiles. She smiles so hugely, demonstrating her appreciation towards Kiyoko and their alliance, because Kiyoko wasn’t just an ally anymore. She was her friend. The only true friend she felt she has ever had, and Yachi doesn’t know how she could live with herself if it wasn’t her and Kiyoko in the end.

It had to be them. They had to win.

Before any more words or smiles could be exchanged between the two girls, a sudden noise shattered their moment of tranquility. It forced them to spring to their feet, instinctively knowing that this couldn’t be good. No rustling noises from the bushes ever brought good news. Ever.

Kiyoko was quick to snatch her katanas from her belt, readying herself for whatever threat lay ahead. Yachi, feeling a mix of fear and determination (mainly fear), seized her small dagger and positioned herself close to the District Six girl. Trembling slightly, she kept her gaze fixed on the rustling bushes, her heart racing in her throat, because who—or what—could be hiding in there? Enemies? Other participants? Some sort of creature?

Whatever it was, it couldn’t be good.

When was anything ever good in the games?

Chapter Text

Yachi was scared. Afraid, even, of what lay within the rustling bushes. In contrast, Kiyoko was prepared. Determined to face any onslaught and defend her ally—no, her friend—at all costs.

The rustling continues, driving Yachi to move herself closer towards Kiyoko until they are virtually touching. She held her dagger up in impotent defence, swallowing her fears and worries, but they only emerged back up quicker than lightning. Kiyoko maintains calm, feeling lighter rather than heavier, because someone had to be strong in this position. Kiyoko needed to be strong for Yachi.

Whatever lurked in the depths of the woods was drawing nearer. Yachi trembled beside the District Six girl, while Kiyoko steadied herself, poised for what was to come. She caught glimpses of movement behind the bushes—figures constantly shifting. Tributes. It had to be. As they approached, the tension thickened until they finally emerged from the underbrush, revealing themselves, and—

"Hinata?" Yachi gasped, quickly identifying the person who emerged from the bushes, leaving Kiyoko in a state of complete perplexity.

Hinata's eyes grow wide. "Yachi?" Kiyoko wasn't the only one who was bewildered. The three other tributes stepping out from the bushes behind the redhead appeared perplexed, giving each other confused glances.

Before anyone could utter another word, Hinata and Yachi moved towards each other, causing Kiyoko to tense up. Why was she getting closer to the enemy? Why was she walking away from me? As they drew near, Hinata placed his hands on Yachi's shoulders, his smile radiant as he said,

“Yachi–wow, oh my god, it’s so good to see some familiar faces,” he squeezes her shoulders once, clearly excited. “I’m so glad we ran into you.”

“I’m just glad you’re not some scary creature.” She laughs awkwardly, but there was this obvious amount of relief in her voice. She was happy to see Hinata as well (and relieved knowing she won’t have to face death today).

Hinata laughs before pulling Yachi in for a hug, catching her off guard, but she quickly returns the embrace. Kiyoko watches with narrowed eyes, her unease palpable in this unexpected moment. She lowers her katanas cautiously, keeping a watchful gaze on the two. Meanwhile, Tobio stands with Miwa and Atsumu, noticing Kiyoko's tense demeanor. He observes her expression, which lacked relief for their circumstances and instead expressed full discontent with the way things were going.

Tobio glared at the District Six girl. He didn’t like the way she was looking at Hinata. He didn’t like her.

The hug lasted a few more seconds before Hinata quickly pulled back, gasping, “I’ve gotta introduce you to my friends!”

“Allies.” Tobio corrects boredly.

“Whatever,” Hinata waves a dismissive hand. “That’s Kageyama,” he then says. “A real buzzkill.”

Tobio rolls his eyes, making a ‘tsk’ sound, arms crossed over his chest, and Yachi tenses. He was intimidating.

Hinata then gestures towards the black haired girl, saying, “And that’s Miwa, who is so much cooler than Kageyama. It still shocks me to think they’re related,” Miwa gives a little friendly wave, and then Hinata points towards the blonde. “And then that’s Atsumu.”

Atsumu flashes his signature smile at Yachi, appearing more friendly rather than flirtatious, but then his expression falters as he mutters, “Just Atsumu?” clearly disappointed that his introduction wasn’t as elaborate as the Kageyama sibling’s.

Then, there’s a loud groan. “She doesn’t need an introduction, you moron. She knows who we are.” Tobio says, annoyed, forcing Hinata’s cheeks to turn all red.

“Huh?” stammers the redhead. “I know that! It still doesn’t hurt to be nice and introduce yourself to people.”

“When they already know who we are? I don’t think so, dumbass.”

“You’ve really gotta stop calling me mean names.”

“You really gotta stop saying stupid shit.”

Before their banter could continue, Yachi clears her throat. “Well, hey,” she says as she walks back towards Kiyoko, who remains cautious and skeptical. “I’ve made some allies too,” the blonde girl says, grabbing Kiyoko by the hand and gently tugging her toward the other group for introductions. Kiyoko doesn’t seem too happy about this, but it goes completely over Yachi’s head. She’s so oblivious. “This is Kiyoko.”

Atsumu and Miwa waved politely, while Hinata lacked the voice to even say hello. All he could do was blush and admire and pray Kiyoko would reject him or something. Tobio scoffed, finding it amusing that Hinata could become nervous so quickly simply because a female well out of his league stood in front of him. And two, he thought it was kind of pathetic. Hinata has definitely never had a girlfriend in his sixteen years of living—though, Tobio had to admit, he wasn’t one to talk right now.

Tobio refrained from waving or demonstrating any sort of kindness towards Kiyoko. Her unease made it clear she wasn’t fond of Hinata and his group. Tobio was simply mirroring her attitude; if she wasn’t willing to trust or respect them, why should he? Plus, there was something about her that set off alarm bells in his mind—like she had something hidden up her sleeve. Tobio felt it was best to keep a close eye on her.

One very close eye.

Hinata turned back to Yachi after having admired the District Six girl a little longer, saying, “Man, it is so good to see you,” he beams. “I was so worried that something might’ve happened to you, that you were alone, or–”

“I’ve been great!” Yachi beams back. “I mean, not great, considering my–our situation. But you know what I mean. I’ve been safe here with Kiyoko–she saved me!”

“Saved you?”

“Yeah!” explains the blonde girl. “It was on the second day in the arena, I think. The Capitol sent out some fire to chase me down. Some burnt up tree fell over and trapped me by the ankle.”

“No way!”

“Yeah. I was stuck there for hours! And then Kiyoko showed up. I thought she was going to kill me.”

Yachi looks back at Kiyoko, flashing a wide smile before she turns back to talk to Hinata again as if they were close friends. Kiyoko shifted nervously, shuffling from foot to foot and clutching her weapons closely as she looked at the vibrant redhead. Her eyes narrowed, her face cruel and guarded, and Hinata was blissfully unaware, too preoccupied with the fact that he and Yachi were finally bonding after days in this arena.

Kiyoko didn’t like him. She didn’t like him one bit.

She watches how Yachi beams so brightly around him, so eager to talk and reconnect—and why doesn’t she look at her like that? Kiyoko grips her katanas even tighter, wishing Yachi would just turn around and face her, smile at Kiyoko instead, so it could just be them. Just the two of them, together, fighting for survival.

Together, together, together..

“Hey, that’s a great idea!” Suddenly, Hinata says, voice so colourful it made Kiyoko sick to the stomach, snapping Kiyoko out of her thoughts. “We should all work together. That would make us the biggest alliance, and we would have a better chance at winning this thing!”

Kiyoko’s eyes widened in immediate disdain at the thought. She wanted to say something, to grab Yachi by the hand and pull her aside, away from Hinata and the others. “Yeah! That would be great!” But Yachi sounded so genuinely happy and eager about the idea, and Kiyoko’s heart tightened because oh no, this wasn’t how she envisioned winning. Not with Hinata, not with his allies...

She wanted to win with Yachi, and Yachi only.

Kiyoko hadn’t even realized Yachi was tugging her wrist eagerly until she said, “Isn’t that a great idea, Kiyoko?” She looked up at the District Six girl with this sparkling glint in her eyes. Her expression said it all. She was genuinely excited about this. How could she be?

Kiyoko hesitated. “I..” she pulled her hand back. “I don’t know.”

Yachi’s brows furrow. Out of hurt? Worry? “What’s wrong?” She quickly asked, concerned.

“I don’t—I don’t know,” she repeated, a little firmer this time. “You’ve barely even put any thought into this–how can you know for sure we can trust them?”

Kiyoko's grasp on her katanas tightened, and Yachi's countenance softened even further. Kiyoko turned aside, her stressed gaze resting on Hinata and the others. She observed Tobio, who peered back with a similar gleam in his eyes, although his attitude was far more fierce, you could say. Colder. More aware.

Yachi stared up at Kiyoko, noting her change in attitude from before, when it was just them. She reached for her hand, trying again. “Kiyoko?” And for a moment, Kiyoko’s body relaxed under Yachi’s soft touch..

“We understand your cautiousness,” Miwa interjected, trying to reason with the paranoid girl from District Six. “We’re all scared and cautious too, and we don’t want to place our trust in someone we don’t fully know—”

“And yet you choose to reject your own words.” Kiyoko mentions.

“ –but, your friend here isn’t unfamiliar with Hinata,” Miwa continues, gesturing towards the little redhead. “They’re from the same district, they share training with the same mentor, and they’re aware of who they are as a person. You’d think trust in this situation would come a little more naturally.”

“Naturally?” If Kiyoko wasn’t so uneasy about this situation, she would’ve laughed. “Trust doesn’t come naturally in the games, no matter the circumstance,” she says. “To me, it sounds like you’ll be a corpse sooner than you think–”

“Hey!” Tobio snaps, ready to attack, but Miwa pulls him back.

Miwa clutched her brother’s arm tightly. “Don’t,” she whispers seriously. Almost warningly. Tobio scoffs in disapproval, and Miwa releases him. She then turns back to Kiyoko, taking a few steps towards her while Kiyoko steps back cautiously. “We’re all on the same side here, Kiyoko,” she says, standing in front of her. “We’re not the bad guys here.”

Kiyoko could understand where she was coming from. Everyone in this never-ending arena was trying to survive out of necessity. They were thrust into this twisted game, forced to fight, to kill, to entertain the wealthy elite. And for what? Because the Capitol found joy and amusement in watching helpless kids battle for their lives?

Perhaps Kiyoko and Miwa can reach an agreement on comparable issues. Perhaps they could all agree that the real bad people in this situation was the Capitol, and would forever remain the Capitol. However..

“We’re not on the same side,” Kiyoko snapped, her grip tightening around her katanas. “I don’t hate the Capitol any less than you do, but you can’t win in a world like this. There are six of us. Only two will be left standing in the end.”

“I’m not saying all six of us would win,” explains Miwa. “All I’m saying is if we just work together we could–

“Start a revolution? Attack the people who dangle far more power over the rest of us like we’re just starving little lambs in their game?” The District Six girl scoffed. “Don’t you realize what that would mean for your district? Are you really that reckless?”

“I’m saying,” Miwa hisses, getting frustrated. “We might have a chance.”

“You’re an imbecile to even consider the possibility of having a chance in this world–”

“There is a chance, Kiyoko. You’re just not letting yourself believe there—“

“There is only one way to find peace in this world,” interrupts Kiyoko. Her grasp on her weapons tighten. And then, “And that’s by winning.”

Miwa didn’t even get the chance to react. The scene in front of her happened in a flash. Suddenly, Kiyoko found herself pinned against the nearest tree by Tobio. Her weapons clattered to the ground loudly as Tobio secured her wrists together, pressing them against her back with a fierce grip. She winced, teeth clenched, trying to glance over her shoulder, but Tobio pushed her harder against the tree, leaving her struggling for breath.

Miwa blinks from Kiyoko to the weapons on the ground. She tried to attack me, she realises, the truth sinking in that convincing this girl was futile. She should've seen that coming. She should've been more prepared.

Tobio looks from the struggling Kiyoko to Yachi, who looked as pale as a ghost and as frightened as a mouse. “You!” Suddenly, Tobio snaps towards the blonde girl. “If we can trust you, why the hell is your friend trying to kill us then, huh?”

Yachi opens her mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.

“Kageyama–” Hinata tried to say.

“Tell me!” Tobio yells loudly, and Yachi flinches. “If you two can’t come to a conclusion, this alliance is off. Clearly the both of you have different views on this situation.”

Hinata stares at Tobio, wide-eyed. He’s never seen him so heated, so angry, so furious. For a minute or two, Hinata couldn’t even recognize his rival. Sure, Tobio was a grumpy guy who constantly yelled at Hinata for doing dumb things, but now, Tobio was practically shaking, his shoulders heaving up and down in time with his loud breathing as he practically glared a hole right through Yachi’s frightened figure.

Hinata took a little step back, unable to wrench his gaze away. He looked so violent, so dangerous..it wasn’t what Hinata was used to.

And this all began because just a few minutes ago, if Tobio didn’t step in, his sister would’ve died.

Impatient, Tobio squeezes Kiyoko’s wrists tighter, marking them red. Kiyoko winces, and Tobio yells, “Well?!” practically forcing Yachi to shake in her boots even more. She was scared. Really, really scared.

Before Yachi could respond, Kiyoko seized the moment, launching a swift kick to Tobio’s knee. He stumbled back, a grimace of pain crossing his face as he released her wrists. With the opening she needed, Kiyoko spun around, her fist connecting sharply with Tobio's jaw, sending him backwards. Without hesitation, she followed up with a strong kick to his stomach, forcing him to the ground, gasping and clutching his midsection. Kiyoko was not just skilled with blades; her agility and precision with her hands and legs made her a formidable opponent in any fight.

Before Kiyoko could even launch her second attack on Tobio, Miwa loosed an arrow in her direction, forcing her to duck just in time. As Miwa prepared for her second shot, Kiyoko charged towards her, immediately attempting to snatch the bow from her grasp. What took place was a fierce tug-of-war for this bow, but frustration quickly bubbled up within Kiyoko. She grew impatient. With a final, powerful yank, she wrested the bow from Miwa’s hands. She then swung the bow hard, smacking Miwa squarely in the face, sending her crashing to the ground.

From behind Kiyoko, Hinata tried to launch a heavy stone at the back of her head with his slingshot, but he missed, the stone whizzing straight past her. She spun around, her instincts kicking in as she quickly snatched one of Miwa’s arrows from the ground and aimed it at him. His eyes widened in alarm, and he rolled out of the way just in time. Suddenly, Miwa was back on her feet, grabbing Kiyoko by the hair and yanking her backwards. Kiyoko yelped in surprise, losing her balance and falling to the ground, unintentionally pulling Miwa down with her.

The two girls were throwing punches and kicks at each other, dragging one another back down to the ground every time one tried to crawl back to their feet. This fight continued until Kiyoko managed to pin Miwa down, leaving her struggling to break free. Miwa lay on her back while Kiyoko reigned down punch after punch, causing her to see stars. Just when it seemed like Kiyoko had the upper hand, Atsumu swooped in, pulling her off of Miwa. As he fought Kiyoko, Miwa struggled to sit up, leaning over to the side to spit out the blood that had pooled in her mouth.

Atsumu didn’t last long in the fight, quickly being dismissed after Kiyoko knocked his weapon from his grasp and delivered a solid kick right to his face. Even through the ringing in his ears, he couldn’t shake the thought that it should be physically impossible for someone to be that flexible. He had to admit, the girl had skill; he would give her that.

This chaotic scene dragged on for what felt like an eternity. Miwa would get back up to fight Kiyoko, only to be knocked down again. Atsumu would throw himself into the fray, but he’d end up failing as well. Hinata would try to stand, then fall back down, repeating the cycle with Miwa and Atsumu. Meanwhile, Yachi stood frozen in place, trembling and filled with fear as she watched the people she wanted to be allies with—Hinata—engaged in this fierce battle with Kiyoko. She felt trapped, unable to move or decide what to do.

And then, just like that, the fighting came to an abrupt halt the moment Tobio pushed himself back up.

In that instant, Yachi found herself staring at Kiyoko, who was almost hunched over Tobio, who was breathing heavily—his anger palpable—in the sudden silence. Kiyoko’s eyes were wide, fixated on a random spot on the ground, and Yachi's gaze widened even more as she noticed the blood trickling from Kiyoko’s lips.

Tobio drives his dagger deeper into Kiyoko’s stomach, and the District Six girl whimpers in agony as he twists the blade with a cruel bitterness. Kiyoko’s legs tremble, struggling to hold her weight, her entire body shaking against Tobio, who keeps the dagger embedded in her. Blood spills from her lips, and her expression turns ghostly pale, her eyes fluttering as if they might close forever. And, oh god, Yachi feels a suffocating panic rising within her because in the next moment...

Tobio yanks the blade from Kiyoko’s stomach, stepping back as she crumples to the ground. Her perfectly shaped glasses shatter upon impact, and she gasps for breath, her frightened eyes darting around until they lock onto Yachi’s trembling form.

Yachi feels like she might throw up. Before her is her friend—her best friend—looking up at her with tears welling in her eyes, knowing she’s dying. The worst part of it all is the glint in Kiyoko’s fading grey eyes, whispering an unspoken apology, acknowledging her mistake, and the crushing reality that she was leaving Yachi behind after promising that it would be them standing together in the end.

Just them. Kiyoko and Yachi.

Suddenly, the cannon’s deafening echo filled the arena, and Yachi couldn’t hold back a sob, her eyes flitting between the lifeless body of her friend and Tobio, then to Miwa, Atsumu, and finally landing on Hinata. He met her gaze, his expression softening with sympathy as he began to whisper, “Yachi, it’s okay,” repeating it like a mantra as he cautiously approached her, trying to bridge the distance between them.

And Yachi wanted to scream, ‘No, no, no, it’s not okay–my friend is dead!’ but all she could do was cough heartbroken sobs as she took shaky steps away from Hinata, who only wanted to be there for her. But Yachi couldn’t. She just couldn’t. Hinata wasn’t there for Yachi like Kiyoko was. Kiyoko was the one who saved her that day, attended to her wounds and made her feel safe. Not Hinata. Not the Kageyama siblings. No one but Kiyoko.

And now, the one person who cared for her in this stupid arena was gone.

Yachi coughed a sob, her heart pounding louder than anything else as Hinata’s words faded into the background, swallowed by the chaos in her mind. The ringing in her ears drowned out everything, and all she could focus on was the need to escape. She sprinted through the woods, leaving the group behind, the trees blurring past her. Hinata's desperate calls were lost to her as she ran, fueled by an overwhelming desire to hide away forever, to shut out the world that felt so cruel and unforgiving. All she wanted was solitude, to never let anyone in again, to shield herself from the pain.

She squeezed her eyes shut tightly as she ran, crying loudly, her heart aching with every desperate step. She wanted to go home. She wanted her mom. She wanted to get out of here. To be far from the games. And—

Yachi screamed.

In that moment of sheer panic, she didn’t see the cliff ahead, the ground dropping away beneath her. Time seemed to freeze as realisation hit, the world around her fading into a terrifying silence, leaving only the echo of her scream ringing in the air.

After the cannon went off, Hinata stands frozen at the edge of the cliff, staring down at Yachi’s lifeless body. The sight is horrific—her once vibrant form now lies motionless, bloodied and broken. He can't tear his eyes away from the gaping wound on the side of her head, undoubtedly due to one of the sharp rocks. Yachi is sprawled against the dirt and jagged stones, her limbs twisted at unnatural angles, while the ground beneath her forms a dark pool of her blood.

Hinata turns white as he looks at his once-good friend, who now lies far below him, motionless and dead. Tears welled up in his eyes, and his hands trembled at his sides. Miwa gently rests a hand on Hinata's shoulder, squeezing once, before tears stream down the District Nine boy's face.

Hinata couldn’t help but think he ruined Yachi’s life. That he ruined her chances.

‘You really gotta stop saying stupid shit’, Tobio’s words ring in his throbbing head.

Maybe if he had just kept his mouth shut for once in his goddamn life, Yachi would still be alive, right there beside the one person she had learned to trust. The person she had grown to love. Hinata's hands balled into fists, rage and guilt intertwining in his chest. It was always his fault.

But who knows, maybe this would be Hinata’s final lesson…

Never be too kind, because the Hunger Games will come back to bite you when you least expect it.

Chapter Text

The tension this morning felt familiar. Like Tobio has been in this cycle countless times before.

It was a hot, summer morning on the beach, the sun beating down on the boys fiercely. Tobio and Hinata sat by the rock pools, quietly rummaging for rocks and stones to refill Hinata’s ammo for his slingshot. Tobio chose not to engage in conversation, sensing that Hinata was in one of those moods—withdrawn and not quite himself. The silence hung heavy in the air, reminding Tobio of how Hinata had been after Sugawara’s death. He was quiet and burdened with guilt, lost in his own thoughts, drowning out the sound of the waves crashing in the background.

Tobio watched Hinata with cautious eyes as he strolled barefoot through the shallow pool, where the water barely reached his ankles and was scattered with an array of stones, rocks, and shells. Some glimmered beautifully in the sunlight, while others were draped in unflattering seaweed and dirt. Hinata had rolled his pants up to his knees, but it barely did the trick; every time he bent down to inspect a stone that caught his eye, the water would creep up and dampen his pants anyway.

Tobio felt as if he was melting under the blazing heat. Looking up, the burning ball hovering over them practically glared at Tobio, daring to burn a large hole in his skin. Tobio exhales loudly, a beam of sweat streaming down his brow. He wasn't looking forward to facing any challenges today. Somehow, the heat only made him grumpier than usual.

Tobio glanced back at Hinata, who had bent down to pick up another stone. As Hinata examined it, running his small fingers over the smooth surface, Tobio couldn’t help but think it must feel almost as soft as his fingers. Well, he wouldn’t know for sure—he had never touched Hinata’s fingers and had no intention of doing so. Gross.

Tobio's intense blue eyes flicked from the stone in Hinata's hand to his expression, which was flat and cold—just like the day after Sugawara's passing. Tobio nearly frowned. Nearly. Seeing Hinata like that, so different from the uplifted, energetic ball of orange he was used to, felt like a heavy change. It wasn’t a good change. Was this how Hinata would be after every death? After every person he barely knew? It made Tobio wonder why Hinata felt so deeply for so many. He had come here to win, hadn't he? He had promised to kill Tobio.

But if all he does is cry after each loss, how can he possibly uphold his promise to Tobio?

After carefully inspecting the smooth stone, Hinata slips it into his pants pocket. He then glances at Tobio and asks, “What about that one?” nodding towards the rough rock cradled in Tobio’s hand.

Tobio glances at the small stone he’s been nervously fiddling with, realising only now how much it occupied his thoughts. “It’s good.” He answers, tossing the small rock to Hinata, who catches it effortlessly.

Hinata runs his thumb over the rough rock, then shoves it into his overflowing pocket with a sense of approval. His expression seemed to say, ‘this will knock some enemies to sleep—they’ll never see it coming,’ even though his face still wore that bland, sad look.

Tobio watches Hinata in silence, rubbing his sweaty palms against his slacks as he tries to find solace in the coolness of the water that clings to his bare feet and legs—but he couldn’t. He just couldn’t. He was too focused on Hinata, the dull and unhappy Hinata, and he pulled at the material of his pants anxiously.

“Hey, um,” he begins, the words tumbling out before he fully thinks it through. But he speaks because with each passing day in this hellish arena, he realises just how much he misses seeing Hinata’s joyous self. His regular, bubbly, joyous self. After a brief pause, he adds, “I never got to thank you.”

Hinata looked in Tobio’s direction. “For what?” He asked, confused.

“For the other day.”

Understanding what he was referring to, “Don’t sweat it,” Hinata says, his voice still lacking that upbeat tone. “Anyone could’ve sewn that jacket,” he tenses. “Jesus, sorry, I didn’t mean–”

“No,” Tobio quickly says. “No, I meant, thanks for knocking some sense into me,” Hinata stares, his expression scrunching into confusion again. “Y’know. What you told me after you sewed my jacket back up.”

Hinata’s expression shifts as he begins to understand. That night, Tobio had been unusually skeptical about Atsumu, far more than he usually was, as he grappled with Miwa’s growing attachment to him. It was hard for Tobio to fully trust Atsumu, the one person in this arena who made him feel suspicious. While he didn’t entirely trust Hinata either, somehow, there was this small amount of respect that Tobio felt for him.

Hinata had said that night that he understood Tobio, telling him that he had a sister too. ‘I don’t know what I would do if anything bad were to happen to her as well,’ he had admitted. ‘But I would trust her with her choices.’ He urged Tobio to see things from her perspective and to relax, reminding him that he needed to take care of himself as well. At first, Tobio wasn’t sure about it all. How could he allow Miwa to fall deeper into Atsumu’s arms while he just sat there and watched?

Tobio has made a choice now. He’s decided that maybe it’s time to stop stressing so much–that maybe he has to be prepared for anything. Including letting Miwa go if that means letting her be happy.

Tobio stares into the water, searching for more stones as he says, “Maybe I have been scared,” he admits. “I’m in a death arena with my sister, and all this time I’ve been looking out for her because I keep thinking if I’m not there to protect her..”

Tobio’s voice quivers, proving just how scared he was. He presses his lips together, struggling against a torrent of terrifying scenarios that flood his mind all at once. Hinata remains silent, fully aware of what Tobio is trying to say. And then, Tobio concludes with,

“I know I can’t be there for her all the time, and maybe that’s what scares me the most,” he admits silently, his voice steadying. He looks up at Hinata, saying, “I just want her to be happy, even if it means letting go a little.”

And Hinata frowns. He feels the weight of the stones in his pocket, reminding him of his heavy burdens. He feels the sun, which beats down mercilessly upon his pale skin, each ray a scorching touch that intensifies his discomfort. And the cool water laps against his ankles, a stark contrast to the heat that envelops him. He felt strange, having been the one to think about his following words. Let alone, even say it out loud.

Hinata reaches into his heavy pocket, feeling for one of the stones. He picks up the one Tobio had offered—a small stone with sharp, bumpy surfaces. Squeezing it tightly in his grasp, he suggests, “I think it’s time for us to go our separate ways,” keeping his dull gaze fixed anywhere but on Tobio.

Tobio’s expression squishes. “What?” He says.

Hinata kicks slightly at the water, his voice barely above a whisper. “After the two victor rule was announced, I’ve been doing some thinking,” he admits. “And I think it would be better if me and Atsumu took our own way together while you and Miwa—”

“But you said–”

“I know what I said,” he interrupts, looking at Tobio for the first time. “But that was before the new rule was announced.”

Tobio scoffs, and Hinata’s brows pinch together.

“Look,” he says, taking a step towards Tobio. “I still think your sister deserves happiness, and maybe you’re beginning to see that it is with Atsumu, but seriously Kageyama, would it have worked? Do you really think Miwa is going to choose Atsumu over you? Her own brother?”

Tobio’s expression falls to his feet, brows knitting together as his fingers claw at the rock beneath him, nails practically digging into the earth. Confusion swirls within him; a big dark ball forms in the pit of his stomach, and was he angry? Sad? He couldn’t pinpoint it, but he felt upset. Maybe because he didn’t want Hinata to leave just yet? Or maybe it was the thought that Miwa should have a say in this, to voice her own feelings about wanting Atsumu instead of him.

Hinata’s expression flickered, as if he read Tobio’s mind. “You weren’t seriously considering letting Miwa win alongside Atsumu at the cost of your own life, were you?” And he notices the way Tobio tenses. He doesn’t say anything, and Hinata has his answer.

These past few days, Tobio has been wrestling with the unsettling thought that he might die if it meant Miwa could find happiness. This uneasy feeling grows in his stomach each day, the mere idea of his death looming closer than he ever anticipated, all because he desperately wants Miwa to find her happiness. For once in her life, even if they were caught up in the games of all places.

Back in District Twelve, his sister never once considered her own wants and needs, because in her eyes, her top priority was Tobio. Her little brother. After their parents and after grandfather, Miwa was always there for Tobio, taking care of him as if she were more like a mother than a sister. As Tobio grew up, he became more aware of the kind of person she was—someone who put others' needs before her own, because that’s how she was brought up. She was the eldest sibling, thrust into the role of taking care of Tobio after their family had been killed, forced to grow up quicker than others just to survive.

Tobio felt guilty. He felt like it was his turn to take responsibility, after all those years of relying on the one person who loved him enough to risk everything. Including herself.

Maybe it was Tobio’s turn to take a risk.

Hinata stares at Tobio, waiting for an answer. But Tobio keeps his head down, avoiding the redhead's gaze. How could he admit that letting himself die in this arena while Miwa pursued her happiness was his best option? He just couldn’t bring himself to say it out loud.

Understanding he wasn’t getting an answer from Tobio, Hinata steps away from the District Twelve boy, sighing out, “Look, just know this is for the better,” he looks away. “Seperating.”

Tobio looks up. “You talk as if I’m going to win,” he raises a brow. “Don’t you want to win?”

Somehow, those words jolted Hinata back to reality. He looked at Tobio, that usual, well-known determined look written in his brown eyes. Tobio felt a tug at the corners of his lips, almost breaking into a smile as he watched Hinata revive that eager spark within him. Almost.

“I am going to win, Kageyama,” he says, propping his hands on his hips. “Don’t think I’ve broken my promise yet.”

Yet. Tobio chose to keep that observation to himself, though it surprised him just a bit.

“Well,” Tobio says, cracking a small smile. “I still plan to kill you too.”

Usually, Hinata would have fired back with an angry retort at a comment like that, driven by his competitive spirit. He hated losing. But somehow, amidst Tobio’s threat, he could feel a sense of lightheartedness in the air. It was as if they were sharing an inside joke, a bond forged over years of friendship, making it feel like they were best friends.

Hinata almost laughed at that thought. Me and Kageyama? Best friends? Yeah, right. In a million fucking years when I see the guy in hell. And then, Hinata frowns secretly, because was he really planning to kill Tobio? Once that moment comes, will Hinata actually have the guts to even try?

The thoughts didn’t linger much longer when Miwa and Atsumu strolled over, signaling it was time to get moving. Tobio and Hinata quickly slipped their boots back on and rolled their pants down, excitedly presenting their collection of rocks and stones to Miwa and Atsumu, just like little kids eager to show off their messy drawings to their parents. Miwa and Atsumu exchanged amused glances, doing their best to muster up proud smiles for the two.

Soon enough the four of them were walking along the beach where the trees offered shade. Hinata and Tobio walked a little ahead of Atsumu and Miwa. They watched them bicker (as usual), while trying to drown out their arguing and shouting as they spoke.

“Those two have been surprisingly close lately,” Atsumu points out. “S’less about the competition now, but they’re still always at each other’s throats for some odd reason.”

“Yeah,” Miwa sighed, her shoulders slumping as she glanced at the two ahead, playfully nudging and throwing half-hearted punches at each other like they were kids again. She then frowns. “I’m starting to worry that Tobio is eyeing the idea of winning alongside Hinata.”

“Tobio? Considerin’ the idea of winnin’ with Hinata?” Atsumu scoffs. “I don’ think so.”

Miwa frowned. She wanted to protest. She wanted to argue that Tobio really was considering leaving Miwa behind. “Yeah,” she says. “Yeah, no, you’re right.”

But she just agreed with Atsumu. A nagging thought tugged at her; what was going on in her brother’s head? Was he really considering the possibility of him and Hinata instead? They had been getting a lot closer lately, and it no longer felt like they were completely locked in competition—it was almost as if they were friends. Miwa tried to shake the thought away. Tobio? Friends? It felt like some wild dream that couldn’t possibly be real. Ever.

It was silent again as they walked alongside each other. Only the waves hitting the surface and echoing throughout the entire arena was heard. “Would that be so bad?” However, Atsumu speaks up again.

Miwa looks over at the blonde boy. “What?” She says.

“If Tobio was considerin’ the idea of winnin’ with Hinata,” he explains. “Would that be so bad?”

“Why? Did he say he was?”

“No,” Atsumu quickly says, noticing her unease. “No, no, he didn’t. I was just–I was just thinkin’, I dunno, what would that mean for..for me an’ you?”

Miwa’s expression suddenly softened sadly. “Atsumu..” She tries to say.

“Or even if Tobio were ta choose ya, what would that mean for us? Have you ever thought about that?”

Those words hit her like a bullet through the heart. Miwa couldn't bring herself to meet Atsumu's gaze, her eyes falling instead to her feet dragging through the sand. She had hoped they wouldn’t have to have this conversation so soon. Honestly, she’d been doing her best to avoid it, knowing that the two victor rule wouldn’t apply to her and Atsumu with Tobio in the arena alongside her. Her expression squishes into a sad frown.

As if reading her thoughts, “Ya have,” Atsumu points out coldly. “I can tell.”

“Atsumu..” Miwa sighs. She knows she can’t avoid this conversation any longer. “You know I can’t choose you over Tobio. I shouldn’t even have to choose but–”

“But what?” Atsumu cuts her off. “Now I’m just some second choice ta ya–just someone ta lean on when Tobio ain’t around?”

“Hey, you don’t get to be like that–you know what’s right and what’s wrong. If your brother were here, you wouldn’t even think twice about choosing him over anyone, would you?”

At the mention of Osamu, Atsumu’s stomach sank. “That’s different.” He mutters.

“Different?” scoffs the girl in disbelief. “More different than me picking Tobio? My own brother?”

“Okay, stop,” Atsumu says, quickly grabbing Miwa by the wrist and halting her in her tracks. He looks down at her, seeing nothing but frustration etched on her face. For a moment, he nearly pulls away, hating that he’s the cause of her sadness. But he squeezes her wrist gently, forcing himself to say, “Miwa.. I really like ya, alright?” because it was true. He really, really liked her. “I like ya–an’ maybe I’m bein’ selfish–”

“Yeah, you are.” Miwa says bitterly.

“ –but I reckon I don’ know what I’d do if that meant walkin’ outta the games without ya, kay? I just–” he pauses, squeezing her wrist gently. “Fuck, Miwa, I like ya. A lot.”

Miwa shakes her head. “Oh,” she scoffs, pulling her arm from his grasp. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Give me that pretty boy act,” she snaps angrily, her finger jabbing sharply in his direction. “I’m sure that’s exactly what makes all the girls swoon for you back in District Four. Is that how you always get what you want? Flash that charming smile to cover up that empty void inside you?”

“Miwa, don’ be like that.”

“No, Atsumu. You don’t get to tell me that, because you know what? I really liked you too. The Atsumu Miya that wasn’t always so caught up in his own head. If he could’ve just taken a moment to think about what others wanted, then maybe, just maybe, there could’ve been a chance for us.”

Atsumu falls silent, his gaze locked on Miwa. He feels himself deflate, as if the very essence of him is crumbling at the sight of this new version of Miwa he never intended to bring to life. The Miwa Kageyama who had pulled away, no longer seeking the closeness they once shared. The Miwa Kageyama who had lost the comfort she used to find in Atsumu, all because of a few careless words. And oh god, he wanted to fix this.

He takes a small step closer, wanting to fill the gap between them. “Miwa..” He whispers, attempting to reach for her hand again.

But she pulls back, her voice firm as she says, “I’m winning with Tobio, and that’s that, Atsumu.” And with that, she turns and walks away, leaving Atsumu standing there, alone, as she catches up with Tobio and Hinata, who had been quietly observing their argument from a distance.

In this moment, as Atsumu stands alone, he realizes a couple of things. First, he never wanted to see Miwa upset again. The sight of her anger and sadness directed at him feels like daggers to his heart, each one piercing deeper with every heartbeat. And second, as he sinks further into this abyss with Miwa, he understands that solitude, though painful, feels safer than the sting of being cast aside. Because in this game, Atsumu Miya knows he’s never been the first choice with Miwa—not with her brother around.

Stay out of the way, Atsumu, the words ring in his head. All you ever do is ruin things. Stupid Atsumu..

Atsumu watches Miwa and the others fade into the trees, his heart beating hard and fast, and it hurt. Maybe they were right. Maybe everyone was right about him. He ruins things. He always does. First, it was his relationship with his brother—his family. He risked not just his life but theirs for a cause that could’ve been resolved without him nearly killing himself. And now, they were back home, anxiously waiting and watching, expecting their boy to return safe. But here he was, teetering on the edge, unable to bear the thought that it wouldn’t be him and Miwa in the end.

Even if he and Miwa did have a chance, would she even want to be with him now? After all the selfishness and self-centeredness he’d shown? No, because Miwa didn’t like that side of him. She made it clear—she didn’t want the Atsumu Miya who only thought about himself. And fuck, maybe she was right. Maybe he really was just thinking about himself, and all he could think about was Miwa. Oh, Miwa, Miwa, Miwa... what a life it would be if that meant she was part of it.

Atsumu closes his eyes, letting out a sad sigh as the beach breeze tousles his blonde locks. He imagines it all. He imagines going home with Miwa, swimming together in his lake, where he wouldn’t have to worry about a single thing because Miwa would be right there, holding his hand. It would just be them, and everything else, everyone else, would fade away, and and and—

He was too lost in that dream to notice Nishinoya.

Suddenly, a sharp pain sliced through his thoughts, jarring him back to reality. His eyes snapped back into focus as he felt the cold steel of a blade pierce his side, painful and deep. So, so deep. Atsumu stumbled, weakly reaching for his trident strapped to his back, but before he could, Nishinoya snatched it first. He ripped the golden weapon away from Atsumu and yanked the knife from his side, forcing Atsumu to stumble clumsily in the sand

Atsumu is immediately trying to get away, but the shock has him frozen, unable to think straight. He reaches for his new stab wound, pressing a shaky hand against the large slit. Blood seeps through his fingers as his feet drag long trails through the sand, inching closer to the ocean's water. Everything around him is a blur; his eyes dart crazily, panic rising within him, unsure of what to do. And before he can gather his thoughts, Nishinoya shoves him hard, sending Atsumu splashing into the water.

The salty water rushed over his gushing wound, forcing Atsumu to groan painfully as Nishinoya flipped him onto his back. Normally, Atsumu was much bigger and stronger than Nishinoya. At least, in other circumstances. But when you’re unexpectedly sliced with a dagger, anyone around five feet could have the upper hand in this situation. The irony of the situation stung almost as much as the wound.

Atsumu blinked up at the District Six boy through his blurry gaze. In the next instant, Nishinoya is practically sitting on Atsumu, strangling him by the neck and submerging him underwater, where Atsumu finds himself unable to draw a breath for the first time in his seventeen years of living. Another sharp pain ripples through his body. Nishinoya stabs Atsumu, again and again, and over and over, relentlessly, until the water surrounding them resembles a pool of cranberry juice.

Atsumu couldn’t scream. Not because he was drowning or being strangled by someone much smaller than him, but because he couldn't find it in himself to try anymore. Not when he’s been such a disappointment all his life. Not when he was destined to die in the first place. Not when Miwa didn’t want him. Not when he ruined everything.

Nishinoya plunged the blade into him once more. He had ruined everything. For Mom. Dad. Osamu. Another sharp stab to the stomach. What was the point of carrying on if every time he tried to do something right, he ended up screwing it up? Every damn time? That last stab hit harder, as if that was his reminder of all his wrongdoings. All his fuck ups.

Because that’s what Atsumu was. One big fuck up.

And maybe that’s exactly what he needed. One final, searing reminder to make it clear that Atsumu Miya was nothing but a pain in the ass to everyone he cared about.

It wasn’t long before Miwa and the others noticed the commotion after realising Atsumu hadn’t followed behind them. They rushed over in a panic. Miwa yanked Nishinoya off of Atsumu, dragging him to the surface and forcing him onto his back. She pressed her bow against his neck, practically digging it into his throat while Nishinoya struggled to push her off, desperately gasping for air. But Miwa summoned every ounce of strength and willpower she had, because oh god, if she hadn’t turned away from Atsumu…

Miwa choked back a sob, pressing her bow down even harder until Nishinoya gasped for his last breath. The cannon fired, echoing the grim announcement of the fourteenth death—Nishinoya Yuu.

Nishinoya’s body fell limp as Miwa stepped back, her breath coming in fast, ragged gasps. Her panicked gaze darted towards Atsumu, who was being dragged from the water by Tobio and Hinata. Without hesitation, she rushed over to help them pull the big blonde onto the surface. Once he was laid back against the sand, Miwa knelt beside him, cursing under her breath as she examined his injuries. His face was as pale as a ghost, his expression nearly lifeless, and oh god, how many times had he been stabbed? Blood soaked everywhere, his entire body coated in red—Miwa felt overwhelmed, unsure of which wound to apply pressure to. She started shaking.

“Oh, g-god..” she mutters shakily, slipping a hand behind Atsumu’s head, lifting him up slightly. “Come on, Atsumu, you’re okay–Tobio get the first aid kit!”

Tobio was already slipping his bag off, searching for the kit while Miwa begged for Atsumu to wake up. When Tobio handed the first aid kit to Miwa, Atsumu's eyes fluttered open, not fully, but enough to show he was tired and in pain. He was awake, and that was all that mattered right now.

Miwa’s fingers rush through Atsumu’s blonde strands. She was shaking so hard, but still, she found so much comfort just being able to touch the District Four boy. “Atsumu..” she sighs shakily, smiling in relief. “God, you’re okay–are you okay? I’m sorry, I’m so–so, sorry. I didn’t mean to leave you, everything’s okay now. You–you’re okay–”

Atsumu coughed. Blood dripped past his lips and down his chin.

Miwa’s heart sank. “S-shit..” she pressed her hands against one of his deeper wounds, blood already coating her hands. He winced painfully, shifting uncomfortably under her touch (barely). Miwa’s brows knitted. “I’m sorry, Atsumu, I’m sorry,” she whispers. “Fuck, he’s losing so much blood–we need to get him out of the open.”

Tobio opened his mouth to say something, “Miwa..” however, Atsumu beat him to it. God, just barely. He was struggling to speak. “It..” he chokes. “It hurts.”

Miwa’s eyes began to sting. “I know, Atsumu, I know,” she says, her voice trembling. “Just stay with me, okay? We’re going to get you some help–please, just stay with me.”

Tobio and Hinata exchanged glances, their expressions mirroring each other’s thoughts. As if they both knew there was no way to find help for Atsumu in this arena.

Atsumu looks up at Miwa weakly, and he mumbles out, “Wanna stay..” his voice barely above a whisper. “I wanna be..be with you..”

Miwa runs a hand through Atsumu’s blonde hair. “Yes!” she smiles hopefully. “Yes, good–that’s good! Just keep staying with me. You’re doing so–”

“C-can’t,” suddenly, Atsumu says, and Miwa feels her whole life fall apart.

Just by that simple, singular word, Miwa sensed a sudden change in her life in the games. A change she should’ve been expecting, but god, she was head over heels in love; she couldn’t bring herself to imagine the possibility of Atsumu—her Atsumu—dying in her arms on a warm summer morning by the beach, where everything was supposed to be peaceful.

Atsumu loved the beach. He loved the water. Miwa had grown to love it too, cherishing the idea of sharing something so special with the District Four boy. But now, all she wanted was to scream, to sob her heart out. Was he really dying by the one thing that had always brought him sanctuary? The one thing that had offered him peace in this miserable world?

Miwa softly brushed her fingers against Atsumu’s cheek, her thumb gliding in tender, circular motions just beneath his eye. She bit down on her bottom lip, feeling it tremble, and the weight of her emotions threatened to spill over, making it impossible for her to hold back the tears any longer.

“Atsumu..” Miwa whispers–begs.

And Atsumu immediately hears the break in her voice, the longing to be with him, even though he knows deep down that none of it was possible from the start. Even through his hazy, almost lifeless brown eyes, he finds himself scrutinizing every part of Miwa. His gaze is gentle as it drifts from her eyes to her lips, then to her nose, her dark hair, and back to her eyes again. He notices the tears streaming down her cheeks, and a deep urge wells up inside him to reach out, to wipe away her tears, and whisper in her ear that everything will be okay. To murmur nothing but sweet praises, and maybe, just maybe, confess how much he truly likes her. And in that moment, she’d look around and see the beauty of Atsumu’s dream—a world where they are together and happy.

But instead, Atsumu reaches a weak, shaky hand toward hers, and she immediately intertwines her fingers with his, squeezing tightly enough that Atsumu feels the weight of her unspoken plea. Please don’t leave me. I can’t do this without you.

And Atsumu does his best to squeeze her hand back. “Yer beautiful..” he manages weakly, because despite his lack of voice, he wanted to say it. He needed to say it before he.. before.. “I think yer beautiful, Miwa..”

That was the last thing Atsumu uttered before everything faded into a blur. In the midst of the pain, a surprising wave of calm washed over him. He took his final breath in the arms of the one person who brought him peace, even in the chaos of the games. He gazed up at her beautiful face, the one he had cherished calling beautiful, before the chance slipped away forever. He died thinking, ‘Fuck, Samu is gonna kick my ass,’ because he knew he had broken his promise—the one he had every intention of keeping. But the games had become a relentless pain in the ass for Atsumu. And he died thinking maybe this was for the better..

With Atsumu gone, the weight of endless messes to clean up would’ve slipped from Osamu’s shoulders. That would’ve been great for Samu.

Yet, the emptiness left behind was a constant reminder that no amount of time could fill the void Atsumu, his stupid twin brother, had left in his aching heart.

Chapter Text

Kuroo couldn't shake the feeling that everything was his fault.

That night, Kenma went to bed upset, not uttering a single word. Akaashi, too, remained silent, retreating to a tree again, clutching a small piece of paper to his chest as if it held some deep significance. Meanwhile, Tsukishima sat beside the District Two boy, quiet (though quieter than usual).

Though the tall blonde was usually silent and preferred silence over anything else in this arena, Kuroo could sense something was bothering him. He was picking and poking at the fire with his long stick, the flames reflecting back into his spectacles, as if to demonstrate how unsettled he felt tonight. Kuroo's arms prickled with chills. Something about Tsukishima’s new demeanour told Kuroo he shouldn’t try to get on his bad side.

“If you’re going to stare, at least try to be subtle about it.”

Too late.

“I’m not staring.” Kuroo mutters, looking away.

“You are,” Tsukishima said dryly, his tone as cold and dismissive as ever. “What’s going on with you?” But tonight, he felt a rare urge to cut through Kuroo’s thick rooster hair and uncover what was truly going on inside that head of his.

“What’s going on with me?” Kuroo scoffed. “Nothing. What’s going on with you?”

“Typical of you to dodge the spotlight the moment it shines on you. Classic Kuroo.”

“No, seriously. What is with you?” Kuroo presses on, irritation creeping into his voice. He knew he wasn’t the only one drowning in a sea of paranoid thoughts. “We both know there’s something eating at you. Just spill it already. You’ve been a lot quieter ever since–“

But he was quickly interrupted when the familiar anthem began to play throughout the arena. Kuroo might have felt grateful for the distraction, especially as his argument with Tsukishima was heating up, but the title of ‘the fallen’ shining in the night sky did little to ease his tension.

It opened with the most recent deaths, starting with Oikawa from District One, which meant both tributes from the Luxury District were eliminated from the game. Next was another career, Atsumu from District Three, leaving Kuroo and Saeko as the last remaining careers. Suddenly, a nauseous feeling twisted in the pit of Kuroo’s stomach knowing he’s made it this far.

Next was Bokuto, causing the group to tense up again, even with Kenma asleep and Akaashi hidden away in that damn tree. Kuroo fought the urge to turn around and look at him. He knew the District Eight boy was awake, likely staring at the image of Bokuto in the sky with those glassy blue eyes.

Next came Kiyoko and Nishinoya from District Six, followed by Yachi from District Nine, and finally the boy from District Ten, Sugawara. With that, the fallen announcement faded out from the sky along with the anthem, leaving an eerie silence. Only the crackling of the fire broke through the stillness.

Fifteen gone, nine left. And in the end, two will stand.

Suddenly, breaking the silence, “It’s Kenma.” Tsukishima mutters.

Kuroo looked at him. “What?” He says, brows furrowed.

“It’s Kenma,” the blonde repeats. “You’ve been acting off lately. It’s obvious. Kenma hasn’t mentioned a word about winning with you,” he pauses before saying, “You want to win with him, don’t you?”

Tsukishima's gaze bored into Kuroo, as if he could see right through him. He scrutinised Kuroo's tall, seated figure, his glasses glinting like they were equipped with mind-reading capabilities. Was Kuroo truly that transparent? Did his cocky demeanor fail to mask the fear that gripped him in this arena?

Kuroo wanted to be upset at Tsukishima for calling him out just now, but he couldn't. One, because it was true. Ever since the announcement signalling the two victor rule, Kenma hasn’t spoken a word to Kuroo, as if he were avoiding him. He was avoiding him. It had Kuroo second guessing everything between him and Kenma. Was it real? Or was it all Kuroo’s head?

And two, Tsukishima wasn’t exactly Kuroo’s first choice. It was Kenma. Tsukishima might’ve held some resentment towards Kuroo for that, considering he was the one who dragged him into this alliance in the first place.

Kuroo sighs, “Tsuki..”

“It’s fine. I don’t care,” he cuts him off. “I’ve already concluded that I’m not the first choice. Kenma was always the favourite. That was obvious from the start.”

“Yeah, but like you said, Kenma isn’t exactly keen on winning with me.”

“I never said he wasn’t keen. I said that he hasn’t mentioned wanting to win with you.”

Kuroo looked back towards the fire after Tsukishima corrected him. Same thing, he wanted to say. Kuroo had never been great at deciphering Kenma’s thoughts, but it was painfully clear that Kenma wanted nothing to do with him. He’s sure everyone knew that, including the Capitol and all twelve districts. Heck, even his family.

Kuroo holds his hands together tightly between his legs, resting his elbows on his spread knees. The thought continued to grow worse and worse as days flew by. Every single action, every little mess up, was all Kuroo’s fault. Kenma was avoiding him and now Tsukishima was added to the mix. It was all a mess and it made winning a little more difficult. Maybe the one at fault should just take whatever bait is thrown their way and end it all.

Tempting.

Kuroo didn’t dwell too much longer on that thought, deciding to say, “Aside from ‘not caring’ that you’re not the first choice, tell me how you really feel about this situation, Tsuki.”

Tsukishima was silent for a moment or two. He picked and poked at the burning wood beneath the fire with his stick, hesitating before he said, “I feel like this alliance was never working out for me.” he stated honestly, letting his heart do the talking for once.

Kuroo presses his palms tighter together. “And why do you say that?” He questions.

“Because it’s like I’m not even here anymore.”

Kuroo fell silent. He didn’t know what to say, because maybe Tsukishima was right. Maybe Kuroo and the others have been rather disdainful of Tsukishima. Kuroo has been so focused on Kenma while Akaashi was so wrapped up in his own worries about Bokuto. Now, with Bokuto gone, Akaashi won’t even talk to anyone, and god, Tsukishima had every right to be angry.

This alliance hasn’t treated Tsukishima fairly at all.

Figuring Kuroo had nothing to say, Tsukishima speaks up again. “Maybe there is no point in me sticking around any longer.”

Kuroo turned to Tsukishima. “What are you suggesting, Tsuki?”

“Exactly what I said.”

“You want to leave?”

“What good is there for me to stay? We’re bound to split up eventually,” he scoffed. “We’re down to nine tributes, Kuroo. You really think it’ll be any different when there are just four of us left? What do you think is going to happen?”

Kuroo averted his gaze. He’s been doing his best to avoid the thought this entire week, but with only nine tributes left, the reality of having to split up loomed closer than ever.

Tsukishima tossed his stick into the fire, watching as the flames consumed it like a predator devouring its prey—just like every victim who had fallen in this brutal game.

Standing up, Tsukishima declared, “I won’t leave yet, but don’t expect me to stick around any longer. I plan to leave as soon as possible.” With that, he walked off to prepare for bed, leaving Kuroo alone to grapple with the weight of everything that churned in the dark pit of his stomach.

…

The next day was different without Atsumu.

The three of them navigated the woods, weaving between trees and carefully stepping over rocks. Miwa walked ahead of Tobio and Hinata, who had remained mostly silent throughout the tense morning. The shock of Atsumu's death at the hands of Nishinoya from District Six was still, well, shocking. Neither of them had the words to break the oppressive silence.

Both Tobio and Hinata understood that Miwa wouldn’t be the one to break the silence about their situation. After having to pull her trembling, tearful figure away from Atsumu yesterday, Tobio was certain his sister wanted to avoid any mention of the horrific events that had unfolded. If he could dive into her thoughts at that moment, he knew they would be overwhelmed with memories of Atsumu. Atsumu, Atsumu, Atsumu.. A flood of good memories mixed with the painful ones that made her long to escape this arena and tear the Capitol apart bit by bit.

Miwa was heartbroken. Tobio didn’t need to point that out because it was so clear.

Tobio had always hated to question this when Atsumu was alive, but it was undeniable—Miwa loved him. In the midst of this damn arena, Miwa found happiness, even when she knew it was wrong. Her heart spoke louder than her mind, yearning for Atsumu despite her intentions to win alongside Tobio. Even if Atsumu were still alive today, she wasn’t sure if she would truly want to win with him or not.

Please, Atsumu wake up

We can win together, please–just wake up for me

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry

Tobio recalled her words through broken sobs yesterday as she clung to the once vibrant boy who had walked the games. Maybe she had just been caught up in the moment, but Tobio couldn’t shake his uncertainty. He knew she liked Atsumu. He knew she loved him. She wanted him more than anything, and now..

Tobio looks ahead, watching Miwa.

Now, she was just a sad girl walking alone with a sad, broken heart.

Tobio’s gaze falls back to the ground, his dark boots dragging through the grass and kicking aside little stones. The silence envelops them during this walk, heavy and unsettling, like a weight pressing down on his chest.

“I don’t know how much more I can take of this.” Suddenly, Hinata says from beside Tobio, breaking the long silence.

When Tobio glances over at Hinata, he notices how pale he looks. It’s as if he’s on the brink of barfing all the pain he’s endured—like a punch from the games has left him reeling. Sugawara’s death. Yachi’s death. And now Atsumu…

Tobio shook his head. “Stop,” he mutters. “I can’t have you falling apart on me too.”

“Atsumu is dead, Kageyama,” Hinata chokes, the reminder squeezing Tobio’s stomach so hard it hurts. “Atsumu is–”

“And Miwa is in shambles,” Tobio interrupts. “Seeing Miwa in this state is hurting enough, I can’t–” he pauses, hesitating, his voice beginning to tremble. And then, “I can’t have you losing yourself either.”

Tobio didn’t look at Hinata when he said that, but he meant it. They were rivals, of course, but Tobio’s perspective on Hinata has started to..shift, you could say. He still wanted to kill him. He wanted to wrap his hands around his neck and squeeze his annoying little head off because then finally he would shut that big fat mouth up. Yet, in those moments when Hinata teetered on the brink of death, Tobio found himself desperate to do everything in his power to keep Hinata alive.

Tobio couldn’t quite grasp what this feeling was. He kept convincing himself that it was just the thought of Hinata dying at someone else's hands that bothered him. Yeah, that had to be it. He just didn’t want to break his promise. That’s all!

But Tobio still wasn’t sure.

There was a long pause between them. When Tobio finally turned to look at Hinata, he saw him wiping his eyes, as if he had been crying. His eyes were slightly red and puffy, leaving no doubt that he had shed a few tears.

A wave of guilt washed over Tobio at that moment. “Sorry.” He manages out, surprising both Hinata and himself.

“No, it’s..” the redhead sighs. “It’s okay.”

Tobio fiddled with the zipper of his jacket, searching for some semblance of closure, but that was nearly impossible to find in the arena. “I’m just…” he began, his voice trailing off. “I’m shocked about Atsumu too, and now that he’s gone, I…” he paused, taking a moment to gather his thoughts. “I guess it was just a smack to the face, waking me up to realize this is all really happening.”

Hinata didn’t say anything, merely listening. He watches Tobio with brown puffy eyes. Even in this state of grief and sadness, Hinata still gave Tobio all of his attention to prove he was listening. Suddenly Tobio felt tense and decided to not look at Hinata at all as he continued.

“The scariest part is that Miwa isn’t taking his death well at all. After our parents and grandfather, she was forced to pick herself up because of me. But now that we’re here.. I’m scared she’s going to crumble apart right in front of me and I’m going to–” he hesitates, chewing on his lip. “To lose her forever.”

Hinata observes Tobio intently, taking in every shift in his expression. His gaze flits from Tobio's eyebrows to his eyes, then down to his lips, only to return to his eyes again when he realises he’s been staring for too long.

Tobio had this angry, grumpy personality, always trying to act tough no matter the situation, even when he was on the verge of falling apart. He always put on a front like he was stronger than everyone else, but in Hinata’s eyes, Tobio was hurting deeply, to the point of being scared. Maybe he realised that himself since he had managed to get the District Twelve boy to open up and talk, forcing Hinata to understand him on a whole new level. Or perhaps it was just that the tough boy act didn’t quite do it for Hinata.

Another thing is, Hinata can relate to him on some level. Tobio had a sister he cared about more than anything, and so did Hinata.

Eventually, Hinata decides to say, “Talk to her,” as he watches the girl walk up ahead. “I don’t know what I could do with myself if it was my sister in Miwa’s position. All I do know is that she’d need some comfort from her brother.”

Hinata watches Miwa, imagining her as little Natsu—sad and broken, with her messy red hair cascading over a pained expression. He couldn’t help but imagine what would be going through her mind, the dark thoughts of how she might end it all in the games.

Tobio looks at Hinata, eyeing him so hard he practically reads his thoughts, and that was enough for him to listen to him. He gives Hinata a small pat on the back, which Hinata interprets as a gesture of reassurance—two gentle taps that seem to say, ‘it’s okay.’ Hinata can feel the warmth of Tobio’s hand lingering against his back, even as he walks away. But it’s not a painful burn like you’d imagine. It’s more like the comforting burn of a marshmallow roasting over a campfire, surrounded by the people you love.

Warm and comforting.

Tobio quickly catches up to his sister, walking beside her in silence. Miwa doesn’t need to glance up to know it’s her brother; she keeps her gaze fixed downward, watching the small stones she kicks along the grass as if they’re the most fascinating things in the world. Yet, her expression is so lifeless that even the rocks seem dull.

Tobio’s expression softens. He doesn’t recall ever seeing her like this.

Tobio reached for her hand, which felt so cold and almost lifeless that it sent a chill from his fingertips straight to the core of his heart, encasing it in a frozen enclosure. Tobio shuddered, feeling her pain rush in his body all at once, and god, it ached.

The boy watched Miwa intently, waiting for any sign of a reaction. But she didn’t meet his gaze, her eyes remaining glued to the ground beneath them. Tobio squeezed her hand gently. “Miwa, look at me,” he urged.

Miwa does end up looking at Tobio in the end, her expression sad and hurt, her eyes red and shiny, her cheeks stained with tears from earlier. God, who even knows, they could be from just a few seconds ago.

Tobio swallows hard, fighting against the ache in his stomach as he squeezes her hand once more. He couldn't allow himself to fall apart now. He had to stay strong for Miwa.

“I know how much you liked him, Miwa,” he starts, watching the way Miwa squeezed her eyes shut at those first few words. Tobio continues. “This pain will cut just as deep as when Mom and Dad died. When Grandfather died. But I can’t have you falling apart on me now.”

When Miwa opens her eyes again, a tear runs down her cheek. Tobio swallows back the growing lump in his throat, squeezing her hand again.

“I need you to stay strong for me, Miwa.” He urges.

Miwa shakes her head weakly, looking down. “I can’t–”

“You can.”

“Tobio..” she sighs shakily.

“No. You listen to me,” Tobio suddenly stops in his tracks. He lets go of Miwa’s hand and grips her shoulders instead, squeezing them urgently to make her face him. “You are the strongest, most independent person I know. You did everything on your own when nobody else was there to help you. You were in so much pain, and I was too blind to see it when we were kids because you always put me first.”

Miwa tries to keep her focus on Tobio, but even as he spoke he could see Miwa’s mind drift off to something else—someone else—making her expression look even sadder. And Tobio couldn’t help but think he was losing her.

He squeezes her hand again, pulling her back into the moment. “If you let go now, the Miwa I know would…” he pauses, his voice trembling with fear. He was scared—more than anything—but he couldn’t be scared. Not in front of Miwa. Taking a deep breath, he continues, “Miwa, please, I need you to stay with me here. We’re so close.”

Those last few words seemed to pull her back to reality. Miwa stared at Tobio, tears welling in her eyes. Without hesitation, he pulled her into a tight hug, burying his face in her hair as he fought to hold back his own tears.

Through her tears, Miwa manages to say, “I’m sorry…” She hugs her brother tightly, as if afraid that if she let go, he’d disappear forever, just like Atsumu.

“No,” Tobio says. “You can’t be sorry. Not in the games.”

The games. The Hunger Games. In the Hunger Games, there was no room for apologies; showing remorse only revealed weakness. It was a twisted sense of pride for the Capitol, knowing they were the reason for all this suffering.

Miwa hugged Tobio tighter, her voice barely above a whisper. “I really did love him.” She confessed, trembling with anguish. Yet beneath her sorrow lay a simmering anger, a fierce need for revenge for what had been taken from her. Because how could Miwa ever let this go after losing so many people in her life?

She wasn’t going to let the Capitol dictate her life any longer. She would no longer accept whatever they threw at her.

After a moment longer, the siblings finally pulled away from their embrace. Miwa wiped away the last of her tears, her sad expression morphing into one of anger. Tobio managed to offer her some more reassurance, coaxing a small smile from her, but deep down, she still carried that hurt and anger. It was clear that those feelings wouldn’t fade away anytime soon.

Before they resumed their walk, Tobio sensed something unusual. Silence. An unsettling kind of silence. While it had been quiet among the three of them that morning, this silence felt different, almost heavy, as if they were missing the third member of their trio. When he turned around, he realised he was correct.

Hinata was gone.

Tobio frantically scanned the area, searching for that unmistakable red hair that stood out from afar, but there was nothing. There was no sign of that messy red hair and fuck, Tobio was beginning to panic.

He curses beneath his breath before he and Miwa start calling out for him, realising they've lost him. How could this have happened? Tobio had only turned away for just a minute. Surely he didn't just run off, right? But then Tobio's stomach tightens, recalling their conversation from yesterday.

‘I think it’s time for us to go our separate ways,’ Hinata had said.

Hinata didn’t actually run off to work alone without telling the Kageyama siblings, did he? No. No, that wasn’t like him. He’s not the type to run off without any warning. He was loyal and trusting and–

The Kageyama siblings paused.

That was a scream they heard just now. Not just any scream.

That was Hinata’s.

In an instant, panic surged through Tobio. Without a second thought, he took off running, his heart pounding as he followed the direction of his rival’s desperate cry.

Chapter Text

Jabberjays. Hinata should’ve seen it coming.

Jabberjays were a mutated species similar to the mockingjay—small and dark, yet notably less friendly, especially considering their creation by the Capitol. Given the Capitol's reputation, it's clear that nothing truly friendly comes from there. These birds were famed for their mimicking abilities; they could memorise a person's voice and replicate it, typically for about an hour.

The Capitol used these birds for a couple of reasons. One: to spy on enemies. And two: to torture the tributes in the arena. And how did they do that?

By mimicking the pained screams of their loved ones.

That brings us to where Hinata is now.

Hinata sits in the grass, his hands pressed tightly over his ears as he leans against an unseen, inescapable barrier. Earlier, in his desperate attempt to run away, he found himself thwarted by this invisible wall, preventing him from returning to where he started. He pounded and punched the barrier in frustration, but it remained unyielding. He was stuck. So, he eventually sank to the ground, his ears ringing from the relentless torment.

What felt like hundreds, maybe even thousands, of jabberjays swooped and dove towards the redhead, leaving him with no choice but to scream and cry in response to their haunting mimicry. He could hear his mother and sister, their voices echoing in anguish every time the birds drew near. They cried out his name, filled with desperation, as if they believed Hinata was the only one who could save them from the torment.

“Shoyo!”

“Help me!”

“Please!”

But he couldn’t save them. They weren’t real. The jabberjays were merely mimicking them, intent on torturing Hinata to the brink of madness.

Hinata coughed and sobbed, trembling so hard that he thought he might pass out. He pressed his throbbing head against the invisible wall, overwhelmed by a flood of what-ifs and endless, terrifying possibilities.

One of the jabberjays dove at Hinata’s red hair, screaming in Natsu’s voice. Hinata cried. Tears streamed down his face as he tried to press his hands harder against his ears, but it did nothing to drown out the pained cries of his loved ones. The birds continued to swoop at him, one after another, second by second, and god, Hinata didn’t know how much more he could take of this.

Would they continue to swoop at him until he died from exhaustion? Or would this nightmare last an hour like normal?

Hinata probably won’t even be able to last an hour.

In the next moment, Hinata heard something banging on the wall. His whole body was shaking, but he managed to slowly peer up at what was causing the loud noise. To his surprise, he found himself staring at the Kageyama siblings, panicking on the opposite side of the wall. At least, he thought it was them. His vision was so blurry and flooded with tears that he could barely see or make out anything.

Tobio—if that was even him—had crouched down to meet Hinata’s scared gaze. He pounded against the wall, hoping it would shatter like glass and free Hinata from his torment, but it was futile. Frustrated, he pressed both hands against the invisible barrier, his lips moving as he spoke, but all Hinata could see was the silent desperation on his face. The wall distorted everything, making it impossible to hear him over the anguished screams of his mother and sister.

Tobio looked frantic and afraid. Hinata would’ve been surprised by that if it weren’t for the jabberjays pushing him into this overwhelming state of panic and fear. He couldn’t focus on anything; the jabberjays’ screams and cries were so loud in his ears that all his thoughts had vanished completely.

Hinata squeezed his eyes shut tightly, tears spilling out like an endless waterfall. He screamed. He cried. He sobbed—wishing with all his heart to go home. He wanted to be with his mom and Natsu, not trapped in this arena where they tortured him with the screams of the people he longed for so desperately.

“I—I want to go home,” Hinata stammered, his voice trembling. “I want to go ho—home…”

…

It only took an hour for the jabberjays to finally leave Hinata alone.

By the time the birds flew away and the invisible wall vanished, Hinata was a pale, sweating, trembling wreck. He looked like he might be sick, his hands still pressed tightly over his ears as if the screams of his loved ones were still haunting him. Tobio couldn’t fathom the terror of being in that position—hearing Miwa, reliving the screams of his already deceased parents, echoing in his mind just before the mines had crushed them to death.

Tobio and Miwa had to sit with Hinata for a couple of minutes before they began their trek again. They sat with the redhead in silence, offering water and food, but he wouldn’t even touch that. He kept staring at a blank spot in the distance, as if he was trapped in a trance. But no, that wasn’t what it was. The boy was traumatised.

Once darkness fell, they stopped to set up camp. Tobio tended to the fire while Miwa went off to hunt, returning with a few squirrels that she cooked over the flames. The Kageyama siblings ate their meals, but Hinata just picked at his food, tearing it into tiny pieces without actually consuming any. Tobio could’ve sworn he heard the boy's stomach growl a few times. He was clearly hungry, but the appetite just wasn’t there—not after the jabberjay incident.

Later that night, Miwa went to bed while Tobio took his turn on watch. He sat by the fire, soaking in the warmth on this cool autumn night. It was the eleventh day in the arena, edging closer to two weeks. The thought of it being just a couple of weeks felt so surreal to Tobio. It felt like he had been trapped in this hellhole for months, with no sign of escape at all.

That thought sent goosebumps running all along Tobio’s arms. What if he did end up being stuck here for months? What if he could never win and escape?

Tobio tried to shake off the heavy thoughts. He heard some rustling across the fire and noticed Hinata sitting up from his sleeping bag, his red hair almost blending in with the flames. The boy looked tired but seemed to lack sleep. He tossed and turned, groaning and moaning in frustration, until he finally sat up to just watch the fire, its glow reflecting in his eyes.

Tobio watched the District Nine boy closely, noting his expression. Even under the warm orange glow of the flames, his face remained somewhat pale. His eyes were half-lidded and almost lifeless, but there was a strong amount of fear in those brown eyes—a fear of what he had witnessed and what could happen.

“Are you okay?” Tobio decided to ask.

Tobio thought he needed to ask again, because Hinata didn't answer.

Tobio opens his mouth to speak, “Mm,” but after a brief delay, Hinata finally replies, “Fine.”

Tobio noticed the absence of joy in Hinata's voice. That happy, bubbly tone he often claimed to despise. Whenever Hinata slipped into these dark moods, he seemed to lose everything that made him, well, Hinata. The enthusiasm, the vibrant energy, the loud personality—everything that Tobio found so irritating was replaced by an unsettling silence.

But everytime he became this sad version of himself, Tobio felt just as empty.

Tobio nervously fiddled with the material of his pants. He couldn't quite understand why offering reassurance always made him so fidgety and anxious. "Do you..." he cleared his throat, "Do you want to talk about it?"

From across the fire, Tobio watches him shake his head weakly. “No.” He mumbles.

Tobio could feel his palms sweating–actually, scratch that. His entire body was overheating. “Okay,” he says. “Did you want to be left alone?”

“No,” Tobio's heart sank at the urgency in Hinata's voice. He could see the almost desperate plea in his eyes. “No,” Hinata repeated. “Can you just stay? For a minute?”

Hinata didn’t need to elaborate; the desperate plea in his eyes spoke volumes to Tobio. Without hesitation, the District Twelve boy rose from the log he had been sitting on, making his way around the fire to settle beside Hinata on his sleeping bag.

Tobio remained silent, feeling a bit awkward being this close to Hinata. They had shared closer moments before, like that time when Miwa got caught by Nishinoya and Kaori. But this felt different. Sitting cross-legged, his knee brushed against Hinata’s, a silent reassurance that he was there because Hinata wanted him close, to remind him he wasn’t alone. While Tobio often struggled with comforting others, it seemed that just being there was enough to make a difference. Apparently.

The two sat in silence, their eyes fixed on the flickering campfire, each lost in their own thoughts. Though their worries were different, they shared an underlying concern that connected them in this moment. In the chaos of the Hunger Games, it was nearly impossible to find a clear mind.

Hinata took a few deep breaths, inhaling and exhaling slowly while counting to ten in his head, just like his mother had taught him when things felt overwhelming. She would sit with him as a little boy, comforting him through the tears from a scraped knee. Holding his hands and whispering soothing words, she taught him the power of deep breaths and counting, always following it up with a warm hug and a special meal to lift his mood.

Hinata took one final breath, focusing on finding his calm. Memories of his mother’s sweet dishes filled his mind, along with the playful games Natsu always insisted they play. He felt the rough yet gentle brush of Tobio’s knee against his own, grounding him in the moment. In the blink of an eye, a sense of calm washed over him.

He was calm.

Hinata blinks slowly, his gaze drifting down to his fidgeting fingers in his lap. “I’ve read about jabberjays,” he says, finally shattering the silence. “They mimic the voices they overhear in conversations. That usually lasts for about an hour.”

Tobio kept his gaze fixed on the fire, listening intently to Hinata. He knew a bit about jabberjays, but he had never been one to delve too deeply into the Capitol's creations. He recalled that they were a mutated bird, made by scientists for the purpose of spying on enemies. However, they ultimately became a failed experiment after the rebels fed them false information, fully aware of their intended use.

Clearly, they weren’t exactly a failed experiment anymore, especially since they now use them in the games to torment their tributes.

There was another long pause between them before Hinata said, “They must have done something to them,” referring to his mother and sister.

“No. They couldn’t have–”

“Jabberjays copy what they hear, Kageyama. How else could they have gotten their voices?”

“Your family is safe,” Tobio states sternly. “They are in District Nine, where they should be. Where the Capitol can’t touch them.”

Hinata turns to look at the fire, whispering, “You don’t know that.”

And Tobio falls silent, because it was true. Tobio didn’t know that. He didn’t know the extent of the Capitol's cruelty—only that it was best not to provoke them. But the Capitol had no reason to harm Hinata’s family. Hinata hadn’t done anything to anger the president or even the Head Game Maker, Sakusa. So if they were to target his family, what could possibly be their motive? What reason would they have?

Hinata sighs. “Sorry,” he mutters. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to get so mopey today. It’s just hard to be so far away from them not knowing what could happen.”

Tobio’s gaze flits from Hinata to the fire, then to their touching knees, and finally to his fidgeting fingers resting in his lap. He struggles to find the right words to comfort Hinata, but it seems that every attempt only deepens Hinata’s distress.

He really wasn’t cut out for this comforting thing. He needed to work at that..

Suddenly Hinata snickered from beside Tobio. “Don’t hurt yourself, Kageyama,” he teases, as if he read the boy's thoughts. “I just wanted you to be here. Your presence is enough. You don’t have to say anything.”

Tobio shifts uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his neck as he admits, “I’m not exactly good at this whole comforting thing.”

“I know,” he smiles.

Tobio suddenly felt flustered, caught off guard by the intensity of Hinata's gaze. He couldn’t quite understand it, but when Hinata looked at him like that, smiling and, and—Jesus, it was like an overwhelming wave of emotions crashed over him all at once. All he wanted to do was crawl away and hide because, god, he felt like such an idiot in that moment.

‘I’m not exactly good at this whole comforting thing’? Seriously, Tobio? Get a grip!

Tobio turns away so abruptly that he nearly strains his neck. He fights to keep his gaze averted as he stammers, “They’re, um,” clearing his throat, he continues, “They’re going to be okay.”

And Hinata smiles again, reaching out and resting a hand on Tobio’s shoulder. Tobio instantly tenses, but he does his best to remain calm and just look at the small redhead.

“Thanks, Kageyama.”

Tobio blinks slowly, unsure of where to focus his attention. Should he look at Hinata's eyes, his hair, or the hand resting on his shoulder? Oh man, Tobio felt sick.

“You’re so cute..” Tobio mumbles out unawarely.

Hinata’s eyes widened. “What?”

Tobio burnt red. Did he say that out loud?

“Uh,” Tobio panicked. “I said you look like a sack of shit,” he quickly stood up to avoid the embarrassment, already walking back to the log he was previously sitting on. “Now go to sleep. You need it.”

Hinata watched as Tobio walked back around the campfire, muttering a string of profanities that only made the situation feel more embarrassing for him. He blinked, struggling to process everything that had just happened in those last twenty seconds. As his racing thoughts finally began to settle, Hinata felt his entire face heat up, including the tips of his ears and the back of his neck, suddenly so nervous.

Yet, despite that, a secret smile crept onto his face as he settled back into his sleeping bag.

…

By the time Kuroo’s turn came to take over his watch shift for the night, he was still exhausted, having barely slept at all. It had to be around one or two in the morning, and the cold night air was an unfortunate reminder that winter had officially arrived. Great. Just great.

Kuroo pushed himself up from his sleeping bag, running a hand through his perpetually messy hair that never seemed to cooperate. It always looked as if he'd just stumbled out of a fever dream, chaotic and disheveled. He blinked a few times, trying to shake off the remnants of sleep, before his gaze shifted from the dimming campfire to Kenma, who was perched on a log a bit farther from the group, his back turned to Kuroo.

Kuroo grumbled silently to himself as he eyed the District Three boy. Of course he didn’t attempt to wake Kuroo up when he should have. He was still avoiding him. Well, that wasn’t going to last any longer than it already has. Kuroo was sick of it, and he wanted to know why.

Kuroo threw the covers of his sleeping bag off of his body, standing up and walking towards Kenma. “Someone looks out of it.” Kuroo decides to say when he gets a good look at the boy's face.

Kenma blinked slowly at Kuroo, his dark eye bags glaring more daggers than his cat-like eyes. He clearly wasn’t pleased to see Kuroo, having hoped he would stay asleep and avoid him for another day. But, of course, he was quickly proven wrong. After spending nearly two weeks with Kuroo, he should have known by now that Kuroo always seemed to get his way.

Kenma sighs, rubbing his eyes. “What time is it?” He asked, exhausted.

“Time for you to catch some z’s,” whistles Kuroo as he plops beside Kenma on the log. “It’s my turn to take watch. Go get some rest.”

Kenma’s tired gaze falls towards the ground. He doesn’t answer, nor does he get up to head to bed.

Kuroo raised a puzzled brow. “And I assume you’re not moving because..?”

“I’m not tired.”

Kuroo sighs. “Ken..”

“I can’t sleep.”

Kuroo opened his mouth to argue, but it was no use with Kenma. He had done enough arguing lately and wasn’t eager to push Kenma further away. He was already losing Akaashi, and Tsukishima was planning to leave soon, and knowing him, there was no changing that boy's mind. Losing Kenma too was not an option. Kuroo had already watched too many people slip away, and he couldn’t imagine what he would do if Kenma became one of them.

That’s why Kuroo needed to break through the walls Kenma had built up around himself. Those steel bars he kept so tightly locked, convinced that no one was worth understanding who he really was.

Kuroo wanted to be the one person Kenma could trust enough to open up to. The person who could finally breach the barriers he had put up.

Kuroo glanced from the weary Kenma to the grass beneath them, his fingers fidgeting as he searched for the right words. “You’ve always had a knack for understanding people from a distance,” he began, recalling their first day in the arena when Kenma had effortlessly read him like an open book, leaving Kuroo feeling like the weakest leader in the games. “I wanted to be good too, because I wanted to know what you were thinking. It seemed so easy to look through Bokuto and–and understand what Akaashi was thinking, but you?” he scoffs. “You’ve been one big mystery.”

Kenma remains silent, but Kuroo can feel the tension radiating from him. He’s nervous, deep in thought. It’s as if that boy is always deep in thought, keeping everything locked away in a large container labeled ‘Kenma’s eyes only.’

Kuroo turned to Kenma, his voice soft yet insistent. “What are you thinking, Ken?” he asked, driven by an urgent need to know. He wanted to know, to grasp whether Kenma wanted what Kuroo wanted.

“I’m thinking that this was a mistake.”

Kuroo could feel his heart racing. But not in that exhilarating ‘I just ran a marathon and I’m so pumped!’ way. No, this is more like the gut-wrenching ‘I think I got my heart broken and I might be having a panic attack’ kind of heart race.

Kuroo made sure to keep his cool, however. “Is that why you can’t sleep?”

Kenma lowered his gaze (more than before, at least). He didn’t answer.

Kuroo leans in slightly, desperate for Kenma to look at him. “I don’t think any of this was a mistake, Ken.” He says.

“That’s because you’re careless,” Kenma replies, his gaze piercing as he looks up at Kuroo. “You overlook what’s right and wrong in the games, and this?” He gestures between them, frustration evident in his voice. “Kuro, this is wrong.”

Kuroo’s heart started to pump faster. “You’ve been weird ever since the two victor rule announcement.” He points out.

“Just go back to sleep, Kuro,” Kenma rubbed his temple. “I can’t do this right now–I need time to think.”

Kenma averted his gaze to the ground, his bleached hair falling forward to obscure his face, hiding whatever expression he wore now. Kuroo never needed to dissect Kenma's features to understand his thoughts. The boy maintained that same calm, cool expression at all times, and no one seemed to know what he was thinking.

But in this moment, as their conversation had grown a tad heated, he could see that Kenma was upset. He could see that he was fighting back against what he wanted, because he didn’t think it was right. Or, in other words, maybe he thought he didn’t deserve it. Maybe he thought he wasn’t capable of it. Maybe he thought that what he wanted this entire time was to win this game and claim his prize like a game of donkey kong without any obstacles. But then he bumped into Kuroo, who has changed his perspective completely to the point Kenma wants to run away. From his feelings.

Kuroo understands now. Kenma has been so ensconced in this shell of his that Kuroo couldn’t understand that Kenma was scared. He was scared of letting himself surrender to his feelings in this arena, where he thought maybe it was impossible because yeah, people die with this goal in their mind that they’ll be able to accomplish. Bokuto died and Akaashi was left shattered, and that’s exactly what Kenma was afraid of.

He didn’t want to lose Kuroo the way Akaashi lost Bokuto.

Kuroo studies Kenma closely, searching for any hidden layers he might have overlooked. “For the first time, I feel like I can finally read you,” he whispers softly.

Kenma keeps his gaze down, almost retreating behind his blonde locks. So, Kuroo carefully reaches out, tucking away the strands of hair behind his ear and oh, there he was. That soft, delicate face that Kenma wanted to hide away. The face that Kuroo thought was so perfect in every way he got this nervous feeling in the pit of his stomach.