Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Before

After the first day of training for the 75^th Games, Yeosang and Wooyoung hurry back to their room, not eager to run into any of the other tributes.

They compare notes in the elevator – Yeosang noticed Hongjoong and Yunho approach Mingi and suspects he’ll agree to an alliance with them, Wooyoung theorises that San might ally with Jongho after seeing them step aside for a quiet conversation at the end of the day. Their usual argument about whether or not to make more allies of their own is raised and then abandoned again.

Once they’re inside, Wooyoung is quick to claim the first shower, which Yeosang accepts with a roll of his eyes, knowing Wooyoung will take forever.

As a result, he’s alone when two loud knocks ring abruptly through the room, coming from the main door.

Yeosang freezes, tempted to ignore it, but more afraid that there will be consequences if he does. There’s no peephole or chain-lock to let him check who is out there before opening the door completely, so he settles for bracing his shoulder against the door instead as he cracks it open, ready to throw his whole bodyweight against it if he needs to close it again with any urgency.

However, even with all his caution, nothing prepares him for the shock of who he finds on the other side of the door.

Kim Namjoon, the gamemaker.

Yeosang knows who he is, of course, recognises him at once. Although it’s only Namjoon’s second year in the role, he’s been around the social circles of the Capitol for longer than that, often a guest at parties and events. He has a lot of connections, a lot of powerful friends, and now, a lot of power of his own.

They’ve exchanged pleasantries once or twice, but he’s never been the type to demand company from Yeosang or Wooyoung the way many of his contemporaries do, certainly never booked them for a night.

“Yeosang,” says Namjoon, smiling as though this is a normal thing, as though they’ve ever spoken properly before. “Wondered if I could have a quick word with you.”

He’s stepping inside before he’s even finished speaking, not giving Yeosang the choice of blocking him unless they want to physically collide. He closes the door behind himself and walks into their living space like he owns the place – which, Yeosang supposes bitterly, he functionally does at the moment – before turning back to Yeosang with politely raised eyebrows. Still asking him for permission, for some reason, as though they’re not already well past that.

Yeosang glances around the room quickly.

Small paring knife on the table beside the fruit bowl. He can throw the barstool next to him to buy himself enough time to reach it if he needs to.

“Alright,” he says. “What do you want?”

Namjoon looks around, and Yeosang takes the chance to move subtly away, putting a little more distance between them.

“Is Wooyoung here?” Namjoon asks.

Yeosang shakes his head.

“Not right now,” he says evenly. “Why?”

Namjoon shrugs.

“No matter,” he says. “I was hoping to speak to him as well, but I suppose that what I say to one of you, I say to both.”

Yeosang inclines his head. It’s true. He’d be telling Wooyoung this entire conversation word for word as soon as he gets back, whether Namjoon had asked him to or not, and there’s no reason to act like he wouldn’t. Everyone knows they’re a unit, that no secrets are kept between them. It’s one of the only true pieces of information that circulates about them.

Namjoon opens his mouth, then seems to notice the way Yeosang has edged further and further away, getting the island bench between them. A brief flicker of amusement passes over his confident features, and Yeosang feels his shoulders rise defensively, before forcing himself to settle into a neutral stance again.

Don’t show weakness. He knows you’re wary, don’t give him anything else to work with.

“Well,” Namjoon says finally, “I’m here because I heard you’ve been trying to get in touch with one of my friends for a little while now. Wanted an invite to his party, I’m assuming?”

Yeosang frowns, confused, and begins to shake his head, but before he can, Namjoon reaches out to rest a gloved hand lightly on the table between them. Yeosang’s eyes follow the tip of his pointer finger, tracing along the surface idly as though checking for dust. That’s not what he’s doing though – the movement is just a little too pointed, a little too deliberate.

Yeosang watches the pattern he traces. A loose figure of 8.

No, too sharp for that.

An hourglass.

Yeosang’s heartrate jumps. He knows all too well what that symbol has come to mean over the last two years. He knows the underground movement it stands for, has devoted days at a time trying to find a way to reach out to them. To try and join their ranks.

He and Wooyoung have a lot to offer, between the two of them – their engineering background and Yeosang’s hacking skills, Wooyoung’s knowledge of Capitol systems and secrets. The way no one would think to suspect them, having written them both off as props and playthings.

The trouble is that the resistance are – naturally – secretive in the extreme, and therefore incredibly difficult to get in contact with.

Yeosang has reached out in every way he’s been able to think of, sent coded message after coded message to different domains and frequencies and networks, desperately pleading their case again and again to the void.

Help us, and we can help you.

He’d started searching after he and Wooyoung were first rented out for the night, confiding and brainstorming with Wooyoung every step of the way, and he’d stopped only once they were reaped last week. Despite all of his and Wooyoung’s efforts, they’ve never received a single reply.

Until now.

He meets Namjoon’s eyes, knows the tone of this interaction has just irreversibly shifted. He’s just been trusted with top-secret information. He’s just been, to a certain degree, brought into the fold of the resistance.

But why?

Yeosang decides he can trust that the offer is genuine, unlikely as it may seem, because what reason would Kim Namjoon have to lie in this way? If he was trying to masquerade as a resistance mole to get information out of the pair, they’d have sent someone less conspicuous, and would be on the hunt for information, rather than offering it to two people he clearly knows have not yet been drafted in.

So the resistance really are contacting them, at long last. But why now, when they’re about to be sent to their deaths? And why this way, with Namjoon openly revealing himself to Yeosang, rather than any of the others simply answering one of the encrypted messages he now knows they must have received? Is there even anything left that either of them can do to help, just a few days from the Games?

Hope, fear and confusion war in his chest. Namjoon looks at him steadily, gauging his reaction, waiting for a response.

“Ah,” says Yeosang cautiously, “Well, that was before… all of this, though. I doubt I’ll be able to attend anymore.”

Namjoon inclines his head regretfully.

“I recognise that the invitation is coming a little late,” he says. “But nothing is certain, now, is it?”

Yeosang blinks down at the marble benchtop, mind running overtime. That implies that there’s a plan in place, probably a very hastily-constructed one, involving some sort of sabotage of the Games. Shutting them down entirely? No, that seems unlikely, too massive to pull off as a first operation, here in the heart of the enemy’s base. An escape, then? Is Namjoon implying that certain tributes may be smuggled out of the Arena and brought to join the resistance instead? That would be quite a feat as well, given how thoroughly every movement within the dome of the Arena is scrutinised by officials and public alike.

It’s probably something to do with Hongjoong, and his prominence in the public eye as a symbol of rebellion. Yeosang wonders if Hongjoong is aware.

“Are there any other people I might know on the, ah, guest list?” he asks cautiously.

“A couple,” says Namjoon.

He reaches for the fruit bowl on the table and deliberately plucks out an apple, then picks up the knife beside it. He doesn’t elaborate further, just starts peeling the apple with the knife. He raises an eyebrow slightly though, and Yeosang nods minutely in response, confirming that he’s understood the hint.

Apples and knives. Jongho and San. Not Hongjoong then. Interesting.

“One knows more than the other,” Namjoon adds after a moment, holding the apple a little higher while he shakes the peel off the knife. “We’re being cautious here, you understand. We can’t just invite anyone, or it wouldn’t really be an elite party now, would it?”

He bites into the apple as Yeosang nods again, thoughts racing.

“Of course,” he says. “Not everyone is good at keeping these things a secret.”

He wouldn’t trust Choi San with much information either. While clearly anti-Capitol, the man is a loose cannon. No one really knows him, which means no one really knows what he’ll do next. Why Wooyoung wanted anything to do with him earlier, Yeosang can’t fathom.

So, there’s a plan for the Games, which comes with the promise of allies and outside help.

Yeosang has made no secret of his distrust of Arena alliances, but this sort of thing would be different – united by something bigger, an outside goal, less transient and shifting than the usual selfish allyships made only for personal survival. And to know the Gamemaker would be on your side would be a powerful, powerful advantage, one Yeosang knows not to turn away lightly.

On the other hand, whatever this plan is, it’s clearly rushed, probably half-constructed at best, or he wouldn’t be being approached at this late hour. To come to Yeosang and Wooyoung now, two nights before the Games, to recruit someone like San without intending to tell him the full picture, to risk exposing their most powerful and well-hidden mole by revealing themselves to the tributes like this – Yeosang is no fool, he knows what this all means.

The resistance isn’t organised – they’re scrambling, they’re desperate.

But so is Yeosang.

“I don’t know exactly what your friend has planned for this party,” he says, “But Wooyoung and I, we don’t come separately. That’s our rule, always. You get both or none.”

“Of course,” says Namjoon. “It’s well known. Don’t worry, my friend is eager to have you both attend.”

Well, that was the only remaining concern holding Yeosang back. So, slowly, he nods.

“Alright,” he says. “I’ll have to discuss this with Wooyoung, of course, but I think I can speak for both of us when I say we’re interested.”

If Namjoon is relieved, he’s very good at hiding it. Or maybe he just knows that, with how much Yeosang and Wooyoung both have to lose, their cooperation was never really in doubt. Either way, he simply nods, and steps away from the counter.

“Good,” he says, moving back towards the door. “In that case, we’ll be in touch soon. And if you’re not opposed, you might receive a request from me, for your… ah… company, tonight. I’ve enjoyed our little chat.”

His eyes trail up and down Yeosang’s body suggestively. It’s textbook, the same sleazy way they all talk and act, but Yeosang doesn’t bristle – he knows at once that it’s only for the sake of any possible surveillance cameras. Namjoon’s behaviour may be cocky, but there’s not one spark of real desire in those calculating eyes.

“Oh?” says Yeosang mildly, “Well, I’m sure we’d be delighted to entertain you.”

It’s probably only because Namjoon’s own quarters won’t be under nearly the same level of surveillance as Yeosang and Wooyoung’s, and will be a much more secure place to discuss details. Probably. And if not, well, they’ll deal with it.

Namjoon waves an elegant hand.

“I only mention it now because I know you often provide fine refreshment to your patrons,” he says, “and I wouldn’t want you to feel you had to go to any such bother here.”

Yeosang manages to keep his face blank, but a little chill goes down his spine at the implication.

How does Namjoon know that he and Wooyoung drug their clients to sleep whenever they can get away with it? Clearly, the resistance has been paying closer attention to them than he’d realised, even if they’ve delayed reaching out until now.

At least the strange method of meeting makes a lot more sense now – Namjoon risked coming here first instead of simply demanding their services tonight without explanation, because he wants to make sure they won’t try and do the same to him tonight.

“…Noted, then,” Yeosang manages after a moment, still reeling. “I suppose we’ll see you soon.”

Namjoon smiles.

“I suppose you will.”

And he turns and leaves, closing the door behind him, and leaving Yeosang with his head spinning, wondering how he’s even going to begin explaining this to Wooyoung.

***

“Jongho,” says Eden. “Wondered if I might have a word.”

Jongho, who has only just dismounted from his chariot and is looking forward to getting out of this stupid coat and makeup the stylists saddled him with, blinks at him in confusion.

“Um,” he says. “I don’t believe we’ve met. You’re the District… 8 mentor? Is that right?”

Eden nods, falling in step beside Jongho as the tributes are ushered away to make room for the next returning chariot.

“That’s me,” he says. “I was hoping we could talk in private. It won’t take long.”

Jongho glances behind them in confusion, looking over to where Mingi is dismounting from the District 8 chariot, looking around – probably for Eden. Why is he here with Jongho instead?

“Um,” Jongho says again, stalling on an answer while his brain tries to catch up. “Why?”

He doesn’t think he’s in danger – he doubts a District 8 victor would be in league with the Capitol, and even if he is, there’s no reason for the Capitol to do anything more to Jongho than they’re already doing by throwing him in the Arena in a few days. Still, he’s baffled at the sudden approach.

“I’ll explain as soon as we’re away from this crowd,” says Eden quietly. “But we’ll need to hurry.”

Deciding that he may as well go along with whatever this is, Jongho nods shortly, and allows himself to be steered to the nearest elevator. They travel several floors up, and once the doors open, Jongho finds himself immediately hustled into the nearest room, the door shut and locked behind him instantly.

Looking around in an attempt to get his bearings back, Jongho quickly realises they’re not alone. There’s another man in the room already, waiting for them.

It’s Kim Namjoon’s assistant – Seokjin, Jongho thinks his name might be? What is he doing here?

There’s a bed in the centre of the room, and Jongho’s mind flashes suddenly to past parties, to Yeosang’s fixed, empty smile while some Capitol creep runs a greedy hand up his thigh.

He halts in his tracks, so suddenly that Eden nearly bumps into his back.

“I know how some of the other victors have been… made available,” he says icily, raising his chin, “But if that’s your intention here, and now, of all times, then let me tell you…”

It would almost be funny, under any other circumstances, how quickly Seokjin’s cool, superior expression slips from his face.

“What?!” he exclaims, waving his hands and looking horrified. “Hell, absolutely not. No! No.”

Eden sighs in exasperation, a hand massaging his forehead.

“No, Jongho,” he says. “I said we wanted to talk, and I meant it.”

“Ok,” says Jongho. “Good.”

He doesn’t apologise for the misassumption – it’s a perfectly valid thing to be wary of, and they should all know that. Instead, he folds his arms, and waits expectantly.

Still looking a little ruffled, Seokjin straightens his lapels and gives a little huff.

“Well, Jongho,” he says. “We wanted to talk to you because we have an offer to make.”

An offer? Four days before the Games? Jongho doubts he has anything else a Capitol citizen could possibly want, but now he’s intrigued.

“What is it?”

Seokjin and Eden glance briefly at each other, then Seokjin turns back, expression sharp.

“I’ll be frank,” he says. “There are plans to disrupt the Games and get a number of tributes away and to safety outside the Capitol. Our main focus is one specific tribute, but we need more people on the inside, so to speak. We can’t guarantee a rescue, but if you help us, there’s a possibility we can help you as well.”

Jongho blinks slowly, keeping a straight face despite the shock. He doesn’t know what he’d been expecting, but it certainly wasn’t this. He’s confused as hell, but one thing he does know is that right now, even the slightest possibility of being rescued from the Arena is something to be grasped, and held onto with both hands.

“Ok,” he says slowly, leaning forward. “I’m listening.”

***

On the final night before the Games, San is pulled from his spiralling thoughts by a sharp knock on the door. He rises quickly to open it, and finds a plate of food on a tray left outside. He hasn’t ordered anything to be sent up, but he picks it up all the same and quickly slips back into his room.

The first time this happened, San had been confused, but he knows the drill by now. He sets the tray down on the countertop and quickly checks that his roommate, the other District 10 tribute, is still in her room with the door closed, before investigating.

There’s an earpiece taped to the underside of the plate, hidden away in the rim. It looks just like the little buds that are provided with the room, for people to watch the TV without disturbing their roommates with the noise, if preferred, but San knows this one is different. It’s the third one he’s received now. He plucks it out, and slips it carefully into his ear to see what the message will be this time.

“To escape the Arena without being immediately recaptured, tributes will need their tracking devices removed. This will be your role. The devices will be implanted in the left forearm, as usual. They will need to be cut out, in a way that seems incidental rather than deliberate, and this will need to be done as late as possible, to avoid the raising the Control Room’s suspicion. The others will let you know when the time is right. Leave your plate for collection with the knife and fork crossed if you understand and agree.”

The message repeats itself one more time, giving San time to absorb it properly. Then it gives a little click.

Knowing from experience that the earbud is about to die with a hideous fizzling, sparking noise, San quickly yanks it out of his ear. Although he understands the need for the thing to self-destruct to avoid it being found and overheard by the wrong people, he almost didn’t accept their offer to begin with purely based on how horrid the sound had been, the first time it happened. Now, after two more messages, San is ready and has it removed in time.

He stares down at the little device as it sparks and dies. He still has no idea who is sending them, who is behind any of this, apart from the vague anonymous spectre of ‘the Resistance’, whoever they are.

Still, San already feels far more inclined to throw his lot in with them than with the Capitol. And if he is being double-crossed, then, well, what’s the worst that could happen? Dying in the Arena like he’s already going to?

Sighing, San places his plate on the counter, carefully crossing the utensils one over the other, then tosses the dead earbud away and goes to bed.

Now

Mingi uncaps the bottle of pills and carefully counts out ten of them. Dispenses them into another, smaller bottle, and holds it up to the machine in front of him, which beeps loudly before stamping a small block of text on the side.

Patient no.876, 8mg ondansetron. Take once per 12 hrs as directed by physician

Mingi reads over the label quickly to check there are no mistakes, then shuffles through the doorway into the next room to hand it to the woman standing there, waiting beside the patient’s bed.

“Here,” he says quietly, passing it over.

“Thank you, Mingi,” she says with a smile. “Well done. You can take a five-minute break now, if you’d like.”

Mingi nods blankly, then goes to stand out in the corridor. Like everywhere in concrete rabbit warrens of District 13, it’s dull and drab and grey, but it’s less cramped than the little storeroom at least, the ceilings a little higher and the bare walls less claustrophobic than the rows of shelves.

He doesn’t know how he feels about his new place here in 13, and the physician he’s been assigned to work with over the last few days.

It’s patronising, hearing ‘well done’, like he isn’t a trained medic, like he hasn’t been measuring medication dosages and prescribing them to patients for years now, even if their system back in District 8 wasn’t nearly so sophisticated.

At the same time, though, she’s being kind. Gentle. Understanding that he’s just been through the worst two weeks of his entire life, that he’s still living in a waking nightmare, still relying on little white pills himself, just to stay sane and functional.

Speaking of which – Mingi checks his watch, then reaches into his pocket for his own small bottle of tablets and shakes out a couple, swallowing them with a sip from the cup of water he’d grabbed automatically on the way out.

He leans back against the wall, staring at nothing and doing his best not to think about anything but the past hour specifically. Anything outside of that is too big, too much, too awful. He feels his chest locking up at the mere thought of letting himself think about the bigger things, knowing it will only lead to a spiral. Tears are already threatening, his breathing speeding up as he recognises the moment as his last chance to drag himself back before a panic attack.

If he lets himself think about why he’s here, how he got here, who’s here with him and, more pressingly, who isn’t here…

“Nope,” says Mingi aloud. “Nope. Nope. Don’t.”

He takes another swig of water, and tries to think back to the tricks he’d used to teach his own patients for when their anxieties got out of hand.

It’s hard, though, when everything reminds him of the nightmares lurking around every corner.

Let’s ground ourselves in the real world, instead of getting lost in our minds. What’s something you can see?

Grey, grey walls, grey floors, because they’re in District 13. They’re in District 13 because that’s where the resistance took them, when they escaped the Capitol and the Arena. Don’t think about the Arena, don’t think about the Games.

Back to the moment, what’s real and here and now. What’s something you can feel?

The hard ground beneath his feet, the coolness of the thin metal cup he’s holding, the stiff material of his uniform. He never had to wear a uniform as a physician back in District 8, that sort of thing just wasn’t done. Everyone knew who the local doctor and his apprentice were, so there was no need for them to do anything extra to stand out back home.

Home, which he can’t return to now, because he’s a wanted criminal after escaping the Arena and…

Focus.

What’s something you can taste?

Nothing much, since he’s just been drinking water. Water, which is freely available here, but which had been such a terrifyingly scarce, precious resource to them not so long ago. Even now, two weeks later, Mingi still catches himself drinking slowly and carefully, making small sips last, can’t help that churning anxiety in his gut that he’s using up too much at once, taking something the others might need more than him.

How long is it going to take before he can stop feeling like this? How long until he can do something as simple as take a drink of water or stand still in an empty corridor without panicking about the consequences? Will he ever feel normal again?

Stop it.

What’s something you can hear?

Well, not much. No one else is around, and the doors to the infirmary behind him are well sound-proofed. Other than the other medics he’s working with, there aren’t many people here for Mingi to talk to. Most of the other tributes who made it out safely have been keeping to themselves over the past two weeks since their arrival, and he hasn’t seen many of them.

If Yunho was here, Mingi could spend time with him, but Yunho isn’t here, Yunho was left behind, Yunho might be dead and if not, then he’s being kept somewhere in the Capitol, and…

“Mingi?”

Mingi startles violently, spilling the remains of the water over his arm as he loses his grip on the cup.

“Shit, sorry!”

He looks up, rapidly blinking away his sheen of tears to see Hongjoong taking a hurried step back, hands raised.

“I didn’t mean to scare you!”

“Hongjoong,” Mingi breathes out, pressing his free hand to his chest. “I thought you were in another meeting.”

Of all the escaped tributes, Hongjoong is the only one Mingi talks to regularly. The rooms they’ve been given are next to each other, and they sit together at mealtimes in the dining hall.

They may not have been friends before, but now, given their shared status as surviving allies and united further by their grief for Yunho, they’ve become closer.

They also have the shared experience of being the only ones in the alliance left in the dark about the grand escape plan. Although Mingi understands why it was done, he can’t help but feel a little betrayed by the others for it. He hasn’t been avoiding them, exactly, but the hurt has made him disinclined to track the others down so far, in the orderly chaos of the underground district.

He knows he can’t put off seeing them forever, but for now, he’s perfectly content to socialise only with Hongjoong.

“I do have a meeting,” says Hongjoong now, sounding tired of it already. “In about five minutes. I should probably go soon, but I wanted to drop by in case you were on break. And hey, here you are.”

He smiles, even though it’s obviously an effort, and looks Mingi up and down.

“They’ve got you a uniform now,” he notes.

Mingi glances down at himself, smooths down the neat, pale grey tunic self-consciously.

“Ah, yeah,” he says. “I’m officially on the team now. Still not allowed to do much for now, though. Just drug dispensing, stocktake, cleaning up, that sort of thing.”

“Sounds good,” says Hongjoong encouragingly. “It’s a good starting point, and I’m sure they’ll be letting you branch out and do more soon, as you adjust.” He smiles a little ruefully. “I’m jealous.”

“Jealous that I’m spending my days counting out tablets?” asks Mingi wryly, despite knowing what Hongjoong means.

“Jealous that you’ve got something useful to do here,” Hongjoong corrects him. “You’re helping. I’m just stuck at a dead end at the moment. No one will let me do anything to help.”

“I seem to recall an awful lot of people wanting you as their Pirate King,” says Mingi, raising an eyebrow.

Hongjoong sighs heavily.

“Oh yes, getting to be a figurehead and a mouthpiece,” he says. “Wonderful. Very useful to the war effort and getting our friends back.”

“It must have some purpose,” says Mingi. “Otherwise they wouldn’t want you to do it, would they?”

But Hongjoong only scoffs.

“They don’t want me,” he says. “They only want my voice, my image. Not my opinions, or anything like that. The amount of times I’ve told them I want to do more than that, that we need to be focussing on getting Yunho and the other prisoners back before we do anything else…” he sighs angrily and kicks at the ground. “Ugh, it’s so frustrating.”

Mingi grimaces sympathetically. He knows it’s eating away at Hongjoong, not being able to storm back to the Capitol and break Yunho out as soon as humanly possible. It’s hard for Mingi too, walking around with what feels like a solid lump of anguish lodged in his chest. Trying to go about his day with the knowledge Yunho isn’t with them, and that there’s a very real possibility that he’s being tortured at any given moment. If he’s even still alive.

It’s why he’s had more breakdowns over the recent days than he’s had in his life, and why he’s on so many pills right now. It’s why he jerks awake in cold terror more nights than not, and the reason he’s usually sought out Hongjoong or vice versa by sunrise. It feels less embarrassing, less risky to break down in front of someone who’s in the same situation as you, someone who’s been equally vulnerable. There’s a sense that they’re in this hell together, at least, which is still unbearable, but less unbearable than if they were alone.

It’s a very small comfort in the face of their horrendous reality.

Hongjoong sighs again, agitated, and glances down at the watch he’s been issued.

“Time for this stupid meeting,” he says. “I’d better be off.”

Mingi nods.

“I’ll see you for lunch in an hour, yeah?”

“I’ll be there,” says Hongjoong, smiling bitterly. “Nothing better to do, after all.”

Mingi smiles back, more of a grimace than anything, wipes his eyes and blows his nose quickly, and heads back inside to fill out the next order.

***

The leaders of the rebellion make up an imposing council.

There’s Namjoon, looking cool and collected as ever, even seated in a harsh, low-ceilinged concrete bunker as opposed to the opulent parties Hongjoong has always seen him in before. His assistant, Seokjin, is here too, cutting just as striking a figure here as he did in the Capitol, even dressed down in the dull jumpsuits all of 13 wears. There’s the president’s chief assistant, Soyeon, eyes and features so sharp she looks cut from glass, cold and efficient as she takes notes throughout their meeting.

And finally, at the head of it all, President Hwasa.

The leader of District 13 and general of the rebellion is a formidable-looking woman, black hair cut precisely to chin-length, eyes hard and face stern. She radiates the aura of a leader, gives out instructions with the confidence of someone who knows their orders will be followed to the letter, and has no time or patience for quarrelling or having her methods questioned.

Unfortunately for them all, that’s exactly what Hongjoong’s doing right now.

He sits back in his seat sullenly, glaring at them over folded arms.

“Well,” says Namjoon, breaking the somehow already-hostile silence. “Have you thought about our request any further?”

“Have you thought about mine?” Hongjoong replies instantly.

He sees the ripples of exasperation this sends through the team, and sets his jaw, ready for another argument.

“Hongjoong, we’ve been through this,” says Eden, from where he’s leaning against the side wall, tiredly trying to mediate. “It’s barely been two weeks. We can’t go back to the Capitol yet.”

“I understand your concern for your friend,” says Hwasa, “But the revolution does not wait for any one person. We need to move forward with our plans, and we need you to cooperate with us on this.”

“If it doesn’t wait for any one person, then please feel free to carry on without my involvement,” says Hongjoong. “If I have to leave here and figure out how to get Yunho back myself, then I will.”

Hwasa’s eyes narrow, Namjoon sighs, and Eden drops his head back against the wall with a frustrated groan.

“Hongjoong, please be reasonable,” says Namjoon. “We’re on the same side.”

“Are we?” demands Hongjoong. “Because it doesn’t feel like it.”

The way they’re treating him like a petulant child only makes him more inclined to act like one. It’s not like trying to be reasonable has gotten him anywhere so far.

Things have been out of balance from the start, when none of them trusted Hongjoong enough to tell him about his own rescue operation before the Games, even though they clearly had the chance to inform several other tributes. Then they made the decision to leave Yunho and San, and now they expect Hongjoong to go along with their next plan – their propaganda videos, or ‘propos’ – without question.

“We’re not asking much of you,” says Soyeon briskly, “And we’re not abandoning your friend, we’re just doing things in the logical order. Help us film the propos we need, help our cause build more momentum, and we’ll be better placed to stage a breakout from the Capitol.”

“When, in six months?” asks Hongjoong. “A year? Yunho in is trouble now. And I don’t see why I’m so vital to your propaganda videos. You said earlier that you already have the speeches written – just get someone else to read them out!”

“You’re the symbol of the rebellion,” says Hwasa. “The districts love you, they look up to you as an example, as the Pirate King. But as far as they know right now, you vanished in the explosion at the Arena and could be presumed dead. We need to show them that you’re still alive, strong, and fighting against the Capitol.”

“But I’m not fighting against the Capitol!” explodes Hongjoong. “You won’t let me! And I refuse to hide here in safety, making grand statements about fighting and sacrificing for our cause, while good men and women are out there suffering alone without our help!”

“Championing our cause and helping spread word of the rebellion is its own form of fighting,” says Namjoon. “The power of words and motivation…”

“Fuck words and motivation!” cries Hongjoong. “One of my best friends is being held prisoner in that wretched place, and we’re not doing a damned thing about it! We don’t even have a plan to get him back.”

“I hardly need to explain why it would be foolhardy in the extreme to rush into anything involving a direct extraction from the Capitol,” says Hwasa coolly. “We are considering our options carefully, for the time being.”

“Well, consider them faster,” snaps Hongjoong. “I don’t know if it’s occurred to you, but an innocent man is probably being tortured as we speak. We’re the only ones who can do anything about it, and every moment wasted is one too many.”

Hwasa sits back, hissing out a long sigh, lip curling slightly. Hongjoong can tell his blatant lack of respect and deferral is rankling, but he can’t bring himself to care.

Namjoon leans forward.

“Please, at least give it some thought,” he says seriously. “We need your cooperation on this, Hongjoong.”

“Maybe you should rescue Yunho, then,” spits Hongjoong.

With that, he gets to his feet and storms out.

“Hongjoong, wait…”

He hears Eden’s voice from behind him, hears chairs scraping and footsteps starting to follow after him, and breaks into a run.

There aren’t many places on this level which aren’t authorised access only, and if he returns to his room they’ll find him instantly, so Hongjoong veers off instead, hunting down the one other place of solitude he’s managed to discover in his short time here.

One left turn, then another, then set in the right wall is a small, unassuming door, which leads to a dark little storage room, made for janitorial equipment. He’s already used it a number of times to avoid being bothered by others, or when he needs privacy to break down.

He jerks the door roughly open now and slips inside, leaning back against the door and feeling it click satisfyingly closed behind him. He shuts his eyes and tips his head back, letting out a long, slow breath.

Safe, he reminds himself. He’s safe here.

After the Arena, even something as low-stakes as dodging away from an aggravating conversation can sometimes kick off his adrenaline, threatening to escalate to the life-of-death panic that had become the norm over the last two hellish weeks.

Hongjoong sighs again, willing his heart to stop beating so hard, then opens his eyes slowly.

Wide, dark eyes stare back at him in shock.

Hongjoong jolts in panic, flattening himself back against the door for a moment until he recognises the man standing opposite him in the small space.

Park Seonghwa.

The two stare at each other, unmoving, unblinking. It’s eerily reminiscent of their faceoff in the Arena, the moment of electrifying tension when it had been just the two of them left, surrounded by the bodies of the other Careers, neither knowing what the other was about to do.

Then, after what seems like an age, Seonghwa nervously licks his lips.

“Um… sorry,” he says, voice cracking. “Do… do you come to hide here too? I, um, I can… go…”

“No!” says Hongjoong, so quickly that he startles both Seonghwa and himself.

He takes a steadying breath, forcing himself to calm enough to talk normally, and tries again.

“No,” he says more softly, “You don’t need to go. I mean, I… I do come here sometimes, but, um. If you do too, that’s. That’s fine. You were here first. I can find somewhere else.”

He hadn’t even considered that anyone else would be here, let alone Seonghwa, but there aren’t many reasons for someone like them to be taking refuge in a storage room, so he doesn’t want to press him when he’s clearly in need of privacy.

Instead, Hongjoong turns, putting a hand on the doorknob, but before he can turn it, the sound of boots striding down the hall and loud voices stops him.

“Hongjoong! Damn it, where has that man gone?”

It’s Eden, and he sounds mad. Hongjoong sighs and hunches his shoulders down further, letting his forehead drop against the cold metal of the door. He hears a slight rustle of clothes as Seonghwa tenses further, and knows he’s listening too.

“We can’t keep on like this, Namjoon,” says another voice, Hwasa’s this time. “We don’t have time for this endless back-and-forth. This is not the Pirate King you promised me. He’s fixated on his friend, he has no regard for the bigger picture anymore. He’s of no use to us like this.”

“I still think we should have prioritised the other boy,” says Soyeon. “The farmer.”

A heavy sigh, sounding like Namjoon.

“No, no,” he says. “Hongjoong is the one. You’ve seen his speeches, at the tribute interviews, in the Arena, the way the public reacts to him. There’s no one like him. He just needs to come around. And he will, you’ll see.”

Hongjoong scowls, resenting the confidence in Namjoon’s tone. As if he knows anything about Hongjoong, and what he can and can’t be convinced of.

Their voices fade as they move further down the corridor, but Hongjoong remains tense, still wary of going outside yet while they’re still around. He risks a glance over at Seonghwa, trying to gauge if he’ll mind or not if Hongjoong doesn’t leave like he said he would.

Seonghwa is already looking at him.

“Stay,” he whispers, voice a little cracked, so quietly it’s hard to make out.

Hongjoong gives a little sigh of relief, and nods his thanks.

Slowly, a little cautiously, Seonghwa sinks back down onto the flat wooden pallet pushed against the wall he was obviously sitting on before Hongjoong came in. Following his lead, Hongjoong slides gently down the door and settles on the floor, leaning back.

“So,” he says after a long moment, half-smiling in an attempt at some levity, “What are you in for?”

At Seonghwa’s blank look, he elaborates.

“Hiding from anyone in particular?”

“Oh.” Seonghwa leans his head back against the wall. “The doctors.”

Hongjoong raises an eyebrow. He hadn’t thought Seonghwa had been particularly injured, at least not visibly. He looks mostly ok, apart from an almost-healed scratch down one side of his face.

“The doctors?” he asks carefully.

Seonghwa sighs, a faraway look in his eyes.

“I’m meant to be on suicide watch,” he says, almost conversationally. “You know, after I asked you to kill me in the Arena.”

Oh.

Cold trickles through Hongjoong at the reminder. Not that he’d really forgotten – his mind may be mostly occupied with thoughts of Yunho and his presumed suffering, but the image of Seonghwa slumped on his knees in the sand, bloody and windswept and tearfully crying out for Hongjoong to do it, hasn’t been an easy one to erase.

“So you’re hiding?” he asks carefully.

Seonghwa hums.

“They think I want to die, so they won’t leave me unsupervised. I don’t think they realise that having someone watching me at all hours is making everything worse.”

“Do you want to die?”

Oh fuck, Hongjoong probably shouldn’t have said that, but the question is out of his mouth before he can think it through. A slight wrinkle appears in Seonghwa’s brow, although he doesn’t move otherwise.

“…I don’t think so,” he says. “Not enough to do anything about it, at least.”

“Oh,” says Hongjoong awkwardly. “That’s… good, I guess.”

He feels a strange sense of concern for Seonghwa, he realises with bemusement, this person who he used to hate so much.

But then, perhaps it would be stranger not to change his opinion of the man, after he risked his life to save Hongjoong’s, and revealed that he’s clearly been suffering for a long time behind his perfect veneer.

Hongjoong looks at Seonghwa more closely, considering.

He looks a long way from perfect now, a far cry from the pristine image of the Prince of the Arena that Hongjoong is accustomed to seeing.

He looks exhausted, haunted, and has clearly been crying recently, face blotchy and eyes swollen. His hair is in disarray and looks like it needs a wash, his clothes are rumpled, he has dark circles under his eyes to rival Hongjoong’s.

And yet, Hongjoong thinks, despite all of this, he’s somehow still beautiful. He doesn’t quite know what to make of that.

“I just would have preferred death to returning to the Capitol,” says Seonghwa tiredly. “And really, wouldn’t anyone?”

There’s a moment’s silence, then Seonghwa’s eyes seem to focus again and he widens them slightly, darting a quick, guilty glance at Hongjoong.

“I, um, I mean,” he says. “I shouldn’t have said that, not while...” he trails off, grimacing. “I’m sorry.”

It takes a moment for Hongjoong to finish the sentence in his mind and realise what he means. I shouldn’t have said the Capitol is worse than death while your friend is still trapped there.

Hongjoong winces too, that familiar painful lump rising in his throat.

I’m sorry, Yunho, he thinks, for perhaps the thousandth time. I’m doing all I can. Please hold on.

“I’m sorry,” says Seonghwa again after a moment, voice soft, “About Yunho. And San. I know it should have been me they left behind, not them.”

Hongjoong freezes.

He can’t pretend he hasn’t thought the same thing bitterly, many, many times since arriving here, that he hadn’t screamed it at Eden and Namjoon the moment he’d woken and found out what had happened.

But it’s different, now, hearing it from Seonghwa himself. Wrong.

“No one should have been left behind,” Hongjoong says roughly, forcing the words out throat his closed-up throat. “Not them, but not you either. I don’t blame you for it.”

And, to his own surprise, he finds really means it.

Seonghwa blinks in obvious surprise as well, then quickly ducks his head again, breaking eye contact. He doesn’t reply, neither to agree nor disagree.

The storeroom, previously a haven, suddenly feels claustrophobic. Shakily, Hongjoong pushes himself to his feet.

“Well, I’m just gonna…” he trails off and gestures vaguely at the door, eyes darting around the room, looking at anything but Seonghwa. “Um. See you ‘round.”

Not giving Seonghwa a chance to reply – if he was even going to – Hongjoong yanks the door open and bolts through, letting it slam shut behind him.

The coast is mercifully clear outside now, and Hongjoong makes a beeline for the nearest elevator to get back to the infirmary’s level. His head spins as the doors close behind him, feeling thoroughly off-balance.

Unsettling, he thinks. That’s the word for Seonghwa. His complete change in personality, this falling of the mask. His clearly troubled mind, his haunted, haunting beauty. Hongjoong no longer knows what to make of him.

He’s so lost in his thoughts that he barely notices where his feet are taking him once the doors slide open again, the path to his and Mingi’s usual meeting spot well worn into his mind now. He only jerks back to the present when he registers Mingi already there waiting for him, slightly apprehensive smile on his face.

“Hey,” he says. “Um, meeting go ok? Or should I not ask?”

Hongjoong sighs.

“Best not,” he says defeatedly, and Mingi’s smile dims a little further.

“…Ah well,” he says. “Lunch.”

Hongjoong nods, and together they head down the nearest flight of stairs to the level below, which houses several assigned sleeping quarters as well as the main dining hall.

“Wonder what colour it will be today,” says Hongjoong as they go, trying to lighten the mood a bit, to take his mind of both Yunho and Seonghwa and stave off the inevitable breakdown of the afternoon. “Grey or brown?”

“I’m thinking off-white,” says Mingi, playing along and weakly feigning eagerness. “It’s been a while since we’ve had that weird mashed swede stuff.”

Hongjoong shudders theatrically at the memory, and they both laugh a little.

They both understand why the food in 13 is so bland – the cooks are using extremely limited produce and supplies to cater for a huge amount of people, which leaves no room for frivolous things like presentation and seasoning, and hell, it’s a luxury to have food to complain about in the first place. Still, after a fortnight of various shades of slop, Hongjoong thinks they’re allowed to poke a little fun, as long as they keep it to themselves.

It’s not like he doesn’t understand hardship – he comes from 12, after all. He’s used to scarcity, which is a far bigger problem than blandness. It does make him wonder how some of the other new arrivals to the district are faring – particularly those used to the luxury of the Capitol.

They don’t use the same dining hall, but he assumes the leaders and their team eat the same food, given District 13’s focus on equality and minimalisation of waste. It’s difficult to imagine someone as refined as Seokjin eating grey swede slop with a straight face.

Abruptly, Mingi pulls up short with a sharp inhale. Hongjoong’s head snaps up to see what the matter is, and then he freezes too.

Up ahead, Yeosang, Wooyoung and Jongho are making their slow way down the corridor.

Yeosang is in the middle, flanked by the other two, one arm slung around each of their shoulders for support. It’s plain to see why – in place of Yeosang’s left leg is a patchy-looking prosthetic, looking almost wonky, as though hastily made from spare parts.

Hongjoong has barely seen any sign of them since the Games – Yeosang and Wooyoung were apparently drafted into the control room as soon as they were recovered enough to use a keyboard, and Jongho has stuck with them. Hongjoong supposes that it makes sense for them to form a trio, seeing as Jongho is the only other tribute here who was in on the plan, and his main ally, San, is still in the Capitol with Yunho.

Wooyoung and Jongho both look better than when he last saw them – Wooyoung less haggard now he’s received proper medical attention after his near-poisoning in the Arena, and Jongho’s arm no longer bandaged from the dog bite, and neither of them dehydrated or malnourished anymore. Yeosang, however, looks much worse. He’s pale and gaunt, dark circles under his eyes, and looks somehow smaller, diminished compared to how Hongjoong saw him last. Nonetheless, his face his set in the same grim determination.

Although Hongjoong knows Yeosang lost his leg in the explosion in the Arena – which he now knows from Mingi was the result of them blowing up the barrier – it’s still a shock to see him like this.

“Slow down, Sangie,” Wooyoung is saying, as they come within earshot. “Let yourself get used to the balance of it before you try speeding up. Here, put more weight on Jongho.”

“Yeah, you can lean on me more,” Jongho is quick to agree. “You’ve got barely any weight on me right now, don’t worry about it being too much. I’m here to help.”

Yeosang sets his jaw and reluctantly readjusts his grip on Jongho’s shoulder.

He takes another step with his good leg, then one with the replacement, which promptly buckles under him. Jongho and Wooyoung are quick to catch him before he slips too far, helping him balance again, while Yeosang’s chest heaves with exertion, face twisting frustratedly.

“Hey, it’s ok, it’s ok,” Wooyoung soothes him. “Don’t push yourself. No rush. Take your time.”

Yeosang huffs quietly. Then, visibly gathering himself, he nods at the other two and takes another step. This time, his leg holds, and he’s able to balance on it long enough to step forward on his other foot. He takes another few clunky steps, half-shuffling, half-hopping.

“There we go, you’re getting it!” says Jongho encouragingly.

“Good job!” Wooyoung agrees.

Yeosang, however, doesn’t seem to share their excitement, face still set in displeasure.

“It’s… a start,” he admits reluctantly, between heavy breaths.

Then he looks up, finally spotting Hongjoong and Mingi further down the corridor, and startles violently.

“Oh!”

Wooyoung and Jongho jerk around too at his exclamation, eyes widening. Hongjoong feels frozen looking back at them, unsure of how to act.

He has considered going to see them, trying to talk to any of them, to see how Jongho’s arm is healing, how Yeosang is coping with the shocking loss of his leg. However, any time the urge takes him, he’s immediately reminded of the way he, Yunho and Mingi had been left in the dark for the duration of the Games, and ugly resentment rears up in his chest, stopping him.

As such, this is the first time since the Arena that the five of them have come face to face.

Hongjoong stares at them now, and the three stare back, with a general apprehensive shuffling of feet and lifting of chins, a mix of guilty, awkward, and defiant.

For a very long moment, no one speaks, and there’s no noise except for the voices in the dining hall beyond, and Yeosang’s laboured breathing.

“Uh… hi?” says Jongho eventually.

Although he’s not sure what else he was expecting them to say, this sets Hongjoong bristling for some reason, irritation at the other tributes already rising up.

Wooyoung seems to sense this and sighs, before glancing back at the others.

“You two go ahead,” he says, jerking his head toward the dining hall door. “Find us a table. I’ll catch up in a minute.”

Yeosang looks hesitant, eyes flitting warily between Hongjoong and Wooyoung, but desire to get away from the situation seems to win out.

Hongjoong feels a brief flash of sympathy for him – Yeosang clearly feels vulnerable in his condition, and Hongjoong wouldn’t want to face anyone potentially hostile under such circumstances either.

Jongho doesn’t seem particularly pleased to go either, but he nods shortly and readjusts his grip on Yeosang to better support him without Wooyoung, helping him into the dining hall.

Wooyoung watches them go, then turns back to the others, shoving his hands into the pockets of the dull grey jumpsuits they all wear.

“So, Hongjoong, Mingi,” he says. “Long time, no see.”

“Shouldn’t Yeosang still be on crutches?” asks Mingi, still peering after the other two in apparent concern. “Surely it’s too early to fit a prosthetic. And that doesn’t look anything like the ones in the infirmary storerooms. When was that issued?”

Wooyoung sighs.

“It wasn’t,” he says. “He made it himself over the last two nights instead of sleeping. We told him it was too soon but he insisted on trying it out today, so we compromised on him wearing it just for the lunch break so we’re around to help.”

Mingi sucks in a sharp breath.

“That’s…”

“Bad, I know,” says Wooyoung tiredly. “He should be resting longer, or the doctors would’ve given him a replacement leg themselves already. But you try saying no to him. Besides, if Jongho and I didn’t agree to help, he’d only find a way to do it by himself, and probably hurt himself even more in the process.”

Mingi doesn’t seem entirely placated by this, but he does drop the subject, looking away unhappily. Wooyoung turns back to Hongjoong.

“Anyway,” he says. “Guess you’re not too happy with us, after everything.”

Hongjoong folds his arms.

“Well, yeah,” he says frankly. “Pretty pissed off about all the secret-keeping, I’ll admit. I kinda thought we were a team back there.”

Wooyoung shrugs.

“Don’t blame you,” he says. “I’d be pissed off if I were you, I imagine. I hope you know we didn’t really get any say in the matter, though.”

Hongjoong sighs roughly.

“I understand not telling us outright, with all the eyes on us,” he says, “But couldn’t you have done anything? Things didn’t have to end the way they did, you know. If we’d had even a hint that San was on our side…”

“Well, we didn’t know how San was going to go about it,” Wooyoung points out. “If I’d known he was going to fake an attack quite like that, then yes, I would’ve made more of an effort to prepare you for it, but I didn’t know.”

Hongjoong faulters at that.

“You… didn’t?” he asks. “But you were in on the plan, surely you communicated. How could you work together otherwise?”

Wooyoung snorts.

“We barely did,” he says. “And you saw San. He barely trusted me enough to share food with me, let alone any of his plan. All we knew were the few details Namjoon told us, our specific own roles in the plan, and who our allies should be. Nothing else.”

Hongjoong is taken off guard by this. He glances back at Mingi, who looks back just as blankly.

“But… in the plane,” Hongjoong says slowly. “You said… it sounded like you knew, about them not having enough time or space to take all of us.” He shakes his head, trying to make sense of it. “You said…”

“Hongjoong, we didn’t have the bigger picture,” Wooyoung cuts him off. “I knew what I knew because I’d been told by Namjoon about fifteen minutes before, while everyone else was unconscious. I didn’t even have any guarantee that I was going to be rescued until it happened.”

“You didn’t?” asks Hongjoong, shocked. “But you were a key part of the plan?”

Wooyoung huffs.

“Well, yes, but the plan was getting you out,” he reminds him. “We knew from the beginning that we would only get rescued with you if it was possible when the moment came. That was the offer, and we took it. The only condition we had was that Yeosang and I couldn’t be separated.” He shrugs and spreads his hands. “We knew we could get saved, for helping with their plan, but there was no guarantee. We had no say over anything else. You think I would’ve agreed to leaving Yunho behind, if I’d had any say or input? To leaving San behind?”

That does make a little more sense, now Hongjoong thinks about it. Namjoon certainly seems the type to keep all his cards close to his chest and make no promises even to his allies, and to prioritise the success of the operation over the feelings and wellbeing of anyone else involved.

And Wooyoung did seem to have a strange attachment to San, even if it had seemed mostly a fascination in the other’s unpredictable behaviour and obvious grudging attraction to Wooyoung. Hongjoong can imagine that Wooyoung would have argued for his rescue if he’d been able.

Still, it’s hard for Hongjoong to change his mindset so quickly, to let go of the probably-nonsensical grudge he’s been harbouring against anyone and everyone involved in the plot.

As if sensing Hongjoong’s internal struggle, Wooyoung lets his hands drop back to his sides and sighs, not unsympathetically.

“I know you’re looking for someone else to be angry at, and trust me, I get it. But we’re not the right place for that anger.” Wooyoung’s face hardens. “Especially not Yeosang. Do you understand me? Because he’s been through enough. He doesn’t need anyone else making his life harder right now.”

Hongjoong feels himself deflate at that. Wooyoung’s right – now is not the time for grudges, not when they’ve all been suffering at the hands of the same enemy. Not when they all share the same scars and trauma.

“Yeah,” he says heavily. “Yeah, you’re right. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t sweat it,” says Wooyoung. “As long as we can put all that behind us now, we’re good, as far as I’m concerned. Us traumatised survivors should stick together, don’t you reckon?”

Hongjoong casts a quick glance at Mingi, whose face is impassive apart from the way his eyes have glossed over with tears again, then back at Wooyoung.

“Yeah,” he says again, voice a little unsteady. “We probably should.”

“Good,” Wooyoung claps his hands. “Well then, let’s not be late for lunch.”

He turns smartly on his heel and marches into the dining hall.

Hongjoong and Mingi share a wide-eyed glance before hurrying after him automatically, Hongjoong blinking rapidly as they go, his mind still recalibrating.

“So, you really just went along with what Namjoon told you to do, even though you didn’t know the full plan?” he asks Wooyoung after a minute or two, as they work their way up the long but rapidly-moving line to collect today’s food rations.

Wooyoung shrugs.

“We’re used to being used,” he says blithely. “At least it was for a better reason this time. C’mon, follow me.”

He picks up his tray and sets off again at a brisk pace before Hongjoong can even begin processing the grim implications of that statement. He shares another quick glance with Mingi, who shrugs awkwardly, before they both have to grab their own trays and hurry after Wooyoung before they lose track of him in the busy room.

Wooyoung has led them to the table he’s sharing with Yeosang and Jongho, both of whom look up warily at their approach, especially Yeosang.

“Um,” says Yeosang, tilting his head to see Hongjoong and Mingi filing along awkwardly behind Wooyoung.

“I think we’ve settled our differences,” says Wooyoung cheerfully. “We may as well sit together now.”

He plonks himself unceremoniously in the seat beside Yeosang and gestures for the other two to sit. They do, hesitantly, and carefully place their trays on the table to avoid clattering them against the others’.

“So, Mingi,” says Wooyoung. “How’s life in the infirmary? Much different to your work at home?”

“Oh,” Mingi looks startled at being addressed directly, and takes a moment to get his words together. “Um, it’s fine. Good, it’s good. Very different from home, though. All this fancy equipment and stuff.”

And so the meal progresses.

The vegetable mash is tasteless as usual, and conversation with the other three falls back into the same stilted-but-amicable norm they’d built in the Arena. They learn that Yeosang and Wooyoung are sharing a room, with Jongho by himself next door to them, only one level up from where Hongjoong and Mingi sleep. They compare notes on the rigid schedules the District 13 officials have forced on them as soon as they’re able to function outside of the infirmary, and their generally low opinion of the food.

It’s almost normal.

Then a couple of people Hongjoong doesn’t recognise hurry into the dining hall, and start whispering to some other people already seated at a nearby table. Hongjoong watches them all sit up straight, turning to mutter to others near them.

Something seems to be spreading quickly, a tense, alert feeling in the air, until eventually a few people start raising their voices.

“Hey, get the screens going!”

“Turn the TV on! The Capitol are broadcasting.”

Within moments, someone switches the television on as requested, and the multiple screens across the room blink to life.

Hongjoong winces as he hears Caesar’s voice – one in a long list of people he’d hoped he’d never have to see again – seemingly mid-interview with someone.

Raising his eyebrows curiously, Hongjoong turns along with the others to see what the fuss is.

Then, everything shatters.

Jongho sits up so suddenly his chair jars against the ground, Yeosang gasps aloud beside him. Mingi’s fork slips from between his fingers and hits the table with a clang.

Hongjoong is frozen, all the breath knocked from his lungs as they see the person Caesar is interviewing.

Yunho.

Hongjoong gapes at the screen, struggling to process what he’s seeing.

Yunho.

He’s alive.

He’s dressed in a crisp white suit, seated neatly in the interview chair opposite Caesar, with styled hair and understated makeup. He looks perfect – too perfect. It’s eerie, unsettling.

Hongjoong finds himself instantly scanning Yunho for any sign of injury, but he can’t see anything. That doesn’t mean much though – there are plenty of invisible ways to inflict harm.

“Well, it’s wonderful to have you here, Yunho, and wonderful to see you looking back to full health!” says Caesar, almost as though he can hear Hongjoong’s thoughts. “You gave us all quite a fright, getting bitten by that snake in the Arena!”

Yunho laughs his usual, polite party laugh.

“It gave me quite a fright,” he says. “I really thought I was done for. I’m very lucky that Mingi was there to help. And that the Capitol picked me up soon after, of course.”

He bows his head quickly, a nod of thanks.

Beside Hongjoong, Mingi makes a quiet, strangled noise, as though in pain, but Hongjoong is too fixated on the screen to look around. He can’t tear his eyes away from Yunho, can’t stop drinking in the sight of him, the sound of his voice.

He sounds so normal, so at-ease. Well, in the faintly distant, polished way he usually is in the Capitol, but still. It’s jarring, considering all that’s happened. Hongjoong knows it must be fake, that Yunho must be putting on an act to look so comfortable in the interview chair, and his mind immediately leaps to all the horrible threats and punishments it could have taken to get Yunho there, behaving.

He feels sick to his stomach.

“Ah, yes, Mingi,” says Caesar. “There was a heart-wrenching moment if ever I saw one. I’ll admit it – I shed a tear, you know, I really did! Such a tragic love story.”

Yunho’s expression flickers, so quickly Hongjoong almost thinks he imagined it, before smoothing over again.

“Because, of course,” Caesar presses on, “You two ended up separated, didn’t you? Now, Yunho, as I’m sure you’re aware, a lot of us were left very shocked and confused by how events played out in the Arena, especially at the very end. Are you able to shed any light on this for us?”

Yunho spreads his hands apologetically.

“I’m afraid I don’t know much more than you,” he says. “We had a plan to fight the Career alliance, but everything went wrong. We got separated…” He sighs and shakes his head. “I should never have let myself get separated from Mingi. And then, Hongjoong…”

“…Hongjoong left you,” Caesar prompts, when Yunho pauses again.

“He left to get help,” Yunho corrects him immediately. “He would never abandon me, even though I wanted him to, once I thought I was going to die.”

Caesar hums, frowning at Yunho in affected sympathy.

“Ah, but Yunho,” he says gently. “Hongjoong did abandon you, to go with the rebel insurgents. Mingi too, in the end, and I can only imagine how much that must hurt.”

But Yunho shakes his head vehemently.

“That isn’t what happened,” he says. “They didn’t leave on purpose. None of us had any idea there were plans to disrupt the Games.”

“Ok, ok,” says Caesar placatingly. “But you must admit, it does look suspicious, seeing Hongjoong and Mingi disappear along with the others after the barrier was blown.”

Yunho repositions himself in his chair, still looking a little ruffled, but when he speaks, he’s regained his composure.

“It was an elaborate scheme put together by the others, and by outside forces,” he says, pronouncing every word clearly. “Hongjoong and Mingi were just caught up in the fallout – taken by the resistance moles when they made their escape. If they went along with any of it, I’m sure it was out of desperation to leave the dangers of the Arena behind, without thinking about the implications of going along with such people. Besides, many of us were unconscious at the time. It was practically a kidnapping.”

The words sound carefully chosen, rehearsed.

“So you don’t think that tributes like Hongjoong and Mingi truly support the rebellion?” Caesar clarifies.

Yunho shakes his head.

“I don’t,” he says.

Hongjoong’s heart drops. Yunho is attempting to defend him and Mingi, that much is clear. But why? Is it to try to reduce their punishment if the Capitol captures them? To make them look innocent in the public’s eyes, so the Capitol can’t immediately label them as enemies?

“Hongjoong has certainly been… shall we say outspoken, in his criticisms of the Capitol in the past,” Ceasar prods further. “Do you not think that might be significant?”

“I don’t think anyone who hasn’t been a tribute can truly understand the terror of being in the Games,” says Yunho. “Especially not once, but twice. Of course going through an ordeal like that is going to make our current system seem unfair, something to push back against. I don’t blame Hongjoong for being angry and scared – I was too.”

He shakes his head.

“But we can’t throw all reason out of the window, just because of our own experiences. We all know what rebellion really means – war. Senseless violence, pain and suffering, thousands of lives lost needlessly. The rebellion claiming to offer an alternative to life under the Capitol’s rule doesn’t mean it’s a good alternative. It doesn’t make it a cause worth supporting.”

Caesar leans forward, intent.

“And you think your fellow tributes all agree with you?”

“I think all anyone who has been through the Hunger Games wants to see is peace,” says Yunho. “I can speak confidently for all the tributes, and indeed the majority of everyone living in the Districts, when I say none of us truly want this, no matter how tempting it may seem in the moment.”

“So you’re advocating for an end to this attempted rebellion?” Caesar clarifies. “For everyone, including your former allies, to stand down?”

“I am,” says Yunho firmly.

“Oh god,” Mingi chokes out quietly, snapping Hongjoong back into his surroundings.

Mingi is white as a sheet beside him, wide, spooked eyes meeting Hongjoong’s own when he turns.

“They’ll hate him,” Mingi whispers, terrified. “They’ll never forgive this.”

Hongjoong glances around the dining hall, and realises in horror that the people around them are watching with anger spreading across their faces. His mouth goes dry.

“Traitor,” he hears someone hiss, sees others nodding in agreement.

No.

Cold grips Hongjoong.

Surely they can’t think Yunho is saying any of this of his own accord? Surely they can’t blame him?

Hongjoong barely notices as Caesar rounds off the interview neatly and thanks Yunho for talking to him tonight, barely able to hear it past the blood pounding in his ears.

The screen cuts back to the Capitol’s insignia and the room erupts into angry chatter. Hongjoong can’t hear all of it clearly, but he catches enough to know that they’re all saying the same things, the same ghastly, wrong, cruel things about Yunho.

Disgraceful. Cowardly. Traitor.

How dare they?

They don’t know what Yunho’s been through, they don’t know what a good person he is, they don’t know anything.

Mingi is drawing back into himself, looking around fearfully at the surrounding crowd. Jongho’s face is eerily blank, but his hands are balling into fists. Hongjoong can feel pressure building in his chest, the urge to shout, to scream, to fight them all if he has to.

“Alright, time to go.”

Wooyoung’s low voice in his ear cuts through Hongjoong’s thoughts abruptly, and before he knows what’s going on, the other tribute has firmly linked elbows with him, locking Hongjoong to his side.

“Jongho, help Yeosang up,” he says shortly. “Mingi, follow me, don’t get left behind.”

He sets off across the dining hall at a brisk pace, headed for the doors. Taken by surprise, Hongjoong lets himself be towed off, the other two snapping out of their stupors at Wooyoung’s orders and following obediently.

It takes Hongjoong a moment to get his bearings again, as Wooyoung pauses to shove the swinging door open.

“Hang on! Wooyoung! What are you doing?” demands Hongjoong.

“Getting you all out of here before you or anyone else starts a punch up,” says Wooyoung frankly. “You need space to recover from the shock, not to hear anyone else’s opinion on it. You know the truth, and that’s quite enough to deal with for now, ok?”

Without waiting for an answer, he continues to hustle Hongjoong out the door and up the corridor. The angry voices of the crowd fade quickly behind them, and Hongjoong just has the presence of mind to check behind him that Mingi is still close on their heels. Otherwise, everything is a blur, until Wooyoung guides them through another doorway, and into a small, darkened room.

“Ok,” he says, “We’ll lay low here for a bit.”

Hongjoong looks around the dimly-lit space without taking any of it in, heart still thudding in his ears.

“Those bastards,” he chokes out. “They… they have him… they’re making him…”

“I know,” says Wooyoung heavily. “Here, sit down. You’re shaking.”

Hongjoong glances down at himself, and realises he’s trembling violently. He lets Wooyoung direct him to a nearby grate and sinks down onto, finally recognising their surroundings as yet another storage room, although this one is significantly larger than the one he met Seonghwa in. It seems to be mostly electronics, which is probably why Wooyoung knows of it.

“So,” says Jongho, eyes and voice empty, “We know what their plans for Yunho are now. They want him as a mouthpiece for their propaganda.”

His hands are still balled into fists, and he keeps his gaze fixed on the opposite wall.

“That means they want him alive for now, and… not visibly harmed, at least,” he adds stiffly.

“That still leaves plenty for them to do,” says Yeosang grimly.

Mingi makes a muted noise, and sinks down to sit on another crate, eyes distant.

Hongjoong drags his hands through his hair, tugging at the roots, just to feel the small spikes of pain help cut through the pure dread threatening to engulf him.

“We need to get him out of there,” he says, voice ragged. “And fast. God knows what else they’re planning.”

“Well, for one thing, we have proof he’s still alive now,” says Wooyoung. “That’s one less excuse for the leaders to delay action. They can’t fall back on ‘we don’t even know he’s alive’.”

“But now they think he’s a traitor,” says Mingi, looking up. “There’s… even if we ever get him back, there’s consequences for people they think are traitors.”

“Surely the leaders won’t think…” Hongjoong begins, but then trails off. He can’t afford to assume anything. “Maybe we can appeal to them, try to explain things,” he says, half to himself. “Maybe… maybe I can ask Eden, maybe he can…”

“Eden?” says Yeosang, frowning. “Go straight to Namjoon. Or go straight to President Hwasa, even. Any request would have much more weight coming directly from you.”

“More than from Eden?” asks Hongjoong dubiously. “He’s the one the resistance actually trusts with information, you know. Not me.”

“But you’re the Pirate King,” says Wooyoung. “Our resident celebrity. You’re the one with the clout, not their spies and advisors.”

Hongjoong shakes his head. They clearly don’t understand the situation.

“Being the Pirate King doesn’t give me any clout,” he says. “I can’t do anything. They just keep trying to convince me to make these speeches for them. They won’t let me do anything real, and they won’t listen when I tell them we need to rescue the others, or let me go and do it myself. I doubt they’d listen to any other demands I had either.”

Wooyoung and Yeosang glance at each other, then back at Hongjoong.

“Um,” says Wooyoung, looking perplexed, “Not to sound rude, but you do realise how much power you have here, right?”

Hongjoong raises an eyebrow suspiciously.

“Power?” he echoes. “No, that’s the problem – it’s not about what I want, they only want to use my image. They just want me as their figurehead.”

“Exactly,” says Yeosang. “They want you as their figurehead. Not me, or Wooyoung, or Mingi, or any other person. These people are efficient, they don’t waste time on anything that isn’t necessary, and they’ve now held multiple meetings to try and convince you to play the role for them, despite you not wanting to cooperate. That means they’re desperate.”

“And that,” says Wooyoung, “Means you have leverage. Far more leverage than I think you realise. You could ask for almost anything in return for heading their propaganda campaign at this point, I reckon. A bigger room, better food, more time outside.” He leans closer, lowers his voice even further, “Yunho getting a guaranteed pardon.”

Hongjoong goes very still as those words sink in.

He hadn’t considered this angle at all, but now that Wooyoung and Yeosang say it like that – yes, it is strange that the head of the entire resistance and her main advisors are taking hours out of their undoubtedly busy schedules to personally try and convince him to work with them.

They’ve put their foot down about sending a rescue attempt immediately, and asking and asking about it has done nothing to change their minds – but Hongjoong has never tried negotiating any other terms, never asked for anything smaller.

“…Why can’t you two make more demands then?” he asks, turning back to Yeosang and Wooyoung. “You’re needed in the control room for all the hacking, as far as I’ve heard.”

Yeosang shakes his head.

“We’re not like you,” he says. “We didn’t get handpicked to be rescued for a specific purpose. We had to beg and bargain our way in here, by promising we’d make ourselves useful to the cause. Everything I’m doing now is proving we deserved to be given a chance, not doing them a favour like you will be.”

Hongjoong sits back very slowly, pondering this.

“I see,” he murmurs.

The others turn away, Wooyoung to poke his head outside the door to check the corridor, Jongho to help Yeosang retrieve his crutches from behind another crate – they must have stashed them here so Yeosang could trial his new leg for lunchtime. Mingi seems miles away, staring off into the distance, as the others begin discuss how long to wait before venturing back outside.

Hongjoong looks back at the ground, letting his thoughts swallow him once more.

He’s been viewing working with the rebellion leaders as black or white, his only options being to follow their every order or to withhold his cooperation entirely until Yunho is rescued, but he realises now that this doesn’t have to be the case.

If he can ask for other favours, go along with some of their demands, work his way up more slowly until he actually does have the power to take action directly…

Hongjoong sits very still on the crate, mind reverberating with a new surge of ideas and energy.

He’s still trapped in hell. In fact, if anything, things have just become worse.

But now, at least, he’s been handed a shovel and pointed in the direction to tunnel which might just lead them up and out.

Time to start digging.

Chapter Text

Yeosang props his crutches against the wall and slumps onto his bed with a sigh.

It’s been a long day of examining the different radio frequencies used for Capitol broadcasts, with only a very brief break for lunch, and he feels like his brain has turned to mush.

Wooyoung is in the little bathroom adjoining their room, washing his face before dinner, but Yeosang is too tired to do the same just yet. He feels like a zombie, shuffling through the motions of work today under a heavy blanket of numbness.

Maybe he could just lie here forever, he thinks. Would it really matter so much if he never moved again?

He tries to shift slightly, but something catches against the blanket – the pins Wooyoung used to keep his empty pant leg pinned up and out of the way.

Yeosang is too tired to do anything but look down at it. Sitting up to un-snag himself doesn’t even occur to him as an option – he simply doesn’t have the energy.

He stares at the strange gap on the bed, the way his body doesn’t take up as much room as his subconscious tells him he should.

He stares at where his leg used to be.

Suddenly, he’s not numb anymore. Pain is clawing up his chest, grief stifling his lungs, and his eyes fill with tears as he lets out a strangled sob.

He curls in on himself, whimpering, and within seconds, hears the door to the bathroom slide open.

“Oh, Sangie,” says Wooyoung softly, crossing the room at once. “Here, budge up.”

Yeosang shifts towards the wall automatically, allowing Wooyoung to clamber onto the bed beside him and gather Yeosang up in his arms.

“I want my leg back,” he chokes out. “I want my leg back.”

“Shh, I know, I know.” Wooyoung rocks him gently, one hand rubbing circles into his back, and he feels a kiss pressed into his hair. “I know, Sangie, I’m sorry.”

Yeosang turns his face into Wooyoung’s chest and sobs openly, not caring how loud he’s being or that he’s staining Wooyoung’s shirt with his tears.

It’s unfair, it’s so unfair. He shouldn’t have to learn to walk again, shouldn’t have to learn to rely on external equipment to do something so basic, shouldn’t have had something so vital taken from him.

He cries for what feels like half an hour, and Wooyoung soothes him through it, holding him tight and whispering comfort in his ear, until finally Yeosang has run out of tears.

His breathing is more or less back under control when the sound of the door opening tears him from his thoughts. Yeosang tenses up immediately, but Wooyoung remains calm, keeping his arms looped gently around Yeosang.

“Hey, Jongho,” he says.

Oh. A little of the tension drains from Yeosang again. Of course it’s Jongho. Not many people know the access code for their door, after all.

He manages to raise his head a little from where it’s tucked against Wooyoung’s chest, and sees Jongho hovering awkwardly in the doorway

“I… sorry,” he says stiffly. “You weren’t at dinner. I just wanted to check…” He trails off, shuffling uncomfortably.

Yeosang hides his face against Wooyoung again. He doesn’t fear Jongho, could even trust him, perhaps, but that doesn’t mean he’s comfortable being seen like this. Sensing his discomfort, Wooyoung gives his shoulder another gentle squeeze.

“Sorry,” says Jongho again. “I’ll – I’ll go.” He pauses. “Unless – is there anything I can do?”

“No need to apologise,” says Wooyoung easily. “And hey, if you don’t mind, maybe you could grab a glass of water for Yeosang?”

The last thing Yeosang wants is anyone else doing him favours right now, but as soon as Wooyoung says it, he does have to admit he feels dehydrated after so much crying, so he forces himself not to protest.

“Of course,” says Jongho immediately. “The kitchens are still open. I’ll get you both some food too.”

The door slides shut behind him with a beep not a second later.

Wooyoung huffs in mild amusement.

“I just meant water from the sink,” he says, “But that’s sweet of him.”

Yeosang hums noncommittally.

He’s not sure how he feels about Jongho right now.

In the Arena, they knew where they stood. They were both playing their murky parts in a plan shrouded in mystery and were unable to discuss it, but they knew what the shared goal was – keep each other alive until the barriers can be blown and Hongjoong can be rescued, and hope there’s enough room in the plane for the rest of them at the end of it.

In the Arena, Jongho was an ally, who Yeosang could cautiously trust because they shared immediate priorities.

Now, he’s not so certain.

The only thing he is certain of is that he’s far too exhausted to be examining any of this right now. He sighs, feeling himself slowly turn boneless as the physical toll of his grieving begins to set in again.

Getting the hint, Wooyoung gently adjusts their positions so Yeosang can lie down against his pillows.

“It’s ok, Sangie,” he says. “Go to sleep. I’ll wake you when Jongho gets back.”

Yeosang doesn’t want to sleep – sleep is never as restful as it used to be anymore, always light and fitful or heavy and filled with bad dreams – but he’s too worn out to argue.

Instead, he nods in resignation, and lets his eyes slip shut.

***

“I’ll do it.”

Hongjoong puts his hands on his hips and stares down the rebellion leaders, mouth set in a firm line.

He hadn’t waited for their usual meeting time, had instead stormed straight in as soon as breakfast was finished, but he figures he shouldn’t get in trouble for it, not when he’s telling them what they want to hear.

Namjoon’s face breaks into a pleased smile and he moves to speak, but Hongjoong cuts him off, not finished yet.

“But I have conditions.”

Hwasa’s eyes narrow and Soyeon raises an unimpressed eyebrow, but they motion for him to go on.

Hongjoong takes a steadying breath and squares his shoulders.

“There’s been a lot of talk since Yunho’s interview with Caesar,” he says. “People are calling him a traitor and a coward for cooperating with Snow.”

He pauses, waiting for any of them to disagree, to say that clearly it’s not Yunho’s choice and the allegations are ridiculous. Eden’s mouth turns down, but none of them say anything. Hongjoong sets his jaw and soldiers on.

“I want a public promise that Yunho won’t face any punishment from the resistance, once we get him back,” he says firmly. “I want you to declare, in front of the whole district, that he’ll be pardoned for whatever anyone might frame as cooperation with the Capitol. San too,” he adds, a little belatedly. “Neither of them are staying with the Capitol willingly, and anything they’re forced to do during their time as prisoners shouldn’t be able to be held against them.”

He’ll admit, he’d forgotten about San yesterday in the fallout of Yunho’s interview, but once Wooyoung and Yeosang started coaching Hongjoong through how best to present his case to the resistance leaders, it hadn’t taken long for the other captive tribute to be brought up.

“If they’re using Yunho, it’s only a matter of time before they drag San into it too,” Wooyoung had insisted. “We need to plan ahead for it.”

Jongho, who hadn’t spoken much up until that point, had nodded.

“We can’t leave San out of it,” he’d said firmly. “He needs our help too.”

Hongjoong had acquiesced easily enough. After all, he still can’t help but feel guilty for his part in San getting knocked unconscious and left behind, even if it had seemed like their only option in the moment.

Now, Hongjoong holds his breath and waits, trying desperately to look more confident than he feels.

“…Hongjoong,” says Namjoon delicately, “That’s not something we can easily do right now. I understand your concern for Yunho and San, but consider how that would look, what sort of precedent that would set for the rest of the rebellion. If we gave everyone a full, loud pardon at the first sign of public betrayal, just because someone on our side was still attached to them, then…”

“It’s not a public betrayal,” snaps Hongjoong. “Yunho is being forced into this. It’s obvious. Eden,” he turns to his old mentor, standing at the back of the room with arms folded and face blank, “You knew Yunho. You know he’s a good man. It’s obvious the Capitol is,” the words catch in his throat for a second, but he forces himself to continue, “is torturing him, or he’d never be cooperating with Snow.”

Eden is unable to hide a grimace as the others turn to look at him. He sighs, and bows his head.

“It’s true, I fear,” he says heavily.

Hongjoong looks impatiently to Namjoon and Hwasa. Namjoon rubs his forehead and sighs, before meeting Hwasa’s eyes. The two hold each other’s gaze for a moment, as though communicating without words, before Hwasa sighs as well, exasperatedly.

“We can promise leniency, given that the captured tributes are clearly a special case,” she says. “Given their unusually high profile as celebrities after the Games, it’s unlikely we’ll have any other situations quite like this.”

“There could be backlash from announcing it,” Soyeon warns, not looking up from her notepad.

Namjoon waves a hand placatingly.

“There’s no need to announce it,” he says. “Not right away, in any case.”

“It has to be public,” Wooyoung’s advise from the night before rings in Hongjoong’s mind. “That’s the only way to hold them accountable. Signatures on paper and secret promises mean nothing. Mass memory is the only record that can’t be covered up or destroyed.”

“You’ll announce it within the fortnight,” says Hongjoong, “Or I won’t have anything to do with you or this rebellion.”

Hwasa closes her eyes briefly, as though gathering the last of her patience.

“Anything other demands we should be aware of?” she asks, a little sarcastically.

Hongjoong takes the opening anyway.

“Yes, actually,” he says. “I want to be kept in the loop about the plans to rescue Yunho and San. I understand you can’t do it immediately, but I need proof that some progress is being made, that they aren’t being forgotten. That’s all I ask.”

“That’s all?” Hwasa echoes.

“Yes,” Hongjoong replies without any shame.

There’s a pause.

The president looks at the others around her. Namjoon inclines his head, Soyeon shrugs.

“Fine,” says Hwasa.

It feels like all the air leaves Hongjoong’s lungs in a rush, relief washing over him. It worked. He can hardly believe it.

“Ok,” he says a little shakily, trying not to look as surprised as he feels. “Um. Thank you.”

Hwasa waves him off irritably.

“Go back to your day,” she says. “We’ll call you when we need you.”

They don’t need to tell him twice. Hongjoong turns tail at once and beats a hasty retreat out of the meeting room, before anyone can change their minds.

***

Mingi tucks his blanket back around his mattress as neatly as he can, smoothing it down afterwards. It doesn’t do a lot, but in a room this small, having an unmade bed somehow makes it feel even smaller.

He eyes the plain white sheets and grey blanket unhappily, then tries to plump up the flat pillow a little. It doesn’t work.

There’s a knock at the door, and Mingi snaps to attention, hurriedly smoothing down his grey medic’s tunic – a nicer shade of grey than the blanket, at least – before crossing the room to hit the button beside the door. It beeps and slides open to reveal Wooyoung, with Yeosang and Jongho hovering awkwardly behind.

“Mingi!” says Wooyoung with a bright smile and a wave. “Thanks for having us.”

“Thanks for bringing Yeosang,” says Mingi with a nod in return, and steps back to let them in and gesturing to the bed.

Yeosang’s eyes widen and he takes a faltering step back, confusion and panic dawning on his face.

“You didn’t tell him you were coming to see me?” Mingi guesses, turning back to Wooyoung.

Yeosang turns accusatory eyes on Wooyoung, who shrugs unapologetically.

“He would’ve refused if I had,” he says. “He’s determined to deal with this by himself, for some reason. Jongho, help him over to the bed, would you?”

Yeosang hesitates on the threshold a little longer, clearly torn about entering, but eventually, at Jongho’s prompting, allows himself to be guided over to sit on Mingi’s bunk.

“What is this?” he mutters, face already closed off defensively.

“Mingi offered to help with your leg,” says Wooyoung, without a trace of shame. “Since you’re avoiding the other doctors.”

Yeosang draws into himself even further, hugging himself protectively and staring hard at the floor. Mingi can’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for him.

“I just wanted to make sure you’re not interfering with the healing process by using your, um, your homemade prosthetic,” he explains. “Just let me do a quick check of it and your leg, and I won’t tell anyone else, I promise.”

There’s a long pause before Yeosang finally speaks again.

“You already helped us so much in the Arena,” he says warily. “What do you want in return? I’m not sure we have anything else to offer you.”

Mingi blinks, surprised, and steps back so he can look Yeosang in the face.

“Hey,” he says, gently, “I thought we were allies now?”

Yeosang keeps looking away, clearly uncomfortable.

“That was in the Arena,” he says.

“The Arena you helped save me from,” Mingi reminds him. “I wouldn’t have made it out if it wasn’t for your stunt with that old car. You saved my life, Yeosang.”

“You saved Wooyoung’s first,” mutters Yeosang. “We already owed you.”

“And now we’re all survivors,” says Mingi with as much finality as he can muster. “And survivors need to stick together and help each other. We’re the only ones who can understand each other now, after all, aren’t we?”

His words are followed by silence. Mingi decides to interpret that as Yeosang believing him.

“Now will you please let me have a look at your leg?” he asks tentatively.

And, thankfully, Yeosang nods.

He leans forward and undoes the straps holding his false leg and removes it carefully, laying it to one side on the bed, then begins unpinning his empty trouser leg. His hands are trembling slightly, making it difficult for him to unfasten the safety pins. Mingi is itching to help, but he knows that’s the last thing Yeosang will want right now, so he keeps his face impassive and turns away under the guise of fetching one of the folding chairs stored under the bunks and setting it up in the small space between the bed and the wall.

“Close the door, would you please, Wooyoung?” he asks.

As Wooyoung edges around him to reach the control panel beside the door and hit the button to slide it closed, Mingi takes a seat in front of Yeosang just as the other finally manages to finish undoing the last safety pin.

“Alright,” says Mingi, “Let’s have a look. May I?”

Yeosang nods without making eye contact, still evidently uncomfortable with the turn of events, but he stays cooperatively still as Mingi carefully rolls up the material to see the wound. Yeosang looks away pointedly, avoiding the sight of the end of his leg. Mingi doesn’t comment at first, just examines it quietly.

It’s new scar tissue, angry pink skin stretched tight and shiny over the end of the knee. It looks painful, but not the mess Mingi had been braced for.

“This is further along than I’d expected,” he notes.

He touches it gently, feeling for unevenness under the skin or any increase in temperature which might indicate infection. It seems to be healing well, though. Too well, if anything.

“Was any of the Capitol’s healing salve left over?” he asks curiously. “I thought we’d used all we were gifted from the sponsors, and we certainly don’t stock it in the infirmary here.”

Wooyoung looks up from where he’d slouched against the door, blinking in surprise.

“…They had some stowed on the rescue plane,” he says. “The medics that were there to give us first-aid used it on Yeosang’s wounds. How could you tell?”

Mingi hums in understanding.

“That makes sense then,” he says. “It’s accelerated the healing process. This is a much cleaner wound than you’d usually see in the third week.”

“You’ve dealt with missing limbs before?” asks Wooyoung, interestedly.

Mingi nods without looking, still preoccupied with Yeosang’s leg.

“District 8 is mostly factories,” he says. “Factories mean machinery, machinery means accidents.”

Wooyoung winces.

“Yikes,” he says. “Sounds messy.”

“Mhm.”

Mingi cradles the stump of Yeosang’s leg in both hands, and gently applies pressure to one side.

“Yeosang, let me know if anything hurts, ok?”

Yeosang gives a tiny, sharp nod, and Mingi continues. He feels his way around the injury, testing varying pressure on both the scarred and unscarred skin around it. Surprisingly, nothing seems to hurt – nothing he does elicits any response from Yeosang.

Mingi goes over a couple of areas again, pressing a little harder this time.

Still no response from Yeosang.

Frowning slightly, Mingi moves his hand a little higher, and digs his thumb hard into the soft lower part of Yeosang’s thigh, watching carefully for any reaction.

Nothing.

Mingi sighs.

“Yeosang,” he says mildly, “That last one would have hurt for anyone, injury or not. I need you to be honest with me, please, or this won’t be any use.”

Yeosang starts, guilt and panic flashing briefly over his face before he looks down, frowning hard at the bed covers.

“It’s fine,” he mutters. “It didn’t hurt much, it’s not important.”

Mingi shakes his head.

“Whether you think it’s notable pain or not isn’t the point, Yeosang,” he says. “I’m trying to gauge where in the healing process you are, and if any complications might be developing. That means I need a clear picture of where you’re currently at.”

Wooyoung, face drawn unhappily, leans across from where he’s been still against the wall.

“Sangie,” he says in frustration. “Please. Let Mingi help.”

Yeosang meets his eye for a moment, then sighs and slumps his shoulders in defeat.

“Fine,” he mutters. “… Sorry, Mingi.”

Mingi nods in acknowledgement, and recommences his examination.

This time, Yeosang admits to a lot of points hurting when Mingi applies pressure. Mingi nods each time and takes mental note without commenting further, and tries very hard not to think about how Yeosang became so good at completely hiding any reaction to pain.

He’s sure he doesn’t want to know the answer.

Eventually, once he feels he’s gotten a better understanding of the situation, Mingi sits back, letting go of Yeosang’s leg to look at his patient properly.

“Well, usually we’d leave it at least six weeks before fitting any sort of replacement,” he says, “But given how well it’s healing with the Capitol medicine, I’d say four weeks should be enough. That’s another week and a half from now.”

He looks Yeosang up and down.

“I know how you’re keen to start training yourself to walk with the prosthetic already,” he says, “But can you wait that long?”

Yeosang sighs and closes his eyes, expression still unreadable.

“…Yes,” he mutters reluctantly.

Mingi meets Wooyoung’s eyes across the small room, eyebrows raised in silent question.

Will you make sure he actually does?

Understanding at once, Wooyoung nods subtly. Mingi glances over at Jongho too, just in case. He’s not sure quite what his relationship with Yeosang and Wooyoung is right now, but he seems to be in their fold – enough that Wooyoung invited him along today, at least.

Jongho looks a little startled to be on the end of Mingi’s stern glance, but quickly recovered and nods solemnly as well, just before Yeosang opens his eyes again.

“Ok,” says Mingi, turning to the prosthetic leg lying on the bed beside Yeosang, “Now let’s have a look at this.”

***

Exhausted after his confrontation with the rebellion leaders, Hongjoong considers just going directly back to bed, but something stops him.

The memory of Mingi’s dread-filled face mirroring Hongjoong’s own when Yunho appeared on screen hovers in his mind’s eye, and Hongjoong can’t help but feel he should report back to his friend, now that he finally has something which can be counted as progress to report.

It’s not a massive development, but it’s a small step in the right direction after all the times he’s left a meeting and had to tell Mingi there isn’t any news. He’s grown to hate the subtle shift in Mingi’s expression as he readjusts from tentatively hopeful to hiding his disappointment.

So, with this in mind, Hongjoong stops one door earlier before his own room and knocks before keying in the entry code.

When the door slides open, however, he’s surprised to see that Mingi is not alone.

 Wooyoung is the first person Hongjoong sees, still regaining his balance since he’d evidently been leaning against the door until Hongjoong opened it. Beyond him in Mingi’s bedroom is Jongho, hovering awkwardly in the far corner like he isn’t sure where he’s supposed to be standing. Seated on Mingi’s bed is Yeosang, his scarred partially missing leg exposed, and sitting in front of him on a small folding chair is Mingi himself. Propped between them is the questionably constructed fake leg Yeosang apparently built for himself, which Mingi seems to be busy examining.

“…needs more padding and support than you’d think. If you make the base larger so it continues further up the thigh...”

Mingi notices the way Yeosang has stilled, eyes widening, and turns to see Hongjoong frozen in the doorway.

“Oh! Hongjoong!”

Hongjoong stares back, mouth opening and closing soundlessly for a moment.

“Sorry!” he manages, belatedly. “I didn’t mean to interrupt, um, whatever this is…?”

“It’s fine,” says Yeosang quickly, although it sounds too robotic to be genuine.

Mingi glances between Yeosang and Hongjoong for a moment, looking conflicted, before reaching over to quickly unroll Yeosang’s trouser leg. Hongjoong follows the motion with his eyes and briefly catches a glimpse of the scarred stump which used to be Yeosang’s knee, before he snaps his gaze away, feeling immediately guilty.

There’s nothing indecent about it, but it still seems somehow intensely private, something Hongjoong doesn’t have a right to see. The feeling of accidentally invading the little scene only grows stronger.

With practiced efficiency and professional detachment, Mingi is quick to fold the loose extra fabric back under Yeosang’s thigh and deftly pin it in place.

“Well, that’s probably all we need to discuss for now,” he says. “I’ll let you get back to your day.”

Yeosang nods a little jerkily, seemingly avoiding looking at Hongjoong.

“Thanks,” he says, voice barely a whisper.

Mingi nods back.

“Anytime,” he says easily. “And hey, next time you’re working on your new leg, come find me, ok?”

Yeosang hesitates, clearly unsure about the offer.

“I mean it,” Mingi continues. “If you want my input, I’m more than happy to help. This is way more interesting than the drudge work they’ve got me doing at the moment, and I’ve helped fit fake legs in the past, just never had access to such good materials to make them from.”

Yeosang nods again, this time with a little more conviction.

“Ok,” he says softly. “Thank you.”

Wooyoung, who has been quiet up until now, takes this opportunity to direct attention back to Hongjoong.

“Do you have news?” he asks, eyebrows raised.

Hongjoong clears his throat uncomfortably. He’d come here planning to only speak to Mingi, but he supposes that the others have the right to know as well, especially considering how Wooyoung and Yeosang had been the ones to suggest Hongjoong’s line of bargaining in the first place.

“It worked,” he says. “They’ll pardon Yunho and San, and in return, I’ll film some videos for them as the Pirate King.”

Immediately, the room is abuzz with new interest.

“Really?” Mingi looks almost faint with relief.

Hongjoong knows the idea of Yunho being viewed as a traitor by the rest of District 13 has been haunting Mingi just as it has Hongjoong. He reaches out and gives Mingi’s shoulder a gentle squeeze, manages a half-smile.

“Do you know any more about what they’re doing to get them back?”

Hongjoong starts slightly – he’d almost forgotten Jongho was here until he’d finally spoken up. He feels instantly guilty now, looking at the intensity in Jongho’s worried stare – much as Hongjoong can’t help being laser-focussed on Yunho’s safety and almost forgot San also needs rescuing, it keeps escaping him that San was Jongho’s ally, that of course the younger man is just as eager to see him safely returned as Hongjoong and Mingi are for Yunho.

“I don’t know any more about their plans just yet,” he says, turning to address Jongho properly. “But I did make them promise to keep me in the loop about it going forward.”

Jongho deflates a little, but keeps his chin raised.

“Well, that’s something,” he says resolutely. “Thank you.”

Hongjoong half-nods, half-shrugs, feeling like he doesn’t really deserve Jongho’s thanks.

“So now what?” asks Mingi. “Do they want you to make a public speech or something?”

“I don’t know what they’ll want me to do,” says Hongjoong. “I know they want to make propaganda videos – propos, they keep calling them. That was always the plan. I don’t know how that works, or when they’ll want me to start though.”

“Tomorrow, probably,” says Wooyoung. “They’ve been raring to go since you arrived here, everything will already be planned out and organised. They were only waiting on your agreement, and now they have that, I don’t imagine they’ll want to wait any longer.”

Hongjoong grimaces.

“That would make sense,” he agrees. “You’re probably right.”

Mingi pats him on the shoulder.

“We’ve all seen your interviews and stuff, you’re always a good speaker,” he says encouragingly. “You’ll be fine.”

***

“Cut!”

Hongjoong slumps back against the uncomfortable green-screen chair with a sigh.

That must have been the fifteenth time he’s repeated back the short speech they taught him, but it doesn’t feel any less clunky than the first, and the general frustration in the room is beginning to feel palpable.

“Why don’t we all take a quick break,” suggests Seokjin, his smile looking decidedly strained over his clipboard.

He looks over at Namjoon for backup, and the Gamemaker sighs from his chair behind the cameras.

“Sure,” he says, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “Everyone, take five.”

Not needing any further invitation, Hongjoong beats a hasty retreat to the furthest, darkest corner of the room. It’s been a long hour or so, and he’s getting more and more frustrated by the whole process. Everyone seems to be waiting for something magic to happen, and it’s becoming increasingly obvious that said magic isn’t going to occur.

Hongjoong huffs to himself, straightening the outfit they’ve put him in.

It’s quite nice, to be honest. He’d been worried at first, learning that Seokjin and a couple of the others here direct from the Capitol would be in charge of getting him ready for the filming, but it turned out to be mostly unwarranted.

Of course, he always feels a little ridiculous being dressed and made up in costume, and it feels especially frivolous given everything else going on across the districts right now, but he’ll admit the design is good.

He’s in another fur coat, one that reminds him a little of his last interview before the Arena, but this one is all in black, decorated with silver chains and iridescent black feathers, and a silver skull on one shoulder. He has a cane too, to gesture with and make himself look more commanding when he’s seated on the throne they’ll edit in as the background once they’ve finished filming. It’s black, with a silver top shaped like another skull, this one with a single curved horn protruding from the back.

They’ve shadowed and outlined his eyes, and slicked his hair back messily. When Hongjoong catches sight of himself, in mirrors and now in the monitors, he has to admit it’s effective – he looks very pirate-like, wild and dangerous.

Not that any of this is helping him deliver his lines with any sort of effectiveness.

Hongjoong sighs, going over the words again in his head.

People of Panem, we live, we fight, we dare, we end our hunger for justice.

It’s not a very good line, if he’s honest. He’s not sure who wrote it, hadn’t wanted to question things even more now that he’s finally reached a shaky accord with the leaders, but he’s not sure how they thought this could be delivered well.

Or maybe it’s just Hongjoong who is the problem, too preoccupied and stressed to figure out how to make it work.

One of the helpers approaches to check the settings on a nearby camera, and Hongjoong shuffles back slightly to let him past. Then he startles, realising abruptly that he knows the man.

It’s Seonghwa.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, before realises that probably sounds rude.

Seonghwa blinks, then shrinks in on himself slightly as he realises Hongjoong is talking to him.

“Oh, me?” he asks, voice small. “Jin asked me to help him out today. I, um, helped set up the mics and cameras.”

He nods over at Namjoon’s assistant.

“Seokjin?” asks Hongjoong, surprised by the familiarity. “You know him?”

Seonghwa shrugs noncommittally.

“We… sort of new each other,” he says. “Before. In the Capitol.”

When Hongjoong continues to look taken aback, he elaborates.

“We used to talk at parties. I…” he lowers his voice even further, afraid of being overheard, “I didn’t like him very much, but, well, I had no idea that he was acting. That he was working for the resistance, I mean.” He frowns slightly. “He was still nicer than a lot of the others though. Maybe he felt sorry for me. Maybe he still feels sorry for me. He said I could help if I wanted something to do, something to get me out of the infirmary.”

He trails off with a grimace, looking self-conscious to have spoken so much. Hongjoong, despite feeling irritable and overstimulated himself, feels the sudden urge to break the silence again, just to stop Seonghwa feeling awkward.

“Well, lucky you,” he says, feigning brightness. “You get to watch me caper around and butcher the same lines over and over instead. Must be more fun than being kept on bed rest.”

Seonghwa’s eyes widen a fraction.

“You’re not butchering – I mean – it’s not – you’re doing fine!” he manages, not very convincingly.

Hongjoong slumps back against the wall, trying not to look as petulant as he feels.

“I sure feel like an idiot up there,” he grumbles. “Don’t know how to make it look any better though.”

He fades into silence, glaring sulkily at the opposite wall.

“Um, you could change your posture.”

The mumble is so quiet he barely hears it. Hongjoong turns.

“Sorry?”

Seonghwa is staring at the floor, looking skittish. He winces, but tries again.

“I said you could change your posture,” he says haltingly. “You… look quite stiff, reading out the script. No offence.”

“None taken,” says Hongjoong automatically. He leans forward, intrigued. “What do you think I should be doing instead?”

“I mean, there’s nothing wrong with being stiff,” says Seonghwa hastily. “They want you to look intimidating, so if you want to look… cold, and put-together, then that – being stiff – could work. You just need to look more detached and sneer more, so it’s more deliberate. Or you could…” he clears his throat nervously, “And this would probably suit you better – you could lean forward more, hunch your shoulders up a bit. Like a lion or a wolf.”

Hongjoong shoves down his immediate urge to laugh at the seeming ridiculousness of this. Seonghwa is the one between them with actual experience, after all.

“A, uh, a wolf?” he echoes, trying not to sound too sceptical.

Seonghwa shrugs.

“You sort of do that, when you’re making speeches,” he says. “Real ones, I mean, not pre-written things. You know, in the interviews and such. You sort of…” he pauses a second to find the words, “You lean forward while you talk to people from the Capitol, almost like you’re hungry.”

“Hungry?” Hongjoong frowns slightly, not understanding. “Like I want to eat them?”

“Not exactly,” says Seonghwa. “More… more like you want to see their reaction. Like you know you’re making them uncomfortable, and you want to see it fully.”

“Huh.”

Hongjoong sits back, hand coming to his chin automatically. Thinks back to the footage of old interviews he’s watched, the times he’s seen himself on TV. He’s never thought about it that way, but now that Seonghwa describes it, Hongjoong realises he knows what he means.

“I guess I do do that,” he says, then glances back at Seonghwa. “You pay a lot of attention to this sort of stuff, huh?”

Seonghwa grimaces.

“Well, I had to,” he says. “Image is important in the Capitol. You have to be aware of how others see you. If you don’t curate an image for yourself…” the corners of his mouth turn down, “You’ll find that one gets made for you, whether you like it or not. And once you have a role, you need to keep playing it.”

Or what? Hongjoong wants to ask, but he keeps his mouth shut. He has a feeling he’ll only be dredging up unwelcome memories.

He thinks of Seonghwa’s image, the Prince of the Arena, perfect and poised at all times. How much of that was thrust upon him without his input? Probably most of it, by the sound of this conversation. And how long had Hongjoong believed it, hating Seonghwa for all he represented?

And what of Hongjoong’s own image?

He’s certainly had one thrust upon him – the title of Pirate King is never something he would have chosen for himself. As for being a symbol of the rebellion, that’s even more out of his depth. He believes in the rebellion, of course, had even spoken up for it in what small ways he could, while the spotlight was on him.

But being the rallying point, the figurehead of the entire movement? The pressure is overwhelming, and he’s barely even done anything yet.

“I’m not cut out for any of this,” he murmurs, half to himself. “This… this figurehead role.”

“You’re the Pirate King,” says Seonghwa. “The role is you.”

Hongjoong gives a short, bitter laugh.

“But I didn’t choose this,” he says. “I never wanted any part in the Games.”

Seonghwa smiles ruefully.

“No,” he says. “Trust me, it’s better that way.”

Hongjoong frowns at that.

“What do you mean?”

Seonghwa shrugs again, matter-of-fact.

“When you curse the people responsible for getting you into this mess, you don’t have to include yourself.”

Hongjoong is quiet for a long moment, turning this over in his head.

“How old were you,” he asks slowly, “when you signed up for training? To… to become a Career?”

“Ten,” says Seonghwa.

Ten.

Hongjoong leans back slowly, trying to process.

Ten.

The age is so young, so inexperienced, so absurdly vulnerable.

He tries to imagine a 10-year-old Seonghwa, short and skinny, wide eyes full of childhood innocence and wonder.

He tries to imagine the child entering a training hall, being taught to kill or be killed.

He shivers.

“And your parents were ok with it?” he asks.

“Oh, yes,” says Seonghwa. “The parents of career tributes always get paid handsomely.”

Hongjoong feels sick.

What kind of person would willingly let their child become a trained murderer and then see them sent off to kill or be killed, just for some extra money in their pocket? Especially in a wealthier district like 1, where everyone has enough food to survive.

“I…” he begins, although he isn’t sure what he’s going to say.

“Hongjoong, we need to keep filming!”

Seokjin’s voice startles them both, snapping back to attention.

Before either of them can say anything else, Seonghwa has darted away, back to where the other helpers are switching the set lights back on. Hongjoong watches him go for a moment, a strange tightness in his chest, before shaking himself and hurrying back to his place on the fake chair.

The cameras are trained on him once again, and Hongjoong feels the weight of everyone’s stares, waiting to see how he’ll manage this time.

He adjusts himself on the chair, thinking back to Seonghwa’s advice. Hungry, like a wolf. Like in the interviews.

“Ready?” calls Seokjin.

“One moment, please,” says Hongjoong.

He shifts, shrugging his coat up to make himself look bigger and slouching back in an effort to appear more arrogant, one hand resting loosely on the top of his cane. He thinks over the words he has to recite, and how they haven’t really been working so far. Maybe they won’t mind if he changes it just a little.

“Ok,” Hongjoong nods to Seokjin, who in turn nods to everyone else, raising a hand.

“Alright, let’s go, in 3…2…”

He points to the nearest camera and Hongjoong focuses on it.

“People of Panem,” he calls, “They thought they could get rid of us, but we live, and we fight!”

He leans forward, letting a dark smile spread across his face.

“They hungered for bloodshed,” he says, “Now we hunger for justice.”

He keeps staring into the camera with all the intensity he can muster, until he hears Namjoon call cut.

Hongjoong sits up, sucking in a deep breath. He’d been moving his shoulders, but hadn’t realised he wasn’t actually breathing until now, just replicating it for effect.

He looks across at Seokjin, trying to gauge a reaction, and Seokjin blinks back, looking shocked.

“Uh… good!” he says, then glances across to Namjoon. “Do we, uh, need another go?”

“I think we’ve got it,” says Namjoon, sounding equally surprised. “Good work, Hongjoong, everyone.”

Since, as Wooyoung had mentioned earlier, the whole production team has been prepared for so long, the final effects are already set to go and only take a little while to apply. Before they’ve even finished packing up, everyone is called into the next room to see the final product.

When they hit play, Hongjoong has the strange experience of seeing himself on the big screen, cleverly edited into a strange fantasy scape. He’s seated on a great black throne, with grey waves crashing behind him, and an ominous red glow from the sky above.

Hongjoong stares, amazed that they can create such a scene from a plain green wall and equally plain green chair. The effect is like magic.

“People of Panem!” the Hongjoong on screen calls, and they’ve edited his voice to echo slightly, emphasising his words so they ring around the small room. The video ends once Hongjoong finishes speaking, staring into the camera, and yes, he does look hungry somehow.

Still, somehow, the whole video feels… empty. It’s missing something, but Hongjoong can’t put his finger on what.

In the silence after the end of the video, a few of the production team nodding to each other, apparently satisfied. Namjoon’s face is pensive, one hand on his chin as he considers the now-dark screen.

Seokjin hums.

“I think you were right,” he says, turning to address Seonghwa, “He does better when it’s his own words.”

Seonghwa startles, looking mortified to be addressed in front of so many people, or maybe to be exposed as having ideas of his own in front of the production team.

“Oh…” he says, eyes darting around the floor, “I, um…”

Luckily for him, Seokjin doesn’t seem to need a reply.

“I have a proposition,” he says to Namjoon. “I think this would work better if Hongjoong was on a real set, as it were.”

Namjoon narrows his eyes slightly.

“Oh?”

Seokjin inclines his head.

“I think we’re only going to get the results we want if we let it happen organically,” he says meaningfully.

Hongjoong blinks, having trouble following this cryptic line, but Namjoon looks thoughtful.

“You may be right,” he says.

“I usually am,” says Seokjin, without hesitation.

The flicker of an amused smile tugs at Namjoon’s lips for one moment, but is gone again just as quickly.

“Alright,” he says, standing abruptly. “I think we’re finished here. Thank you, everyone. I have things to discuss with my team.”

Everyone disperses.

Hongjoong retreats once more to the corner where he’ll be out of the way, fetching the drink bottle he stashed there earlier. He retrieves his water from where he’d hidden it between a chair and the wall, and takes a few quick swigs. He catches himself glancing around like he’s doing something wrong, and wonders grimly how long it will take for him to think of water as a normal, everyday thing again, instead of a precious resource he needs to guard jealously.

He sees Seonghwa move past, a cover in his hands which looks like it would fit over one of the nearby cameras, and pauses. He’s still thinking of Seokjin’s words earlier, you were right, he does better when it’s his own words.

Seonghwa has discussed him with Seokjin? What else had he said? What else has he been silently paying attention to, while Hongjoong was totally oblivious?

“Why did you try to protect my body?” he blurts.

Seonghwa looks around, surprised.

“What?”

“In the Arena,” Hongjoong clarifies.

He knows this probably isn’t a good time or place for this discussion, but he can’t help it. It’s been preying on his mind for so long now, and combined with the fact that Seonghwa has apparently been paying enough attention to Hongjoong to have opinions about how he’ll best perform, Hongjoong can’t sit on his curiosity any longer.

“They… they told me later, that when they tried to pick me up in the plane, you were trying to shield me.”

“Ah.” Seonghwa nods. “I thought it was a Capitol plane. Well, it was a Capitol plane, I just didn’t realise it was stolen.”

“No, no,” Hongjoong shakes his head. That isn’t his point. “Why did you try to protect me from the Capitol?”

Realisation dawns on Seonghwa’s face, and he tilts his head for a moment, considering.

“Why did you not kill me when I asked you to?”

Hongjoong blinks, not expecting the return question.

“What?”

“Why didn’t you kill me?” Seonghwa repeats.

“Because… that’s not… I couldn’t have done that!” says Hongjoong, affronted.

“You definitely could have,” says Seonghwa. “It was the Hunger Games. I wasn’t allied with you. I even wanted you to do it.”

The image of Seonghwa’s tortured face in the Arena flashes before Hongjoong’s eyes again, features twisted in agony and desperation. The Seonghwa before him, here and now, simply stares solemnly.

“It…” Hongjoong coughs, wets his lips as he tried to find the words. “It wouldn’t have been right,” he finally settles on. “Not when you weren’t trying to kill me. If it’s not self-defence, then it’s just killing for the sake of killing, and that’s what the Capitol wanted us to do. Kill each other instead of fighting the real enemy.”

Seonghwa nods, as though he expected the answer.

“And that’s why I couldn’t leave you to be taken by the Capitol,” he says simply.

Hongjoong tilts his head.

“Oh,” he says slowly, “You were returning the favour, because I showed you mercy?”

“Oh, well, I mean…” Seonghwa grimaces. “It wasn’t really a favour for me, or at least I didn’t think so at the time. I wanted to die rather than be recaptured, after all. But the fact that mercy was still left in you by that point of the games – that meant something. That was special. And I couldn’t bear the thought of you being taken, after that.”

“Special?” Hongjoong echoes. “It shouldn’t have been. It was human decency, not anything great.”

Seonghwa is quiet for a moment, brow creased slightly. When he speaks again, it’s with an effort, as though he’s having to push himself through it.

“You… don’t realise the effect you have, do you?” he asks haltingly. “Seeing you refuse to play by their rules, in your first Games, in the interviews, in every public appearance – it made me realise there was still hope. Not for me, personally, but for others, who weren’t too far gone. Who were still willing to fight, if someone could show them how.” He shakes his head. “You’re… amazing.”

Hongjoong shifts uncomfortably, face aflame. He doesn’t know what to do with this sudden, unexpected praise.

“I’m… I’m not all that they say I am, you know,” he says. “I don’t really know what I’m doing here, I don’t have a plan. I know I’ve become the face of the revolution, but I’m out of my depth. I’m not some – some mighty chosen hero, destined to save everyone.”

“No,” says Seonghwa softly. “You’re just a person like the rest of us. But you fight anyway. That’s more admirable, if you ask me.”

Hongjoong has no reply to that.

Seonghwa, seeming to grow self-conscious at speaking too much again, rolls his lips, then ducks his head and hurries back to his task, leaving Hongjoong standing behind, as if rooted to the ground.

***

Mingi wakes to a knock on his door.

He checks the digital clock set in his wall as he rolls out of bed. 4am.

The door slides back to reveal Hongjoong, looking very small and very lost. His eyes are unfocussed, like he isn’t really present, and he’s swaying slightly.

“Mingi?” he asks when the door opens, voice barely audible, as though he’s afraid of raising it.

Mingi holds out his arms at once and ushers Hongjoong inside, closing the door behind him.

Hongjoong lets himself be shepherded over to Mingi’s bed and sinks down onto it without any resistance. He’s trembling slightly, so Mingi quickly fetches his spare blanket from the shelf above his bunk and wraps it around Hongjoong’s shoulders.

He sits beside Hongjoong on the bed, slipping one arm around him, slowly enough that he doesn’t startle him, but firmly enough to be grounding. He’s learned that this usually helps when he’s trapped in his thoughts, even if he isn’t normally a fan of much physical contact.

After that, though, Mingi finds himself hesitating.

Usually, by now, Hongjoong would have said something else, given Mingi some idea as to what’s been bothering him, what sort of nightmares have been plaguing him. It’s often memories of the Arena, the residual horror from all they’d experienced or the guilt at the others left behind and all the things Hongjoong thinks he should have done better, as the unofficial group leader.

This time, it feels different. Hongjoong’s barely said a word. Mingi isn’t quite sure what’s eating at him, but it’s clearly something, and he isn’t sure how to begin reassuring him when he doesn’t know what the problem is in the first place.

“What’s on your mind?” he tries cautiously.

There’s a long pause before Hongjoong answers, long enough that Mingi begins to wonder if Hongjoong even heard his question. But then, finally, he speaks.

“Seonghwa was only ten when they started training him as a Career.”

The words are low, hollow. Mingi blinks, not expecting this.

“I… didn’t realise you’d spoken to him again.”

“He was at the filming,” Hongjoong mumbles. “Seokjin knows him, apparently. Had him helping with the lights.”

“Namjoon’s assistant?” asks Mingi, trying to place the name, but Hongjoong just nods vaguely, not interested in this line of thought.

“He blames himself for being a career,” he says, “but his parents basically sold him into it. Did you know that careers’ parents get paid to put their children forward?”

“I… hadn’t really considered it,” says Mingi truthfully. “I suppose it makes sense, though. There has to be some motivation behind it, when their kid isn’t guaranteed a win.”

Hongjoong shudders again.

“I just can’t stop thinking about it,” he groans, pushing fists against his eyes. “Everyone suffering so much. Seonghwa being trained to kill since he was a little kid, and feeling like any of it was his fault. Yeosang losing his leg. You nearly dying in that Arena when you fell into the thorns. And Yunho…”

Hongjoong’s voice catches and he breaks off. Mingi feels his own chest tighten painfully too.

Yunho is never far from his thoughts, especially at night. Mingi hadn’t known the other man for long, but he’s lodged a firm and painful place in Mingi’s heart nonetheless, only exacerbated by this recent sighting of him on Capitol TV.

Apart from the obvious worries about Yunho’s safety, another thing haunting Mingi is their rushed confessions in the Arena.

“I love you,” he told Yunho, and he’d meant it in the moment – the confused, hurried moment when he’d truly believed both of them were more likely than not to be dead within the hour.

He thinks he still means it now.

But did Yunho?

Sure, he’d returned Mingi’s confession, but they were still on camera. Mingi’s fairly confident from the words he’d chosen that he managed to communicate to Yunho that his feelings went beyond their little act, but even assuming that Yunho knew this, Mingi still put him on the spot.

If Yunho believed he was about to die, and knew that the entire world was still watching while Mingi poured his heart out, it would hardly be the right conditions to let Mingi down gently. And they were still allies and comrades, too – still cared deeply for each other and wanted each other to survive.

Yunho is so kind, such a good person – Mingi is sure that, from his perspective, the right thing to do would be to play along and give Mingi a last moment of happiness, even if he didn’t love Mingi in that way.

It would be a big ask anyway, to fall in true love in such a short span of time. Mingi’s sure his own feelings were heightened by the danger and fear of the Arena. He knows, psychologically speaking, that it’s a thing, that people are more likely to find themselves attracted to people they meet in dangerous situations, but that doesn’t automatically make it less valid.

He wants Yunho to be safe and back with them more than anything, and it feels callous to be re-evaluating his feelings about him now, under such circumstances. It’s also hard to tell how they’d be able to function as a couple in normal life, given that they’ve only known each other in the harsh world of the Arena.

Mingi knows that he’s just going to have to wait until, by some miracle, Yunho is back with them to even begin sorting their feelings for each other in a realistic way.

In the meantime, he’s got nothing to do but wait, and to comfort poor Hongjoong, who is still shaking with grief and fear for his friend.

“He’s such a good person,” Hongjoong sobs, “There were so many times I’d have to go back to the Capitol, and everything was too much, too horrible, and I’d be losing my mind, and Yunho would help me come back down. He always knew what to do, what to say, he’d help me get grounded again, get through it all. And he never wanted anything in return, he didn’t do it for any other reason, he just wanted to help, and no one ever wanted to just help, everyone wanted something or had some ulterior motive, everyone except Yunho, he was the only person I could trust in that horrible place, and now I don’t even have him, he’s gone, and they’re, they’re, they’re fucking torturing him, I know it, and I can’t fucking do anything to help, and…”

Mingi can tell Hongjoong is rambling now, frantic and upset and running out of breath fast. He’s worked himself up into a panic attack, which means there’s no point comforting or commiserating anymore. He needs to snap Hongjoong out of it.

Taking one of Hongjoong’s hands in the one not already draped around his shoulder, and gives him a little jostle.

“Hongjoong, you’re panicking,” he says. “Look, here, look around the room, yeah? What can you see?”

Hongjoong is still panting, still trembling, eyes not able to focus on his surroundings. Mingi squeezes his hand firmly and tries again.

“There’s a wall in front of us,” he says sharply. “What colour is the wall?”

The abrupt tone seems to startle Hongjoong out of his spiral, eyes clearing slightly. He blinks a few times.

“…Grey,” he says.

“Good,” says Mingi encouragingly. “That’s good. And where are we sitting?”

“…On the bed,” Hongjoong mumbles, scrubbing across his face briefly with a sleeve.

“That’s right. What’s the blanket like?”

“Um, it’s grey too. It’s… soft?”

“There we go.” Mingi tries not to sound too relieved. “There we go. You’re back. You’re ok, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Hongjoong repeats numbly, then sobs again.

Mingi hands him a tissue to cry into, satisfied that at least it’s controlled crying this time, that the worst of the panic attack has passed as his breathing begins to even out.

“I’m sorry,” Hongjoong sniffs.

“Hey, it’s ok,” Mingi assures him. “It’s fine. You’re fine, alright?”

He gives Hongjoong’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. Hongjoong sighs and leans against him more. His eyes are half-shut already, and Mingi can tell he’s exhausted by the combination of the long day and the panic attack. He looks half-asleep already.

“Stay here tonight,” Mingi offers.

It won’t be the first time, nor the last, that one of them crashes in the other’s room for the night. It’s easier to keep the demons at bay when you’re the only one in the room.

The single beds in all their rooms can extend out enough to fit two people, at the expense of any floor space – 13 is all about using compact space effectively, but they also don’t want to prevent coupling, given that they want to keep their population stable over their decades in hiding. Mingi makes use of it now, carefully pulling out the extra section of mattress from underneath the bed and tugging the blanket over to cover the extra room.

He puts down an extra pillow for Hongjoong, and coaxes him to lie down.

“Go to sleep,” he says. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Hongjoong rolls over into the pillow easily, settling with a sleepy murmur that Mingi has to strain to catch.

“Thanks, Yunho.”

Mingi freezes.

Hongjoong’s eyes are closed, his breathing even – already asleep.

Unease sitting heavy in his chest, Mingi rests his head back against the pillow, and turns out the light.

Chapter Text

“What do you mean you’re going out into the field?”

Wooyoung winces at the clear accusation in Yeosang’s voice.

“It’s just some quick filming,” he says. “The higher-ups want some footage of Hongjoong out in the action, but only from a safe distance. We should be away from the real danger.”

“Nowhere outside of 13 is away from real danger.”

Wooyoung looks up from the small bag he’s packing and meets Yeosang’s unblinking eyes, trained piercingly on him. He sighs.

“Well, yes,” he concedes. “But still. We’re not going looking for trouble.”

“Where are you going?”

“District 8.” Wooyoung stoops to pull his other boot from under the bed and tugs it on. “Meeting one of the rebel leaders there, talking to some of their wounded. They have a hospital set up.”

“And why do they need you?”

Yeosang’s tone is level, if a little annoyed, but Wooyoung can hear the tightness, the fear behind it.

“I’ve got all my filming and editing experience, remember?”

When they were desperately trying to get in touch with the resistance before they were reaped a second time, the two of them had spent hours brainstorming everything they had to offer, any and all talents the resistance might be able to find a use for, so Yeosang could make their plea to join sound more effective. Wooyoung’s experience as an amateur filmmaker had been added to the list without a second thought.

Now, Yeosang scowls.

“I never would have told them about that if I knew it was going to end up with you being dropped into a warzone.”

“It’s not a warzone, Sangie, it’s just…”

“Just a place where civilians have recently been bombed,” Yeosang finishes for him icily.

Wooyoung huffs.

“Fine,” he says. “It’s a warzone. But we’re going in a quiet time, and we’ll be protected. You know they wouldn’t send their precious Pirate King into the line of fire.”

“They might if it gets them some nice, inspiring footage to use,” says Yeosang.

“And for that, they’ll need the cameraman to survive long enough to film him,” Wooyoung quips backs just as fast.

Yeosang holds his stare for a moment, then finally looks away with a little scowl. Wooyoung grins, taking it as a victory, and goes back to packing.

“How long will you be gone?” Yeosang asks.

“No more than a few hours,” says Wooyoung. “Jongho can help you get around and keep you company in the meantime.”

“What – that’s not what I – I don’t need babysitting!”

“I know you don’t, Sangie, but that doesn’t mean you can’t accept help when it’s offered to you.”

“Hmph.”

Yeosang is silent for another long moment, while Wooyoung pats down the side pockets of his bag, making sure they’re securely closed so nothing falls out.

“I guess I’ll keep searching for a way through the Capitol’s firewalls,” says Yeosang without much enthusiasm. “The team didn’t call for us today, but if you’re gone, I’d better find something else to do.”

“Good idea, keep busy,” says Wooyoung. “We’ve been making good progress, you might even crack it today! If you finish early, you can sit back and relax, get Jongho to rub your feet for you.”

“Foot,” Yeosang corrects bitterly. “Only got one now, remember.”

“That man’s down so bad he’d probably give your fake leg a massage if you asked,” says Wooyoung airily, not to be deterred.

Yeosang shoots him a glare.

“What? It’s true.”

“Don’t talk about him like that,” Yeosang mutters, turning away again.

“Like what?” asks Wooyoung, genuinely curious.

He watches Yeosang struggle with the question, brow furrowing as he stares into space for a long moment.

“Like he’s one of the Capitol creeps we could talk into doing favours for us,” he says eventually.

Wooyoung turns the words over in his head, and nods in understanding.

“Ok,” he agrees easily. “I won’t. But you know he does care about you, right?”

Yeosang just continues to frown at the wall unhappily.

“Hm.”

Wooyoung decides not to push it any further. He zips up his bag and hoists it over his shoulder.

“Well, I need to report back,” he says. “We’re leaving soon.”

Yeosang pushes himself forward to the edge of the bed, and manages to balance on one leg to hold out his arms. Wooyoung steps forward to return the hug at once.

Yeosang squeezes him tightly, burying his face against Wooyoung’s shoulder.

“Come back,” he says, words muffled.

“I will,” says Wooyoung. “I promise.”

***

Hongjoong has been given yet another outfit to change into. It’s not the same black fur coat as last time, but it’s reminiscent – black tactical gear with skull designs worked into the shoulder guards and a sort of half-cape that won’t get in the way if he has to run.

“The hood has shock-absorbing panels that will click into place if you raise it,” Seokjin tells him, “So remember to pull it up if anything happens out there, and it will act like a helmet as well as hiding your face so you’re not an easy target.”

There’s the cane with the horned skull handle again too, although the top seems significantly larger this time.

“This isn’t the same cane,” Seokjin warns Hongjoong before handing it over. “This one does this.”

As he speaks, he grips the cane in both hands and snaps it in half, separating the majority of the stick neatly from the head, breaking what must be a magnetic connection. Looking closer, Hongjoong realises that the remaining part of the cane attached to the head is actually a hollow chamber. Seokjin readjusts his hold on the head part, hooking his finger into a trigger hidden behind the horn, and it suddenly forms a more recognisable shape.

“A pistol?” asks Hongjoong, incredulous.

“It’s not a powerful one,” says Seokjin, “It’s not long-range and it won’t pierce most armour unless you’re in very close quarters. Self-defence only.”

He shows Hongjoong where the safety is, and makes him switch it off and on a couple of times while he watches to make sure it’s done correctly before letting him take it. The cane reconnects to the head easily, magnets snapping back into position. Hongjoong holds it gingerly, feeling both uneasy with a gun, and a little foolish with such a theatrical prop, even though it has a hidden purpose.

“Do the magnets not throw off the way it fires?” he wonders. “Bullets are metal, aren’t they?”

“Different type of metal,” Seokjin waves his concern away. “It won’t affect them.”

“Huh.” Hongjoong clears his throat awkwardly. “Um, thank you.”

Seokjin waves this away too.

“A Pirate King needs to be fully equipped. By the way, if you don’t feel like waving it around, you can attach it to the clip on the back of your armour, it will sit under the cape.”

Hongjoong exhales, relieved that he won’t have to match into the hospital brandishing the cane.

Before he can thank Seokjin again, someone else calls for him, and Seokjin turns swiftly on his heel to answer them, leaving Hongjoong standing on his own in the loading bay. He shifts awkwardly, watching workers load crates of medical supplies into the cargo hold of the aircraft.

“Morning.”

Hongjoong turns, surprised to see Mingi joining him, dressed in much plainer tactical gear.

“Morning,” he returns. “You’re coming with us?”

Mingi tilts his head.

“Of course I’m coming,” he says.

“Oh, right,” Hongjoong nods quickly. “Because you’re our medic, and we’re getting hospital footage?”

Mingi looks at him for a moment, expression unreadable.

“…Because it’s District 8,” he says.

Hongjoong immediately kicks himself internally. Yes, he’s been wrapped up in his own head and preoccupied with his new role as the Pirate King and saving Yunho, but still, how could he forget?

“Oh god, Mingi, I’m sorry,” he says hurriedly. “It’s your home. Of course you’re coming. Of course.”

He realises with dawning guilt that at some point he’s mentally put Mingi in District 9, like Yunho.

“I’m sorry,” he says again.

Mingi shrugs, looking away.

“It’s fine,” he says, “We’ve all got a lot happening. These things can slip your mind.”

Hongjoong has a feeling it isn’t fine, but he isn’t sure what more he can say.

“Um… your family…?” he begins awkwardly. “Are they…?”

“In hiding,” Mingi says. “We won’t get to see them today.”

“Ah.”

Hongjoong nodded. His family were the same. They’d vanished from their community, and while Hongjoong had initially been alarmed by the news, Hwasa and Namjoon had explained that this was actually a good sign – if the Capitol had taken them, they would no doubt be used for very public examples. Hongjoong wanted nothing more than to see his family again, but he knew that searching for them would only lead the wrong kind of attention to wherever they were managing to hide out.

“I might see some of my friends, though,” says Mingi. “We’re not going to the exact area I lived in, but it’s not all that far, and it sounds like the district has been… well…” he grimaces, “in upheaval, anyway.”

“I see.”

Mingi hasn’t been given any weapons, Hongjoong notes. He has a white band fastened around his upper arm, printed with a bold black ‘M’ to signal that he’s a medic. They’re going to a hospital – Hongjoong wonders if they might meet other doctors there, perhaps the ones who trained Mingi.

“Morning all.”

They both turn to see Wooyoung striding over, a bag slung jauntily over one shoulder. He doesn’t join them, just heads past to where some of the others are doing an apparent stocktake of filming equipment. Hongjoong’s eyes follow him with interest.

“Did you know he was coming?”

Mingi shakes his head.

“I don’t think any of us got a proper briefing,” he says. “They arranged this so quickly.”

It’s true – Hongjoong himself only found out about the trip 12 hours ago – 24 hours after they wrapped up filming the first propo. It seems that this was the idea Seonghwa inadvertently put in Seokjin’s head – the idea that he proposed to Namjoon at the end of that day.

He wonders what role Wooyoung is going to play. Do they want him to speak as well? He’s certainly charismatic enough.

“Alright everyone!”

A voice cuts through Hongjoong’s thoughts, and he blinks, realising that a woman in tactical gear has materialised in front of them while he was distracted.

Everyone falls silent, waiting for her instruction.

“My name is Moon Byulyi, and I’ll be in charge of this outing.”

Hongjoong can see the stripes on her shoulder, and knows from his reading recently that this marks her as a captain.

“There are three units today,” she says. “Filming…” She points to the camera crew, which seems to include Wooyoung, then at Hongjoong and Mingi, “Supply distribution,” she points to the workers loading crates, who have also paused to listen, “And defence.” She gestures to herself and the men behind her. “We’ll be split between the first two groups, to make sure everyone stays protected throughout the day.”

She casts her gaze over them all seriously.

“Follow directions and stay with your group at all times – we can’t afford to have anyone unaccounted for, not even for a moment. It’s unlikely that anything will go wrong, but we need to be prepared for any eventuality.”

Hongjoong shivers. He’s spent the past weeks aching to go outside again, but now that it’s time, he can’t help but be apprehensive. The world outside is different from the one he knew before the last Games. So much of the Capitol’s secret brutality is out in the open now.

As if sensing Hongjoong’s nerves, Captain Moon continues.

“Stay alert, stay cautious, but don’t be too afraid. If everything goes to plan, this should be one of our easiest outside operations ever.”

She smiles, an open, affable smile, and for a split second Hongjoong is reminded oddly of Yunho. Then she’s back to business, and the sensation passes.

“Ok, let’s move out!”

There’s a flurry of activity as everyone boards the plane. Hongjoong has been on a jet a few times before, all linked with the Games. It brings back nasty memories, but at least the inside of this plane is completely different to those he’s flown on previously.

He straps himself into the seat he’s directed to, finding himself next to Mingi and opposite Wooyoung, who gives him a wide smile when their eyes meet.

“Well, this is exciting!”

Hongjoong tries a smile in return, but isn’t sure if he quite manages it.

“Yeah,” he says awkwardly, having to raise his voice to be heard over the sound of the engine starting up. “Um, are you on the film crew now?”

Mingi looks up, curious as well. Wooyoung nods easily.

“I’ve got some experience with making videos. Bought myself a film camera a while back, when Sangie and I were in the Capitol.”

Hongjoong’s eyes widen. He’s only seen film cameras a few times outside of official Capitol broadcasting events – they’re a luxury item, even for a victor.

“How on earth did you afford that?” he asks.

Wooyoung’s smile becomes fixed.

“I think we’d all rather I didn’t tell you.”

Hongjoong ducks his head, immediately guilty. Why does he keep putting his foot in it this morning?

“Still,” Wooyoung forges ahead, thankfully, “Means I’ve got some good experience! I’ll be helping take footage of you today.”

Hongjoong nods, tries to smile again, although Wooyoung’s words are stirring up yet more uncertainty. Just what is he meant to do today?

He knows the vague brief – he’s to greet the resistance fighters in District 8, visit the hospital and see some of the damage done by the Capitol’s fire, and ‘shoot some footage’. Exactly what that means, Hongjoong isn’t sure.

The flight is shorter than Hongjoong expected, and the plane lands surprisingly smoothly, given the bumpy terrain and lack of airstrip. They’re jostled, but only a little. Soon enough, everyone is removing their seatbelts and getting to their feet.

The defence unit head out first, directing the others to stay back until the all-clear is sounded. Once the signal is given, everyone else starts disembarking too.

The supply distribution team go first, in a hurry to start unloading their cargo, then the camera crew, lugging their expensive equipment. Hongjoong and Mingi hold back to stay out of everyone’s way, then finally make their own way to the square of sunlight at the end of the carrier.

The hold doors open onto a grey jumble of broken concrete and torn-up road.

Hongjoong stares, trying to make sense of it, eyes picking out the familiar shapes of window frames and doormats in amongst the rubble.

He hears a sharp intake of breath from beside him, and turns to see Mingi staring out at their surroundings, eyes wide.

“You ok?” he asks tentatively.

Mingi blinks hard, and nods jerkily.

“I knew they’d been bombed,” he says, “I just didn’t realise it would be this bad.”

“Did you…” Hongjoong swallows, “Did you know this street?”

Mingi blinks hard again.

“Yeah,” he says hoarsely. “Not well, I didn’t come here much, but… yeah.”

Hongjoong’s heart clenches. Not knowing what else to do, he offers his hand to Mingi. Mingi looks down at Hongjoong’s hand and then, slowly, takes it. Hongjoong gives his hand a squeeze he hopes is reassuring, then, together, they step out into District 8.

The film crew already have their equipment assembled and are getting to work taking footage of the ruins streets around them, Wooyoung among them. Captain Moon is standing a short distance away, and beckons them over when she sees them disembark.

“Hongjoong, this is Commander Jung, he’s head of operations here in 8.”

The man beside her smiles briefly in greeting. He looks young to be in charge, might not even be thirty, but he holds himself with authority. He’s dressed in a grey poncho and loose trousers, a large gun slung over one shoulder by its strap.

“The Pirate King himself,” he says, “Good to meet you.”

“Good to meet you too…” Hongjoong starts to say, before Mingi lets out a shocked exclamation beside him.

“Hoseok!”

Commander Jung’s polite smile broadens into a real one at once.

“Mingi!”

He opens his arms and Mingi runs to return the embrace.

“It’s so good to see you, kid,” says Commander Jung. “We’ve all been so worried about you.”

“It’s good to see you too,” says Mingi breathlessly. “I’ve missed everyone so much, I didn’t know if I’d get to come back here!”

Commander Jung squeezes him tight, then steps back, letting him go.

“Everyone will be so happy to finally see you,” he says. “I’ll let the boys know you’re here.”

He turns away to speak quickly into a walkie talkie. Hongjoong looks over at Mingi.

“A friend of yours?” he asks.

Mingi nods.

“Hoseok and I used to live in the same street,” he says. “He looked out for me and my friends when we were growing up. I had no idea he was one of the rebel leaders here now, but it makes sense.”

“This way,” Commander Jung calls, waving them over. “The hospital isn’t too far.”

The party gathers itself and sets off, Captain Moon and the other soldiers tailing behind them.

They reach the end of the block and turn the corner into the next street, where Hongjoong quickly leans that ‘the boys’ mentioned earlier are a group of five around their age, who come charging up to Mingi in a mess of shouts and sobs and sweep him into a messy group hug.

It takes some time for them to disentangle, during which time Hongjoong hears Mingi call a few of them by name – Seoho, Hwanwoong, Dongju – but it’s too fast for Hongjoong to figure out who is who.

They’re all quite tall, except for one who has his arms around Mingi’s waist and is talking a mile a minute.

“We hadn’t heard anything since the Arena exploded and the feed got cut,” he’s exclaiming. “We didn’t know if you were alive or not. The Capitol reports just kept going on about dangerous fugitives with no names, and all the rebels would talk about was that the Pirate King had survived.”

By contrast, Mingi seems too overwhelmed to speak.

“I’m alive,” is all he says, “I’m here.”

“We only found out this morning,” another of the boys continues. “Once they told Hoseok who was coming today.”

“Geonhak cried,” adds a third, the one with the most youthful face.

The man who spoke second whips around to face him, face screwed up.

“Wh –? We all cried!” he says indignantly.

Mingi laughs, and the others join in, tears and smiles mingling together. Hongjoong feels his heart warm at the sight. It’s so nice to see Mingi reunite with people he so clearly cares about.

Hongjoong and Mingi may be close now, as their shared trauma and absolute reliance on one another during and after the Arena has led to something of a speed-run for their friendship, but it’s no real substitute for being around people who have known you all your life.

Hongjoong finds himself suddenly wanting to make a good first impression on Mingi’s friends, nervously hoping they approve of him as a good friend to Mingi, who has been through so much horror and deserves proper support.

Almost as though he noticed Hongjoong’s shifting thoughts, Mingi turns and beckons to him.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” he says, “Everyone, this is –”

But the others get in first.

“Kim Hongjoong!” one exclaims, eyes wide as saucers.

“Wow, the Pirate King!” says another. “You’re really here!”

Ah. Hongjoong had forgotten that the time for making a first impression has long gone. These people have seen everything that happened in the Arena, the good and the bad.

They recognise Wooyoung as well, and get an enthusiastic greeting in return as Wooyoung matches their energy immediately.

“So you’re Mingi’s friends! Ah, it’s good to meet you all!”

Mingi finally manages to introduce his friends in turn – Seoho, Keonhee, Geonhak, Hwanwoong and Dongju – and Hongjoong does his best to commit them all to memory.

All too soon, however, Captain Moon and Captain Jung are reminding them that the group needs to keep moving, as they have limited time.

The five boys tag along with them as they continue on to the hospital. Hongjoong hangs back a little to give them space, falling into step with Wooyoung instead.

Wooyoung nods companionably at him, preoccupied with his large camera. It’s mounted on a sort of metal frame which is resting on his shoulders and secured with a sort of harness.

“Is it hard to walk with that?” asks Hongjoong, gesturing to the contraption.

“It’s a bit awkward,” says Wooyoung. “My one at home is only hand-held, I’ve never used anything quite like this before. It does make it very easy to film steadily, though.”

He turns, walking sideways for a few moments while he gets some footage of the abandoned, rubble-filled street. Hongjoong watches the camera glide around with him, stabilising itself smoothly.

“There’s so much storage on these too,” he says. “Much more than mine. The others said not to worry about taking up space, just to get as much footage as possible.”

He shakes his head slightly, as if overwhelmed by the opulence of unlimited video storage. Hongjoong nods as though he understands.

“How did you escape the Arena?” Hongjoong hears Dongju ask Mingi. “All we saw was Hongjoong shouting at the Capitol, and then suddenly all the screens went dark!”

“Especially since you went missing after Yunho got bitten by that snake!” chimes in Hwanwoong.

“Missing?” echoes Mingi in confusion, then his face clears in realisation. “Ah, because I was with Wooyoung and Yeosang. They were blocking the camera transmission.”

“Really?” Keonhee turns to Wooyoung, impressed.

Wooyoung nods.

“Yeosang’s idea,” he says, a note of pride obvious in his voice. “He made signal disruptors and we smuggled them in.”

It’s strange to think of how their experience in the Arena would look from an outside perspective, to find out which parts made it into the main broadcast.

Mingi launches into an explanation of their escape from the Capitol, the others hanging on every word. It’s clear how much they’ve been worried about Mingi since the Games.

It’s also clear that Mingi has been worried for them, even if he’s kept these concerns private until now, as the conversation turns to District 8.

“The local peacekeepers rushed out about ten minutes after thee Games were cut off,” says Seoho. “They told us all we had to go back to our homes immediately and stay there, or they’d open fire.”

“They were trying to avoid a riot,” Geonhak says gravely, “But they only spurred it on. There weren’t many of them compared to us, and they didn’t have time to call for reinforcements. It was a quick fight.”

“We lost people, obviously,” says Hwanwoong. “They had guns, after all, and they opened fire on the crowd when they realised we weren’t going to cooperate. But they didn’t last long. We’re in charge now.”

“So that’s why they’ve been sending the bomber planes?” asks Mingi, looking around at the streets.

Keonhee nods.

“The main factories haven’t been damaged, and most of our homes are still standing, even yours. The schoolhouse is gone, the smaller one, not the one we went to. And obviously the west market and all the houses around it.”

Hongjoong never would have guessed that this used to be a bustling marketplace, but looking around with fresh eyes, he can see the big, twisted wreck of what must once have been a big metal roof providing cover for a mass of market stalls. He shivers, wondering how many lives were lost.

The others keep talking as they make their way down the street, although Hongjoong finds himself tuning out. He can’t stop thinking about the fact that this is Mingi’s home, and wandering what his own looks like now.

Have there been bombings in District 12 as well? It seems likely. He thinks of the street he grew up in, of the main street, of the Hob, the black market where people sold hunted game and other banned foods. Are they still standing?

It’s difficult to imagine them destroyed in the way District 8 has been.

“Here we are,” says Hoseok. “The hospital.”

They come to a stop in front of the it, and Hongjoong’s heart sinks even further as the door is pushed open.

The hospital isn’t a hospital at all, but a repurposed storehouse. Hongjoong hadn’t known what to expect – there were certainly no hospitals in 12, only a few local doctors, and he’d assumed 8 wouldn’t have much better facilities – but the sight is still shocking.

Big plastic sheets have been stapled to the doorways to act as curtains between rooms, but for the most part, there is no privacy, just one big space. Patients are on low camp beds or bedrolls on the ground – some of them even on just a blanket or two. Everywhere they look, there are bodies – people sleeping, or unconscious, or else awake and groaning quietly, being taken care of by others.

A sense of powerful dread and helplessness surges in Hongjoong, his body locking up.

“I – I can’t go in there,” he whispers.

“What do you mean?” asks Wooyoung, pausing as the others move past them and begin filing in.

“Don’t film me in here,” says Hongjoong. “These people – I can’t help them. What am I supposed to do? They’re suffering, I can’t just parade in there and…”

“Just let them see your face,” Wooyoung urges him. “You’re the Pirate King, remember? You’re walking proof that the rebellion is active, and you being here means that these people haven’t been forgotten or abandoned. If you see their suffering, the rebellion sees their suffering.”

Hongjoong opens his mouth to ask what good it is being seen by the rebellion if they’re not going to do anything else, then remembers the crates of medical supplies. In this case, he has to begrudgingly admit that the rebellion is helping out. But he can’t take credit for that, can he? Or is that just what being a figurehead means? If so, it doesn’t feel good.

He still doesn’t want to go in, but he doesn’t have a choice – the others have already gone ahead without them. Steeling himself, Hongjoong follows.

Commander Jung was the first inside and has already flagged down someone who appears to be in charge, gesturing to the supply crates being carried in by the resistance team.

People stare and a few sit up in interest, as those who aren’t too injured to notice catch sight of their party and the words ‘resistance’ and ‘help’ start to make their way around the room in curious whispers.

It’s then that Mingi steps forward, staring around with wide eyes, and the shift is immediate – faces lighting up in recognition and awe as another round of hubbub circles the room.

It’s Mingi! He’s here! Mingi’s alive! He’s back!

People move forward, although thankfully not in a disorderly way, keeping respect for the patients and beds.

One woman hugs him, then another takes his face in her hands and Hongjoong can’t see what she’s saying, but there are tears in her eyes. Mingi looks like he might be crying too when he turns away, although he’s trying to hide it, blinking rapidly and keeping his chin up.

An old man pushes forward, heavy features set in a perhaps-permanent scowl, but he pulls Mingi into a fierce hug, rocking him from side to side. Hongjoong wonders if this is the doctor Mingi was apprenticed to – it seems likely.

Hongjoong feels guilty for even being here. It’s Mingi these people want to see, not Hongjoong, and rightfully so – he’s the one they know and love.

Part of him wants to turn and run, to retreat back into the street before anyone notices him, but he knows he doesn’t have that choice. The resistance brought him here for a purpose, and unless he cooperates, his bargaining for Yunho’s rescue and pardon will be useless.

So, instead, he forces himself to step forward and stand beside Mingi.

There’s an instant change in the atmosphere of the room, a hush falling over everyone watching. For a long, agonising moment, Hongjoong stands still, unsure what to do, what is expected of him now.

Then, a young man sits up from the cot he was lying on, one arm bound in a sling.

“Kim Hongjoong?” His voice is filled with awe. “What are you doing here?”

Hongjoong swallows hard, forces his voice out.

“I came to see you,” he says.

The eyes of the entire room are on him now. A girl stands slowly from where she’d been crouched beside a camp bed.

“Are you going to fight the Capitol with us?” she asks.

Hongjoong nods solemnly.

“I am.”

There’s a pause, as though the crowd are digesting his answer. Then, an old man standing nearby nods back approvingly, then raises a fist into the air.

“The Pirate King.”

He doesn’t say it loudly – he doesn’t need to, and it wouldn’t be right to shout in the hospital with so many lying injured in varying states of consciousness – but his voice carries, and soon others are repeating the words.

“The Pirate King.”

“The Pirate King.”

An unnamed, overwhelming emotion wells up inside Hongjoong’s chest, staring out at all these suffering people standing in solidarity, saluting to him.

Lacking words, he puts a hand over his heart and bows. He hopes they understand it as gratitude and not showmanship, and judging by their faces when he rises again, he thinks they do.

“You’re all so brave,” he says, praying his voice stays steady. “We’re all just ordinary people, and none of us are prepared for this, but that’s the true power of the rebellion, isn’t it? Ordinary people realising that, although they might not feel like it, we can make a change, if we stand together.”

Wooyoung, still circling with his camera along with the rest of the team, gives Hongjoong a quick, approving nod, eyes serious.

More murmurs of approval, even some scattered, disorganised applause that quickly dies. So many people are staring at him now, eyes full of so many emotions – fascination, admiration, hope. It’s overwhelming.

“Perfect,” another camera man mutters. “We can definitely use this.”

It puts a sour taste in Hongjoong’s mouth at once. That wasn’t why he’d said it – he’d just felt like he owed all these people some words of encouragement, at the very least.

Not sure what else to do, Hongjoong nods his head again and steps back, ducking behind Commander Jung.

“Let’s get out of here,” he half-suggests, half begs.

Thankfully, they agree.

***

From his seat at the computer, Yeosang eyes Jongho.

He’s still not really sure what to make of the other victor, sitting patiently at the spare table in the communications room, a respectful distant from the monitors so he doesn’t see anything classified.

At first, Yeosang had assumed he was here out of obligation – it must be terribly boring, after all – but when he’d suggested Jongho leave and find something else to do, he’d been surprised to see Jongho’s eyes widen momentarily, as though in distress.

“Can’t I just stay here? I won’t disturb you.”

Taken off guard, Yeosang had agreed, and they had lapsed back into silence. Still, Yeosang was hyper-aware of the other man’s eyes on him while he worked.

He’d told Wooyoung not to talk about Jongho like he was just another Capitol creep, but was that because he’s not like them, or just because Yeosang just doesn’t want him to be?

He thinks it’s the former. Hopes it’s the former.

No, that’s not fair to Jongho. Yeosang knows he hates the Capitol and all it represents, has suffered in similar ways to himself and Wooyoung at their hands. Jongho doesn’t have the same thoughtless, ignorant, entitled attitude as the people Yeosang had to entertain there. He doesn’t want what they wanted.

But if that’s the case, what does he want?

Yeosang isn’t used to anyone except Wooyoung wanting to do anything nice for him which isn’t part of a transaction.

Does Jongho want to sleep with him?

It’s a definite possibility. Lots of people want to sleep with Yeosang. He’s found that out the hard way. He’s used to being wanted by others whether he likes it or not. He’s just never wanted someone else in that way before.

Does he want Jongho that way? It’s crossed his mind briefly a few times, but Yeosang isn’t sure he’d even recognise the emotion if he had it.

The idea of sleeping with Jongho doesn’t fill him with dread like it does for others, but being okay with something isn’t the same as wanting it.

Also, he knows that, generally, there are some steps that should come before that.

After all, courting is a thing, isn’t it? Things like dates, flirting, giving presents, spending time together. Holding hands. Kissing.

Yeosang has never been kissed just for the sake of kissing. It’s always the prelude to something else, more often than not something he uses as a distraction until the sleeping drugs kick in. His first kiss was with Wooyoung, purely because neither of them wanted their first kiss to be with a Capitol creep who was paying Snow for the privilege.

He’s never had a kiss he initiated, just because he wanted to. He’s never felt the urge to kiss anyone before. That would probably be a better sign of attraction, wouldn’t it? Thinking about kissing them?

Attraction isn’t meant to start with ‘would I be less upset than usual if I had to let this person fuck me?’

Yeosang buries his head in his hands.

Why is he like this? He hates feeling this way, like his time in the Capitol has broken him, left him wrong.

“Are you ok?”

Jongho’s soft voice breaks Yeosang from his spiral.

“Fine,” he mumbles. “Thanks.”

He shifts slightly, grimacing at the ache in what’s left of his knee joint.

“Is your leg hurting?” asks Jongho, concern evident in his voice. “I can…”

“My leg is fine,” Yeosang snaps, harsher than he meant to.

He sees Jongho wince and immediately feels guilty. He sighs, and closes his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he says, making an effort to keep his tone level. “I didn’t mean to be rude. I’m… I’m just tense while Wooyoung is gone.”

He opens his eyes again, and finds his gaze landing completely by accident on Jongho’s mouth.

He has quite nice lips, actually. They might feel nice to kiss.

Yeosang has to force himself not to bury his face in his hands again immediately.

“It’s ok,” says Jongho. “I’m worried too. They’ll come back, though. They have to.”

Yeosang takes a shaky breath, and nods.

That’s one thing he knows he has in common with Jongho – they’ve lost too much. The idea of any of their remaining allies – friends? – not returning from this outing is unimaginable. Even losing Mingi and Hongjoong, who he doesn’t know well, would feel like a crushing blow.

And Wooyoung, well. The idea of losing Wooyoung doesn’t even bear thinking about. The last time Yeosang had thought he might lose Wooyoung, when he ate those berries in the Arena, he’d been prepared to give up and follow him.

Now? Yeosang isn’t sure what he’d do.

“They’ll come back,” Yeosang repeats back to Jongho.

He attempts a smile, but he knows it isn’t any more convincing that the one Jongho tries to give him in return.

With a sigh, Yeosang forces himself to go back to his work.

There’s nothing more either of them can do now. Nothing but wait, and hope.

***

In the street a few blocks away from the hospital, Captain Moon stiffens suddenly and puts a hand to her earpiece.

“Incoming,” she says sharply. “Capitol bombers from the north.”

Mingi feels his heart drop into his stomach.

“What?” he croaks.

He’d thought they said the Capitol had moved on from attacking District 8. It was meant to be over! Why were they coming back?

He looks over at his friends, and sees their panic and confusion mirroring his.

“We need to get to cover,” says Captain Moon. “Now.”

“There’s a bunker nearby,” says Hoseok, “Quick, follow me.”

Air sirens begin to sound, echoing through the streets, reverberating off the concrete walls. The sound fills Mingi’s head, making it hard to think past the panic. When had his district managed to install these? They sound like the emergency alarms in the factories, but they’re everywhere, and louder than he’s ever heard them.

“This way!”

They follow Hoseok, ducking and weaving through the shells of half-collapsed buildings in the main street.

“Why are they coming back?” pants Wooyoung, struggling under the weight of his camera equipment.

“They must have spy cameras still operational,” answers Hoseok shortly, “They must have spotted the Pirate King here.”

Hongjoong’s eyes widen.

“This is because of me?”

Before anyone can answer, the deafening noise of jet engines fills the sky.

“Down!” shouts Hoseok, and everyone dives for cover behind the nearest wall.

Something whistles through the air, and then one of the old factories nearby explodes outwards in a mess of dust and rubble, with enough force to shake the ground, the noise loud enough to set their ears ringing.

A bomb. That’s a bomb.

Mingi’s been through a lot, but this is a new kind of terror.

He stares at the collapsing building, transfixed, before someone tugs at his arm.

“Mingi, come on!”

Hwanwoong, face drawn and urgent, snaps into focus in front of Mingi, jerking him from his frozen horror. Forcing his body to move, Mingi runs again, following the others into a side street. Hoseok and Captain Moon are ahead of them, beckoning frantically for them to catch up.

Another plane roars overhead, another bomb whistles down.

This time, it strikes one of the towering brick chimneys rising from the closest factory. A cloud of dust explodes from the base, and then with a great rumble, slow but terrifyingly certain, it begins to tilt towards them.

“Back, get back!” Hongjoong screams, and their half of the group scrambles back the way they came.

The chimney smashes through the low wall they were hiding behind, landing with a bone-shaking crash almost exactly where Mingi was standing a moment ago.

A sob rises in Mingi’s throat, and he covers his face with one arm, both to shield himself from the swirling cloud of dust and ashes, and the confronting sight.

“Keep moving!” Seoho shouts, although his voice sounds distant, almost underwater in the wake of the noise of the bombs, and it takes a moment for Mingi to figure out what he said. “We’ll go around the other way!”

They flee, frantic and clumsy, skidding and ducking as more planes roar overhead, and the sound of gunfire begins to ring out. The planes are shooting now, and as they run, Mingi spots District 8 rebels on rooftops starting to return fire, using machine guns they must have stolen from the peacekeepers.

Another plane flies low above them, and they scramble to find cover behind another low wall until the hail of bullets has passed by, then jumping to their feet again just as quickly.

Wooyoung nearly overbalances, heavy camera equipment pulling him down, but Geonhak manages to catch him under the arms and haul him back upright.

“Ditch the camera, Wooyoung, for god’s sake!” shouts Hongjoong, eyes darting frantically between their friend and the sky above.

“I can’t, it takes too long to unbuckle everything!” Wooyoung moans helplessly.

Keonhee, leading from the front of the group, waves everyone down another side street as they hear another plane approaching.

“Down here, quick!”

“What are they aiming for?” pants Dongju, almost tripping over his own feet as he stares at the planes above. “They’re heading towards…”

He breaks off, but Mingi follows his gaze and feels his stomach ice over.

“The hospital,” he chokes.

Hongjoong’s head snaps around, face blanching.

“No!”

Before any of them can react, he’s scrambling up the steps outside a low building nearby, one of the flat-topped roofs that the District 8 rebels are using as gun towers. Without thinking, Mingi follows.

With some added height, it’s plain to see that the area of town where the makeshift hospital stands is right in the crossfire. Already, another plane is circling back, probably to drop another bomb. Is that really what the Capitol is aiming for? The sheer evil of it makes Mingi’s head spin.

Another jet swoops low over their building, unleashing another round of gun fire. Everybody ducks back down on the stairs hugging the side of the building, but the man on the other side of the roof manning the mounted machine gun isn’t so lucky and slumps, hit.

“Oh my god,” whimpers Keonhee, a hand over his mouth.

They have no choice but to stay down for the next few moments, but second the planes are out of range, Mingi dives forward, rushing straight to the fallen gunman, now lying in a pool of blood.

He turns him over carefully, guiltily relieved to find that it isn’t someone he knows. It’s a clean hit – straight through the chest. The man’s eyes are already glazed over.

“Dead,” he says shortly, abandoning the body.

The others are already swarming to the now-unmanned gun mounted on the rooftop. They’ve clearly noticed the same thing Mingi has – the plane that was circling round, now heading towards them on its way back to drop another bomb on the hospital.

“I can’t change the angle on this,” Hongjoong grunts, pushing all his weight against it. “I don’t know how to operate it.”

Geonhak takes over, examining it quickly.

“It’s busted,” he says. “A bullet’s hit the stand – we can’t move it.”

“We’ll just have to wait until the angle is right,” says Seoho. “Hwanwoong, you’ve got the best eye for this stuff.”

Nodding at once, Hwanwoong takes a few hurried steps back, squaring up the machine gun’s trajectory and the oncoming planes.

“I’ll tell you when.”

Since when did his friends know about machine gun operation? The idea is as foreign to Mingi as seeing the familiar district streets torn apart by bombs, and almost as upsetting, realising how much they’ve had to adapt to survive this new reality.

Hongjoong stands ready, one hand on the large trigger, face set in concentration.

“Now!” bellows Hwanwoong.

Hongjoong fires a shower of bullets at the oncoming plane and, by some miracle, it hits.

The plane spirals out of control and tumbles from the sky, tongues of fire streaking behind it. The group watch it in shock, not quite prepared for the consequences of their actions. Even if the achieved what they were trying to do, it’s still shocking to see it play out.

The plane crashes into another chimney, and Mingi prays no one else gets hurt by the resulting explosion. The pilot is most certainly dead.

“Look, the others are leaving!” calls Dongju, pointing.

Mingi turns in time to see two Capitol planes zooming back across the border, one trailing black smoke from one engine, probably curtesy of another rooftop gunman.

Were there really only three of them? How could so few weapons do so much devastating damage?

Still, that’s not important right now. As long as they’re gone, that means it’s safe to move again.

“We need to get back to the hospital.”

When they get there, however, Mingi’s fears are only confirmed. They may have taken down one of the planes, but the damage is already done.

The hospital has been destroyed.

Where the converted warehouse once stood is nothing but a massive pile of flaming rubble, the others from 13 already standing helplessly in front of it.

Utter despair washes over Mingi at the sight, and Hongjoong lets out a guttural cry.

“No!”

Hongjoong rushes forward at once, only to have his arm caught by Captain Moon.

“We have to help them!” protests Hongjoong hoarsely, but Captain Moon only shakes her head, features grim.

Mingi doesn’t try to argue – he knows in his heart that it’s already too late. Even if they’d survived the blast of the explosion itself, heat this intense would have incinerated everyone inside by now.

As Hongjoong stares between them frantically, he seems to realise why they aren’t moving. Slowly, his shoulders droop and he steps back in defeat, turning back to look at the hospital.

“Hongjoong,” calls Wooyoung, but the other doesn’t look around.

Mingi’s knees give out and he slumps to the ground, unable to tear his eyes away from the wreckage. How many people were inside? How many people he knew? His mind can’t even begin to comprehend it, to link this mess of destruction with the building he was in not even an hour ago.

Hongjoong stands beside him, staring too, face blank and shellshocked, trembling slightly.

“Hongjoong,” calls Wooyoung again, “Hongjoong, talk to us. Tell us what’s happening.”

When Hongjoong turns to stare at him uncomprehendingly, Wooyoung gestures towards the camera, mouth set in a firm line.

“The people need to know,” he says, voice shaking with barely contained fury. “Tell us what just happened.”

Understanding dawns on Hongjoong’s face, then his expression hardens and he draws himself up.

“…I’m in District 8,” he says to the camera, “Where the Capitol just bombed a hospital full of unarmed men, women and children, leaving no survivors. The same Capitol who tell us they rule fairly, who claim to have our best interests at heart.”

Mingi turns to look at the fire again, the words ‘no survivors’ shooting through his chest like physical pain.

“People of Panem, open your eyes!” Hongjoong’s voice rises to a shout. “Now is the time for freedom if we try! Don’t let yourselves be blinded by their lies – listen, look, think for yourselves! If they wanted peace, they shouldn’t have let us suffer and starve, they shouldn’t have taken our children and murdered them for sport. We know who they are, and what they do! Open your eyes – this is what they do!”

He points furiously at the burning building behind him, and when Mingi turns to look back at him, he sees fire reflecting in Hongjoong’s eyes.

“President Snow, the hourglass is nearly empty. Your time is running out. You had the chance to rule justly and fairly, but you didn’t take it. You want to wear the crown? Then bear the crown! You think you’re untouchable in your Capitol, but no more! We are coming for you – consequences are coming for you!”

He stares at the camera for a moment more, shoulders heaving, and the fire dies away again just as quickly as it first overtook him. His shoulders slump, the fight leaving his eyes, and Wooyoung takes his cue to stop filming.

Hongjoong turns to stare at the flaming wreck of the hospital once more, moving slowly like even this is a great effort.

“There’s really nothing more we can do?” he asks, voice small, and Mingi’s heart breaks all over again.

Commander Moon shakes her head gravely, and Hongjoong closes his eyes in defeat, screwing them shut and turning his head away as tears begin to flow, making dull tracks through the ash that’s settled on his cheeks.

“Let’s get away from here,” he half-suggests, half begs.

Thankfully, they agree.

Chapter Text

Everyone loves the propaganda video.

It’s a scant comfort after everything, but it’s something, at least.

Everyone cheers when Hongjoong’s speech from the hospital wreckage is played, broadcast across multiple screens in the main assembly hall.

It does look very effective, Mingi supposes as he watches it numbly. Hongjoong in his specially designed armour, face streaked with ash, somehow managing to speak so clearly and convincingly while still brimming with hurt and fury. The flames behind him add to the drama, as does Mingi on his knees in the background, staring at the fire.

Mingi knows there was talk of whether or not to edit him out, because he’s covered in blood. Not his own – it was left on him from when he’d run to try and help the District 8 gunman one of the planes had shot down – but the editing team had apparently been worried that it would make the viewers think he was injured.

Still, in the end it had been decided that it was more important to show that both Hongjoong and Mingi were alive and fighting for the resistance, whatever state they were in, and so there Mingi is, huddled in the background of the shot, staring at the burning hospital in uncomprehending horror.

He’s not the focus, anyway – this is a video about the Pirate King, and his message for the districts and the Capitol.

Wooyoung spliced it together with footage of Hongjoong taking control of the rooftop gun and shooting down one of the hospital bombers, editing it cleverly so he looks like the head of a cohesive unit, rather than a terrified gaggle of friends trying desperately to stop a disaster which had already happened.

It’s amazing that Wooyoung even managed to take decent footage of the moment amidst the chaos, but it turns out he wasn’t lying when he said he was good at filming. Even while crouched on a corner of the rooftop, cowering from the planes roaring overhead, he’d managed to keep the camera trained on them, and even captured the plane spiralling out of the sky, trailing flames and black smoke.

After that, it fades to a CGI graphic of an hourglass rapidly draining sand, and the words ‘JOIN THE PIRATE KING; JOIN THE FIGHT’ superimposed over the top.

Everyone claps, and up on the open second storey of the assembly hall, between two screens, Mingi sees President Hwasa nod approvingly to Hongjoong, who stands behind her with Namjoon, Eden and the others.

She must have decided that Namjoon was right to choose Hongjoong after all. She brings Hongjoong forward with her when she steps up to address the crowd, one hand on his shoulder.

“Thanks to the efforts of our team, these videos will be broadcast throughout all twelve districts, inspiring hope and rebellion,” Hwasa announces proudly. “They will be so widespread, no one will be able to avoid seeing them!”

Mingi wishes he could avoid seeing them ever again. He doesn’t know if the image of the burning hospital will ever leave him, or if it’s permanently burned into his retinas, horrific and inescapable. Either way, these videos aren’t helping.

It seems like every time he thinks of the burning hospital, he remembers another person who would have been inside.

The one that hurts the most is undoubtedly Dr Lee, Mingi’s mentor, but there were so many others as well, familiar faces from around his district.

Even the ones he doesn’t know by name – the old women who lived in the corner house and always waved to him when he passed, a kid he thinks was the baker’s son and can’t have been older than eleven. His greetings to everyone in the hospital were so rushed as everyone pushed forward for a chance to talk with him, but every time Mingi remembers another face, it’s like another shard of glass in his chest.

As soon as the speech is over and they’re allowed to disperse again, Mingi is making a beeline for his room. There’s no point eating dinner – it’s been two days now since they got back from District 8, and his appetite is yet to return. He managed to force down some food at lunch, but now all he wants to do is get somewhere private so he can cry again.

As soon as the metal door slides shut behind him, Mingi rests his back against it, slips down to the floor, and bawls.

***

Yeosang wakes to a raw scream.

Scrambling upright, he fumbles for the light switch, squinting and shading his eyes against the harsh white light that floods the room as he scans his surroundings frantically for any sign of danger. Instead, he sees Wooyoung sitting up on the bed opposite him, eyes wide, chest heaving, clearly just woken from a nightmare.

Without saying anything, Yeosang holds out his arms.

Wooyoung flings himself out of his bed and into Yeosang’s, burrowing under the blanket and winding his arms and legs tightly around Yeosang, clinging like an octopus. He’s shivering miserably as he buries his face against Yeosang’s neck, a sob stifled in his throat.

“I’m here,” says Yeosang, keeping his voice low and calm. “I’m here, I’m safe. I got out of the truck in time. I didn’t blow up, I’m safe.”

Wooyoung shudders violently at the mention of the truck, confirming Yeosang’s suspicions about the subject of his nightmare.

“I’m safe,” he repeats, freeing one arm gently so he can wrap it around Wooyoung’s shaking shoulders. “I got out in time. And then we both got out of the Arena. We’re safe now. We’re together. It’s ok.”

“I keep seeing it,” Wooyoung chokes out. “I keep seeing that truck crashing off down that hill with you trapped inside, and I can’t fucking do anything about it, I can’t…”

“Shhh,” Yeosang soothes him. “You don’t have to do anything. I’m safe now. I’m here.”

“I thought I was going to lose you,” Wooyoung sobs. “I thought you were going to get blown up.”

“I didn’t,” says Yeosang firmly. “I didn’t get blown up. I’m here, in this room with you.”

“You’re here,” Wooyoung repeats. “You’re here. You’re ok. You’re here.”

“I’m here.”

Yeosang reaches across Wooyoung and turns the light off again, hoping they can both get some more sleep now that Wooyoung is calmer.

His nightmares were already fairly frequent, but the visit to District 8 only seems to have amplified everything. Yeosang supposes this is only natural – even if Wooyoung didn’t already have trauma linked to explosions, nearly getting bombed two days ago would be enough to give anyone night terrors.

“I wish they hadn’t taken you on that stupid trip,” he whispers. “You’ve been through enough.”

Wooyoung shudders again.

“There were so many people inside,” he whispers hoarsely. “So many people, and we couldn’t fucking do anything.”

He burrows back against Yeosang’s side.

“At least you’re safe,” he mumbles.

“I’m safe,” Yeosang repeats. “Try to go back to sleep, Wooyoung. We’re safe.”

For now, a dark voice in the back of his head adds. They can’t hide from the Capitol forever. Sooner or later, something will have to give.

Yeosang sighs and gives his head a little shake. There’s no point worrying about this now. There’s nothing more they can do at – he checks the digital clock, numbers glowing in the dark – 4am.

At last, Wooyoung’s breathing evens out, and Yeosang forces himself to relax again too. Eventually, he too manages to fall back to sleep.

***

Hongjoong has felt hollow since the visit to District 8.

The leaders praised his work, and that’s good because it means he’s holding up his part of the deal to get Yunho back, but apart from that dull sense of satisfaction, there’s only numbness.

He has another meeting in the morning, where Namjoon and Seokjin explain that the propos will start being aired throughout the districts today, and assure him that a unit is currently evaluating the possibility of rescuing Yunho. It’s not as much of a certainty as he’d like, but it’s progress, so he forces himself not to complain.

Still, he’s left with an unpleasant restlessness after the meeting, the helplessness and frustration at the lack of movement already beginning to creep back in.

So, with nothing better to do, he goes in search of Mingi.

After asking a few of the medical staff, he finds his friend in the very back of the infirmary’s downstairs storeroom, in the middle of a stock-take. From the sympathetic look on the face of the last doctor he spoke to, Hongjoong assumes that this is so Mingi can bury himself in numbers to keep busy and stop thinking.

For all that the visit to District 8 was confronting and distressing for Hongjoong, he knows that it was a hundred times worse for Mingi. It was his home, after all. It was horrific for Hongjoong to think about how the people he’d briefly met were now dead, but Mingi had known them. Hongjoong can’t even imagine what that must be like.

When Hongjoong enters the storeroom, Mingi is by the farthest shelves, clipboard in hand, engrossed in counting how many bottles of antiseptic they have.

He startles when he sees Hongjoong approaching in his peripheral vision, but relaxes again as soon as he recognising him.

“Hey,” he says dully, turning back to his task.

“Hey.”

Hongjoong wanders over, avoiding any sudden moves so as not to startle Mingi again.

“How are you holding up?” he asks.

“Had a bad night,” Mingi says simply.

He looks it – there are dark shadows under his eyes, and his face is gaunt.

“Me too,” says Hongjoong. “I wonder if I’ll ever be able to sleep properly again, to be honest.”

They’d held each other on the plane on the way back, clinging and shivering and repeating again and again that they couldn’t believe what they’d just seen, that the Capitol were monsters, monsters, that Snow would pay.

Mingi and Hongjoong had slept in the same room without discussion on the first night too, knowing that being alone would only lead to more spiralling. Still, they haven’t really discussed things.

Hongjoong’s not sure if they should. It’s still fresh, after all, maybe too fresh. Still, it’s hard to talk about anything else, hard to think of anything else. The whole experience feels branded into Hongjoong’s mind’s eye.

So, for better or worse, that’s what he starts with.

“I’m so sorry about what happened to your home,” he says.

“It’s not your fault,” Mingi replies without missing a beat.

Hongjoong shifts uncomfortably.

“I can’t help but feel guilty,” he says. “It was a publicity stunt for me, for the Pirate King. If I hadn’t gone…”

Mingi shakes his head.

“They were bombing the district anyway,” he says. “We can’t be certain that it was just because you were seen there. And even if it was, you can’t take this stuff personally, Hongjoong.” He turns to look at him over his shoulder. “This is bigger than us. The Capitol went after District 8 because they’re rebelling. The most recent way they chose to rebel was to host the rebellion’s figurehead, but if they hadn’t been bombed for that, it would have been for something else.”

Hongjoong blinks, not expecting so be dismantled so articulately.

Mingi doesn’t often speak that much at once unless it’s medical jargon, but when he does, he has such a definite way with words. Hongjoong finds he can’t argue.

Instead, he sighs and sits on a nearby crate.

“Thank you,” he says quietly.

Mingi hums, and goes back to counting stock, jotting down the numbers on the spreadsheet on his clipboard. Hongjoong watches him in silence for a while, before another thought resurfaces.

“I’ve been wondering…” he says.

“Hm?” Mingi hums without looking up.

“One of your friends you introduced us to,” Hongjoong says cautiously. “Dongju.”

Mingi tilts his head, still focussed on his clipboard.

“Yeah? What about him?”

“He was one of the people you thought you saw in the Arena, wasn’t he? When we got gassed.”

Mingi pauses in his counting for a moment.

“…Yes,” he says eventually. “Yeah, he was. I’m surprised you remember.”

“I didn’t at first,” says Hongjoong. “It took me a while to connect the dots, but the name sounded familiar. You did shout it an awful lot while we were trying to get you back to safety.”

Mingi grimaces, and glances down at his arms forearms, visible in his short-sleeved medic’s tunic. When Hongjoong follows his gaze, he can see the remaining scars from the giant thorny vines still standing out white against Mingi’s skin.

“Dongju is the youngest of us,” says Mingi after a moment. “Before they announced the Quarter Quell was going to be for previous victors, he was the only one still young enough to be in the reaping, so we were all worried about him.” He huffs out a humourless chuckle. “It was the only good thing about me getting picked again. I could tell myself that at least he was safe.”

“I’m glad he’s still ok,” says Hongjoong. “I know most of us only hallucinated people who were already dead, people we thought we’d failed. I’m glad you’ve got one person still alive, at least.”

He knows not to mention Gahyeon, the other person Mingi saw while hallucinating. He’d witnessed her televised death in the previous Games the year before.

Mingi nods.

“Yeah… Dongju, and the others… I’m lucky they haven’t been hurt yet, even after yesterday.” He sighs. “I just hope it stays that way.”

Hongjoong nods as well, fervently.

“Me too,” he says. “Before… well, everything, it was nice to meet your friends. I’m glad you got to see them again.”

“I’m glad too,” says Mingi. “It was really good to see them again, after everything. Good to introduce to guys as well.”

He sighs, lowering his clipboard and staring into the middle distance between a couple of nearby shelves.

“I hope nothing happens to them,” he says. “I keep wondering if there’s anything I can do to make them safer – if I should have asked for them to come back to 13 with us, maybe.”

He shakes his head.

“There’s no point though,” he says, “Even if we got permission, I know them. They wouldn’t want to leave everyone else. And they’ve all – they’re clearly learning how to fight.” He shakes his head again, bewildered. “They know how to fire machine guns! On that rooftop, all of them knew what they were doing, even Dongju. It’s so… weird.”

Hongjoong grimaces sympathetically.

“Nowhere’s really safe anymore,” he says. “I suppose it’s inevitable that everyone has to do what they need to survive. And that means fighting.”

Mingi nods again.

“I just… I feel like there should be more I can do. Like, we’re… I dunno, celebrities? Heroes? Something. But we don’t have anything to show for it. I can’t use it for anything, not where it counts.”

Hongjoong kicks his feet against the crate he’s sitting on.

“I know,” he says, “That’s how I feel about Yunho.”

Mingi looks up.

“Any news on that?”

Hongjoong shrugs.

“They’ve got a team looking into it now,” he says. “So they’re at least making plans. I don’t know how long it will take though.”

Mingi nods, expression unreadable, as he absorbs the news.

“Ok,” he says after a long moment. “Well, that’s something.”

Hongjoong feels the same way.

They lapse back into silence, and Mingi turns back to counting the stock.

Hongjoong casts his gaze aimlessly around the room, over the boxes with labels he doesn’t understand and instruments he doesn’t know the name of. There’s not much point him offering to help. Best to just let Mingi work.

Mingi crouches down to check through some large crates on the bottom shelf.

“Crutches… still ten boxes of ten pairs.”

He jots it down.

“That reminds me, I need to see Yeosang again. Or at least get Wooyoung to talk him into seeing me again. I need to check how his leg’s going, and I doubt he’s let anyone else get near it, seeing as he doesn’t know or trust any of the other doctors.”

“Poor Yeosang,” says Hongjoong, shaking his head. “It’s no wonder he’s traumatised, after everything. It’s nice that he’s got Jongho looking out for him, at least. He’s practically made himself Yeosang’s personal bodyguard by the looks of it.”

Mingi hums distractedly, writing down another number on his clipboard and moving up to the next shelf.

“Yeah, poor Jongho.”

Hongjoong raises an eyebrow. Is Mingi listening to him, or just picking up a few words?

“Poor Jongho?” he echoes. “He seems to be doing the best out of any of us, if you ask me.”

At this, Mingi finally looks around.

“What? Are you kidding me?”

Hongjoong stares back, feeling a little wrong-footed.

“Uh,” he says. “I mean – I just meant – with Yeosang…”

“Yeah,” says Mingi. “When was the last time you saw Jongho without Yeosang? Or on his way to see Yeosang, or on his way back from seeing Yeosang.”

Hongjoong thinks back over the last couple of weeks, and frowns.

“Exactly,” says Mingi. “He’s definitely got separation anxiety. He’s cut off from everyone else he knows here, so us tributes are all he has. And out of our alliance, the ones he knew best were San and Yunho, who…” Mingi’s jaw tightens briefly, “Who aren’t here.”

Mingi writes another number of his clipboard and steps mechanically over to the next box.

“Yeosang is the one Jongho is closest to now, and Jongho is clearly terrified he’s going to lose him like he’s lost everyone else, so he’s latched on. It’s a coping mechanism.”

Mingi shifts a couple of rolls of bandages around to better see the contents of the box, and makes another note.

“You see it sometimes in people who are overwhelmed by things going wrong in their life,” he continues. “They fixate on smaller things they can do, to keep the illusion of having some control. Jongho can’t fight the Capitol, he can’t bring back the people he’s lost, but he can make sure nothing happens to Yeosang while we’re here, so that’s what he’s pouring all his energy into.”

“Oh.”

Hongjoong stares at the shelves again, feeling even more glum. He hadn’t even considered that. But, of course, poor Jongho must be lonely here, robbed of his closest allies.

“Guess we’re all traumatised then,” he jokes weakly after a moment. “No exceptions.”

Mingi huffs a single grim laugh in response.

“Yep.”

Hongjoong kicks his heels again aimlessly. It’s a heavy thought. They haven’t had much time until now to slow down and take stock of their situation. To consider how everything is affecting them.

Are they all damaged beyond repair?

Even if they all survive everything to come, will a normal life ever be possible for them?

“I wonder if things will ever get better.”

Mingi sighs.

“Me too.”

With nothing else to say, they lapse back into bleak silence.

***

In the quiet of the empty training gym, Yeosang stares down the bench press.

He used to exercise daily back in District 3, but since the mess of the Games, he hasn’t been able to.

Working out, making himself stronger, was important to Yeosang. It was one thing he could control about himself, one single thing he could do to feel less helpless while orders from the Capitol controlled the rest of his life. Now, when they may be out from under the Capitol’s thumb but everyone is still far from safe, the last thing Yeosang wants is to lose his progress.

He considers using less weight than usual, just to start off with, but quickly dismisses the idea. The burns along his left side have healed, so there’s nothing wrong with his arms and torso.

Just because his leg has been taken from him doesn’t mean that the rest of his hard work needs to follow. If the only strength he has left is his upper body, he can’t afford to lose that too. If anything, he’ll need to work harder than ever to make up for what he’s lost.

He loads the usual amount of weight onto the barbell. If he needs to, he can just do fewer reps than normal.

There’s no one to spot him, because he came here alone. It wasn’t easy to give both Jongho and Wooyoung the slip, but he’d managed it by pretending he was going back to his room to lie down.

Yeosang is grateful to have the two of the helping him, of course, but they’re both inclined to hover. It’s starting to feel suffocating. Yeosang feels useless enough as it is without needing people to care for him at every hour of the day.

In the midst of a violent and risky revolution, being a dead-weight is intensely embarrassing. Yeosang is immensely relieved that he can at least help the hacking team, or he doesn’t know how he’d be able to show his face in the dining hall.

Another reason for giving the others the slip is that Yeosang has switched back to the prosthetic leg he made himself for this – he’ll need it as a point of balance for some of the exercises, even if he won’t be putting much pressure on it, and he doesn’t have to energy to argue with Wooyoung about it.

Yeosang checks again that he’s alone – it would be unlikely, he’s been scoping out the different training rooms and knows this one is rarely used, especially in the middle of the day, but he can’t be too careful. He wants privacy for this. He feels a little like he did when he first started making use of the training gyms in District 3 – unprepared and vulnerable.

Which is silly, really. He knows what he’s doing now, he’s been working on his body for years. The only difference is that he’s had a break in his regimen. He’ll be fine.

Yeosang lays down on the bench and finds a good grip on the bar. He takes a couple of deep breaths to steady himself, then lifts.

His false leg gives out instantly, foot skidding forward wildly under the pressure.

A jolt of surprise and fear flashes through Yeosang as his balance pitches off to the left. He knew he needed his two feet planted for leverage, in theory, but he hadn’t realised how much pressure they would need to bear. He hadn’t considered that it might be too much.

He manages to catch the bar before it hits his chest, slowing its descent just in time to avoid it crashing into his ribs.

Shit, that was close.

He should have expected something like this might happen, should have tried with less weight to begin with. Yeosang exhales shakily, and goes to lift the bar back onto its stand so he can get up and try again with less weight.

The bar doesn’t budge.

With growing panic, Yeosang realises that he actually can’t move. He’s trapped, pinned by the weight of the barbell.

Fuck.

Should he call for help? The idea is mortifying. He doesn’t want anyone to see him like this, trapped pathetically under the weight he stupidly thought he could still lift.

He lets out an involuntary whine, then recoils at how pathetic he sounds, like a crying puppy.

Stupid, stupid. Weak.

He redoubles his efforts, huffing out two short breaths and putting all his effort into trying to lift the bar. He manages to raise it an inch or so, but that’s all he can manage at this angle before he has to give in and just focus on keeping it from crushing his chest.

Yeosang lies there on the bench, panting, defeated.

He feels so small, so pathetic.

Weak.

Weak, weak, weak…

“Yeosang?”

His head whips around to find Jongho standing in the doorway.

Relief and despair crash over him in equal measures, as he sees Jongho’s eyes widen and take in the situation.

“Oh my god.”                                                                                       

At once, he lets the door slam shut behind him and reaches Yeosang’s side in a few hurried strides.

“Here.”

The ease with which Jongho lifts away the barbell should be impressive, but instead it just makes Yeosang’s humiliation burn stronger. He bites back a sob, determined not to cry.

He tries to sit up while Jongho deposits the weights on the floor beside them, but finds to his despair that he can’t yet, his body limp with spent effort. Instead, he’s stuck lying on his back, staring up at Jongho and panting. It makes him feel intensely vulnerable, and he hates it.

“What were you doing trying to lift something so heavy?” asks Jongho, turning back to look at him.

Yeosang is taken aback by how upset he seems – he hasn’t seen this sort of urgency in Jongho’s eyes since the Arena.

“It’s – that’s the amount of weight I usually lift,” he says, cursing how unsteady his voice sounds. “I thought it would be ok.”

Weak.

“You’re still injured!” Jongho exclaims. “You can’t just go back to what you used to do. You need to work up to these things. Should you even be working out at all, yet?”

Yeosang turns his face away. The words sting, mostly because they make sense. He hadn’t checked with Mingi or any of the other medics if it was ok for him to start working out again, mostly because he was afraid they’d say no. Knew that they’d probably say no.

In retrospect, it’s obvious that this was going to happen. Why did he think this would be fine? He’s only put himself in this stupid, avoidable, predictable mess.

He can’t hold it back anymore. He’s going to cry. He’s going to start sobbing in front of Jongho, then his humiliation will be complete.

He closes his eyes as the tears begin to overflow, and covers his mouth with one hand as a sniffle escapes.

“Oh – no, Yeosang, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

He feels Jongho crouch down beside him, his body heat noticeable in the cold, empty room. Yeosang has the urge to lean in closer, but forces it down.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out.

“No, no, don’t apologise.” Jongho’s voice is soothing. “Here, let me help you down.”

It seems that the effort of lifting the weights, the shock of being trapped, and the humiliation of being found like this have combined into a general sense of overwhelm that leave Yeosang feeling like a rag doll.

He lets Jongho guide him to sit up on the bench and then lower him to sit on the floor, leaning back against the weight stand.

“Please don’t cry,” says Jongho quietly, taking one of Yeosang’s hands in both of his own.

Yeosang wipes his eyes roughly with his other hand and sniffs again.

“I hate feeling like this,” he croaks. “I swore to myself I wouldn’t be the weak one ever again.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Jongho’s face soften in understanding.

“This isn’t being weak, Yeosang,” he says. “You lost a leg. You’re allowed to act like it. You don’t have to pretend none of it ever happened.”

It’s as though the words unlock something inside Yeosang, as though an exhausted, strained dam wall within his chest has finally been broken open, and all the pressure he didn’t realise was building behind it is suddenly rushing out.

In just a few moments, it’s as though all the strength he’s built up by forcing himself to forge ahead single-mindedly is draining away. He doesn’t know if the feeling is relief or despair or both, but it leaves him feeling like an empty shell.

He slumps, a loud sob escaping him, and curls in on himself.

Jongho moves from where he was crouched in front of Yeosang, sitting beside him instead.

“Can… can I hug you?” he asks hesitantly. “Is that ok?”

Yeosang’s first instinct is to refuse, but a suddenly surge of physical longing makes him pause. Is this ok? He barely remembers the last time he wanted comfort from someone other than Wooyoung. But now, in this moment, he wants nothing more than for Jongho to hold him.

So, hesitantly, he nods.

“…Ok.”

When Jongho puts an arm around him, Yeosang doesn’t fight it, and instead leans in to rest his head against Jongho’s shoulder.

He cries for what feels like a long time, and Jongho waits patiently through it all, steady and warm and grounding beside him.

Eventually, Yeosang wipes his eyes.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. “Sorry you had to see this. Me being all… all pathetic.”

He feels rather than sees Jongho shake his head.

“Don’t apologise,” he says quietly. “There’s nothing wrong with being upset.”

Yeosang isn’t reassured. He’s just made a fool of himself, after all. It might have been worth it to receive the comfort he didn’t realise he’d needed, but that doesn’t make it less embarrassing.

Especially with the way Jongho and Wooyoung already hover around Yeosang, always expecting him to need help. He feels like he’s just proved Jongho right in a way he’ll never be able to undo.

“But it feels like you’re always trying to… to look after me. Protect me,” he says, hating how tremulous his voice sounds. “You don’t think I’m pathetic?”

Jongho blinks, moving back to look at Yeosang in surprise.

“Pathetic?” he asks. “Yeosang, I try to protect you because you’re one of the smartest, most capable people here. You’re worth protecting. I try to help you because I want you to be okay – I need you to be okay.”

This stuns Yeosang into silence. More tears well up – he’s grateful, he’s confused, he’s overwhelmed.

Thankfully, Jongho doesn’t seem to expect an answer, just turns himself so he can pull Yeosang into his arms more securely, holding him closer and resting his cheek against Yeosang’s hair as Yeosang cries.

“You’re so hard on yourself,” he murmurs sadly, so quiet Yeosang almost doesn’t catch it. “All the time. You don’t need to be.”

Another wave of despair-relief-exhaustion washes over Yeosang, and he burrows closer into Jongho’s side.

Maybe, just for a moment, he can enjoy feeling like someone else is taking care of him. Maybe this is ok.

***

“…so good of you to join us again, Yunho. I know this must be a difficult time for you, after all.”

Caesar’s voice rings loud and clear through speakers of the small workroom where everyone is huddled, the light of the main monitor playing over their grim faces. Mingi, who had been working with Yeosang on his new prosthetic leg, had run to fetch the others from their nearby rooms as soon as Yunho had appeared on the screen.

“Thank you for having me, Caesar,” he says now, but his voice is strained, shaking slightly.

Hongjoong feels himself begin to tremble as well. It’s been two weeks since their visit to District 8, and he had been naively hoping there would be no further consequences. But clearly, along with all the poor people killed in the bombings, Yunho has also been paying the price.

It doesn’t even look quite like Yunho. Unlike last time, where he seemed so polished and presentable, now the toll of his captivity is becoming visible.

They’ve covered him in makeup, but even that can’t hide the way his cheeks are hollow and his whole frame is smaller. Even under the concealer, there are deep shadows visible under his eyes, and he looks haunted.

“Now, forgive me for delving straight into such a sombre topic,” says Caesar, “But as I’m sure you’re aware, Kim Hongjoong and Song Mingi have both been confirmed to be working actively with the rebels.” He pauses meaningfully. “Both of your former allies.”

Yunho swallows.

“It… it looks that way,” he says quietly.

“You called for peace, claimed that all your former allies want peace, deep down,” says Caesar. “But, Yunho, while I certainly believe that of you, it’s getting more and more difficult to think the same of the others. They seem to be throwing their full support behind this rebel movement now.”

“We don’t know that for sure,” says Yunho, but Caesar only looks at him with sympathy, as though humouring someone delusional.

“Perhaps not,” he says. “But you must admit, Yunho, the evidence has been fairly damning.”

Yunho’s shoulders heave as he sucks in a deep breath, clearly not sure how to proceed.

“It must feel like such a betrayal,” Caesar emphasises. “Especially Mingi.”

Yunho blinks rapidly at the words.

“…Mingi…” he whispers, voice choked.

In the darkness beside Hongjoong, Mingi covers his mouth to muffle a sob, but it escapes anyway. Hongjoong is quick to take Mingi’s free hand in his own, squeezing it tightly.

“I know it must be difficult for you,” says Caesar, voice softening in plastic sympathy. “After making such a connection with him.”

Yunho swallows again, and Hongjoong realises with a stab of pain that there are tears in Yunho’s eyes.

“I wish I could see him again,” Yunho says weakly. “I miss him so much.”

Mingi sobs again.

Caesar leans forward, at once sympathetic and goading.

“You must love him very much,” says Caesar, “to forgive him for what he’s doing right now.”

But Yunho is shaking his head firmly, the most animated he’s seemed so far.

“Mingi just wants to help people,” he says firmly. “That’s all he’s ever wanted. He’s made that clear from the start. If he’s working with the rebels, it will only be as a medic.”

“And Hongjoong?” asks Caesar. “Why is he there?”

Yunho hesitates, eyes darting.

Hongjoong finds himself reaching out, as if to touch Yunho’s face through the screen. It’s pure torture to see him like this.

“Unless, of course,” Caesar says carefully, “You think he might be… being forced?”

Yunho is nodding at once.

“He’s being misled,” he says. “I don’t think he knows what he’s doing. Hongjoong is a good person. He wouldn’t want senseless violence.”

“What would you say to Hongjoong,” says Caesar, “if he were listening right now? I doubt the rebels would let him see this, but what would you say?”

Yunho wets his lips, inhales shakily, and begins to recite an obviously scripted reply.

“Hongjoong, this needs to end. Whatever promises the rebels are making to you, don’t trust them. This is bigger than all of us. They’re going to get hundreds – thousands of people killed! It may feel like the rebels are trying to do something virtuous, but what they want isn’t realistic or logical. They’re being driven by their emotions, by anger and headstrong, delusional passion. These emotions are a disease in their hearts. They spread easily, and they can cause damage we can’t even comprehend.”

He swallows again, eyes still wet. He sounds like he might start sobbing at any moment.

“If you have any power, any say in how they’re using you, Hongjoong, please tell them this needs to stop before it goes too far – before it’s too late for all of us.”

Caesar nods seriously.

“Thank you, Yunho, for this reminder to Hongjoong, and to all of us, about the real person behind the myth of the Pirate King.”

Hongjoong doesn’t stay to listen to any more. He turns and runs from the room.

“Yunho is being tortured into acting as their puppet, and what are we doing?”

Namjoon looks up calmly at Hongjoong, who has just slammed his hands down on the former gamemaker’s desk.

“The rebels based in District 5 are going launch an attack on the hydro-electric dam in six days.”

Hongjoong freezes up, blindsided. This wasn’t the immediate response he was expecting when he’d stormed in, elbowing his way past the two burly men posted outside, nothing but Yunho’s haggard face in his mind’s eye.

With a sigh, Namjoon gets to his feet, and gestures for Hongjoong to follow him over to a map laid out on a nearby table. There, he points to the largest dam wall in the district, adjoining the main power plant.

“They have crates filled with explosives. A large group of rebels are gathered to carry them right up to the base of the wall and activate them. Once they explode, the dam wall will be destroyed, cutting off power to many of the districts, including the Capitol.”

Hongjoong stares at the map, trying to comprehend the sheer scale of such an operation. It makes his head spin. He’d had no idea that this sort of operation has been in the works this whole time.

“Won’t they be shot by the peacekeepers before they can reach the wall?” he asks.

“Some of them,” says Namjoon solemnly. “But there will be over a hundred of them, and the wall isn’t well guarded. The few peacekeepers stationed there will be armed, but not prepared. Nothing like this has ever been attempted before.”

A chill goes down Hongjoong’s spine. He can see it in his mind’s eye – an army of rebels, dressed only in the modest clothes of the middle districts, armed only with the explosives they need to bear forward, with nothing to protect them. Enough of them that when one falls, another can step forward and take their place in seconds. Willing to be sacrificed, to be cannon fodder so the rebellion can hit the Capitol where it hurts.

It makes him feel very small, one tiny, tiny part of a terrifying machine – the ‘on’ switch for a great, hulking combine harvester which, now awakened, is rolling slowly but certainly into perilous danger.

The idea may inspire him, may fill him with admiration, but it’s hard to feel excited or triumphant when he considers how many lives are at stake, how many will certainly be lost.

Instead, Hongjoong feels a numbing, overwhelming sadness.

When this is the kind of operation the rebellion is working on, it’s no wonder they aren’t prioritising the life of one celebrity, no matter how undeserved his suffering is.

“Now, Hongjoong, you need to understand that this is classified information,” says Namjoon seriously. “You’re not to talk about this to anyone else, not until it’s carried out. But we’re not sitting passively, waiting for the Capitol to strike first. The rebellion is not idle. The propos we filmed played a strong part in inspiring these people to act, and now it’s going to pay off.”

Hongjoong doesn’t know what to feel. On the one hand, it’s an honour to have played any part in such a noble movement. On the other, how can he be an inspiration to these people when he’s done so little of actual value for the resistance, and they are about to risk everything for the cause?

And still, even knowing all of this, the anguish of seeing Yunho in this state cannot be dulled.

“But Yunho…” he whispers, then shakes himself and hardens his voice. “Thank you for showing me this. I understand your perspective a lot better now. But Yunho still needs to be saved.”

Namjoon opens his mouth to respond, but Hongjoong forges ahead.

“You just told me how important the propos have been to this movement,” he says, “But the Capitol is using Yunho in the exact same way – to counter everything you’re using my image to do. He’s their weapon now, just in the way I’m yours. As many people are convinced to join our cause by me, just as many may be turned away by listening to what they’re forcing him to say.”

He sighs, and closes his eyes, keeping himself in check so he doesn’t tear up in front of Namjoon.

“I hope you’ll consider that,” he says quietly.

When he opens his eyes again, Namjoon is regarding him thoughtfully.

“I will,” he says. “Thank you, Hongjoong.”

He steps back, gesturing to the doorway.

“Now, I apologise, but I have an important meeting with President Hwasa I cannot miss. Thank you for your time. We will talk again soon.”

Hongjoong doesn’t argue. He’s lucky this went as well as it did, considering how he marched in here without an invitation, brimming with rage and with no real plan.

“Thank you,” he says, stepping away.

“Tell no one about the dam,” Namjoon reminds him. “Not until it’s done.”

Hongjoong nods, having already decided to tell Mingi. He’ll hold his tongue apart from that, but if he can’t share this with at least one person, he’ll go insane. There isn’t anyone else for either of them to tell anyway, so there’s no risk of it spreading further.

He nods to Namjoon respectfully on his way out and sets off back to his room, mind racing.

***

Four days later, Seonghwa is wandering the hallway, putting off going to lunch.

Meals are always awkward, because everyone knows who Seonghwa is, but he barely knows anyone, and doesn’t have anyone to sit with.

Being known and being liked aren’t the same thing, and Seonghwa suspects that a lot of District 13 have a fairly low opinion of him, given his previous status as the Capitol’s favourite career victor. Honestly, he doesn’t blame them. He hates what he let the Capitol make him into as well.

He doesn’t really have a way to broadcast that, though, so everyone probably thinks he’s terribly conceited. It’s how he tends to look, to people who don’t know him. Which is everyone.

Seonghwa sighs. He doesn’t see himself making any friends here.

Plus, the food in District 13 is awful. Seonghwa would never go to meals at all, if only he could do so without starving. It does absolutely nothing to make the social torture of the dining hall feel worth it.

But, unfortunately, he does need to eat, so here he is.

Procrastinating in the corridor, reduced to crouching, unfastening and refastening his boots again and again as people walk past, pretending to look preoccupied so he doesn’t need to make eye contact with anyone.

He tells himself he’ll go inside and join the line soon, he will. He just needs a few more minutes.

A few moments go by without anyone walking past, and Seonghwa is about to force himself to stand up, but just before he does, more voices echo down the passage. Familiar voices.

“Don’t rush yourself. Jongho’s gone ahead, he’ll fetch our food.”

“I’m on crutches, Wooyoung, I’m allowed to move faster. It’s not like my false leg.”

Wooyoung and Yeosang. Two of the few people here Seonghwa knows – the other victors who were in the Arena with him.

He doesn’t expect this one tenuous link to lead to any particular affection from any of them – it’s not like he did anything to help them. He let them get away a couple of times, but that’s hardly heroic. He was just trying to avoid any and all conflict in the Arena unless it was absolutely necessary.

The fact that Seonghwa made it through these Games without having to kill anyone outside the Career team feels like a bigger miracle than his own survival.

He doesn’t feel good about killing his allies – if you could even call them that – but he can’t bring himself to feel particularly bad about it either. Even if they’d claimed that Seonghwa was their friend, none of them knew anything about him outside of his public persona, nor did they care to find out. They certainly wouldn’t have lost any sleep over killing him first when only the four of them remained, which was clearly their unspoken plan.

Seonghwa wonders sometimes how things would have gone if the other careers hadn’t cornered Hongjoong, if they hadn’t pressured Seonghwa to torture him. He’s not sure if anything else would have given him the motivation to fight back.

At least Hongjoong doesn’t seem to hate him. Seonghwa doesn’t like to assume – he’d certainly hate himself if he were in Hongjoong’s position – but the other man has been nice to him so far. It’s more than he expected.

Certainly more than he expects from the other victors.

Now, as Wooyoung and Yeosang round the corner, Seonghwa curls into himself and hopes they ignore him.

“Just go ahead and get us a good spot to sit, I can tell you’re thinking about it.”

“Are you sure?” Wooyoung sounds hesitant. “If you trip…”

“I won’t trip,” says Yeosang. “I’ll be careful. It’s not far. Go save our seats, it’s a shame when we can’t sit with the others.”

“If only so many new people weren’t trying to sit with Hongjoong now, after his video,” mutters Wooyoung irritably. “Well, if you’re sure, I’ll go.”

He jogs ahead, and Yeosang keeps up his slower pace. Seonghwa quickly looks down at the ground again so he doesn’t get caught staring.

He feels he knows a little more about Yeosang, and sometimes when he sees him in the halls of 13, Seonghwa wonders if he should go up and try to speak to him, but he quickly catches himself. Of course he shouldn’t. What would he even say?

Do you remember me? I was rude to you at a party once, when you asked me for advice, and I feel terrible about it. I still think about it sometimes. Do you?

No, he had a chance years ago, and he blew it. It would be a miracle if Yeosang wanted anything to do with him now.

“Hi, sorry, are you ok?”

He startles.

Yeosang is speaking to him. He’s stopped in front of him, leaning on his crutches. Seonghwa looks up, eyes wide, and flounders.

“…Me?” As if Yeosang could mean anyone else in this empty stretch of hallway. “…I’m fine.”

“Oh. Um… good?” says Yeosang, sounding unconvinced. “I… just wanted to check, because…”

He disengages one hand from his crutches and waves awkwardly to the way Seonghwa is still crouched against the wall. Cheeks burning, Seonghwa gets hurriedly to his feet.

“I was retying my shoe,” he mumbles.

“Oh. Ok.”

Yeosang sounds even less convinced, but thankfully he doesn’t call Seonghwa out on it. Instead, they both lapse into silence, facing each other and avoiding eye contact.

“I… I haven’t seen you around much,” says Yeosang after a moment. “Not since… well.”

Since they all got airlifted out of the Arena, escaping the almost-certain death they were prepared for.

“I haven’t been out much,” Seonghwa admits.

Yeosang nods in understanding.

“Have you… are you…”

He trails off, clearly struggling to find the words. Seonghwa suspects he’s trying to find a more tactful way to ask Are you coping? He hopes Yeosang doesn’t ask. The answer will obviously be no, and where do you go from there in polite conversation?

Yeosang might come to the same conclusion, because he shakes his head slightly and tries again.

“Do you have anyone to sit with?”

The new direction takes Seonghwa off-guard.

“To… sit with?”

“At lunch,” Yeosang clarifies.

“Oh.” Seonghwa thinks he can feel his face turn even redder. “No.”

How embarrassing. The last time Yeosang had seen him, he may have been a wreck, but he’d at least been popular, beloved, in the vapid way that was all the Capitol was capable of.

Now, he’s a wreck and a nobody. Even more pathetic.

Yeosang stares at him for a long moment, face giving away nothing. Seonghwa shuffles his feet, hoping this will end soon.

“Come sit with us,” Yeosang says suddenly.

Seonghwa stares, and Yeosang blinks, almost like he’s surprised himself just as much as Seonghwa with the offer. Still, he seems to decide to stand by it, raising his chin determinedly even as the silence stretches.

“Sit with you?” Seonghwa parrots, still at a loss.

Yeosang nods.

“There are so few of us,” he says. “Victors, I mean. Survivors. We… we should stick together, don’t you think?”

Seonghwa doesn’t want to – he’s sure no one else will want him there, he’s only setting himself up for a painfully awkward meal – but faced once again with those hopeful eyes, that skittish determination, he can’t bring himself to let this boy down a second time.

“…Alright,” he says, despite himself.

Yeosang looks immediately relieved, and that helps a little bit.

They set off down the corridor together, and into the dining hall. Yeosang waits off to one side while Seonghwa collects his food – thankfully the line isn’t too long – and then leads him to a table in the far corner where the others from the alliance are sitting.

Everyone looks up as they approach, and Seonghwa braces himself, half-expecting an outcry, immediate outrage and rejection.

Jongho’s eyes widen, Mingi blinks in surprise, Wooyoung tilts his head in silent question to Yeosang.

Last to notice is Hongjoong, who is sitting with his back to them and turns when he notices the others’ reactions. When he sees Seonghwa, he does a doubletake.

“Oh!” he says, “It’s you again!”

“I invited him to sit with us,” Yeosang announces.

He looks nervy but defiant, ready to defend his decision. As much as Seonghwa vehemently doesn’t want to be the cause of any conflict within this group, he feels oddly touched.

However, thankfully, no one argues.

Wooyoung still looks quizzical for a moment, but then he shrugs.

“Why not?”

The table has six chairs, and since Wooyoung has been guarding them while they waited for Yeosang, two are left. Yeosang takes the one beside Wooyoung, and Seonghwa cautiously sinks into the adjacent one at the end of the table.

Everyone goes back to their meals. Wooyoung helps Yeosang stow his crutches on the floor near the wall behind them and Jongho pushes over a bowl and utensils they’ve saved for him.

“How are things in the control room?” Hongjoong asks him.

Seonghwa had forgotten that the pair from 3, particularly Yeosang, are skilled at technology, but it makes sense that they’ve been drafted into the rebel’s team for this purpose. It must be nice to feel so useful to the cause.

Yeosang shrugs.

“Not so bad. We’re making progress on our security bypasses. In theory, we might be able to hijack the main Capitol broadcasting system soon.”

“Wow,” says Mingi, “That’s really good.”

Seonghwa stares down at the lump of mush in his own bowl – greyish-brown this time, probably mostly made of lentils – and keeps his face carefully free of expression. With a minute sigh, he picks up his fork and forces himself to take a small bite.

The texture is foul – soggy and grainy – and the taste reminds him of dirt. Seonghwa considers spitting it out for a moment, but makes himself swallow it instead. He thinks he avoids making much of a face, but Wooyoung must notice, because he leans over conspiratorially.

“How bad is the food?”

Seonghwa blinks. He hadn’t wanted to complain to anyone, knowing it’s a sign of privilege that he’s used to much nicer food. He doesn’t want to seem like the spoiled Capitol prince everyone must think of him as.

Is that what Wooyoung’s doing now, testing him for a reaction? Seonghwa glances around at the others, feeling trapped. Wooyoung chuckles.

“It’s okay, Sangie and I are used to Capitol food too,” he says, keeping his voice low. “And even Hongjoong doesn’t like it, and he’s from 12.”

“Yah,” says Hongjoong without any heat. “Just because we’re poor doesn’t mean we don’t know about herbs and salt.”

Muted laughter breaks out around the table.

“It’s pretty bad,” Seonghwa finally admits.

Wooyoung rewards him with a grin, which Seonghwa tries to mimic, but doesn’t quite manage. His face, his whole body feels frozen, still not quite sure he’s allowed to be here, allowed to interact with them.

Seonghwa doesn’t know these people. Usually, that wouldn’t be a problem, because he’s fine at matching and blending into polite conversation, but that was in the Capitol, where everyone is a predictable caricature.

Seonghwa has had a couple of conversations with Hongjoong now, but that’s not enough – he doesn’t know how this group behave around each other, how casually or formally they talk, how open they are, how freely he can speak. What is acceptable? How should he behave? He doesn’t have enough to copy yet, doesn’t know how to start moulding a version of himself that they might like and accept.

He feels panic creeping up inside him. If he can’t figure it out in time, they’re going to find his presence uncomfortable and not want him around.

Seonghwa glances around the table hurriedly, but luckily no one is looking at him anymore, focussed on their food. Only Hongjoong glances up and catches his eye, and he gives Seonghwa a quick smile.

Amazing Hongjoong. Seonghwa still can’t believe he’s real. That someone can go through so much and be such a strong, admirable person.

Pressure from the Capitol had warped Seonghwa into a puppet, a ghost of his former self, but under that same pressure, Hongjoong has hardened into a diamond.

Even two weeks ago, when he’d been thrown into a warzone, nearly been bombed, and had to witness such horrific sights, he’d been able to pull himself together enough to give an eloquent, furious, rousing speech to incite the rebels and threaten the Capitol. And all of it was real – real emotion, real fury, real bravery.

Is this smile real too? Or is he just being polite?

Seonghwa tries to smile back and he thinks he might manage it this time, even if it probably looks pained. He turns hurriedly back to his meal and busies himself trying to work through the rest of his plate of sludge.

There’s a definite pall over the table, a sense of general underlaying bleakness that permeates everyone’s attempts to seem upbeat. Seonghwa supposes that knowing their other allies, Yunho and San, are still prisoners must weigh heavily on everyone.

Nonethless, they’re all making attempts at conversation anyway.

“Are we still on for tonight, Yeosang?” asks Mingi. “They infirmary won’t need me after six, so we’ll be free to keep working on your new leg.”

Yeosang nods.

“Yes, please,” he says. “That would be great.”

“How is that going?” asks Hongjoong.

“It’s good,” says Yeosang, perking up a little. “Mingi’s showing me how to make a better base, which will stay on more comfortably. I don’t think this will be the final version, but it will be a lot better than the one I have now.”

Seonghwa keeps staring at his plate. Of course – Yeosang lost his leg in the explosion in the Arena. Seonghwa knows, of course, that it happened, has seen him limping around the halls on crutches, but he hasn’t really considered that it’s not just a temporary injury like the rest of them – Yeosang is going to be this way for life. It’s so cruel.

“You haven’t tried to use your prototype again yet, have you?” Mingi asks Yeosang.

A quick but meaningful glance is passed between Yeosang, Wooyoung and Jongho.

“Only once,” he admits after a moment. “A… a lapse in judgement. I haven’t done it since.”

Mingi sighs, but shrugs.

“I knew you wouldn’t stop entirely,” he says. “But at least it was only once. Please don’t do it again. The one we’re working on will be ready for use soon.”

Yeosang nods, ducking his head with a muttered apology, and the conversation moves on.

Seonghwa finishes eating, but isn’t sure what to do now. Should he just get up and leave? Should he wait until the others finish eating?

What should he even say if he does decide to leave? See you later? Is that too presumptuous, implying that he’s assuming they’d want to see him again?

He lays his cutlery down carefully and puts his hands in his lap, waiting for some other type of cue, maybe for someone else to leave first so he can copy what they do.

“Do you think there are any drinks besides water here?” Mingi asks, looking around. “Like, I don’t need anything else, I’m just realising that I don’t think I’ve seen any.”

There’s a brief pause in the conversation as everyone stops to think.

“I don’t think so,” says Jongho. “Not that I’ve seen, anyway.”

“Huh, I hadn’t even thought of that, but you’re right,” says Hongjoong. “How strange.”

“I miss coffee,” Yeosang says.

Wooyoung groans theatrically.

“Don’t remind me about coffee,” he says. “I don’t know how much longer I can survive here without it.” He glances over to the kitchens on the far side of the room. “Do you think they even know what coffee is here?”

Heart in his mouth, Seonghwa decides to try making a joke.

“If they did, they’d probably find a way to make that grey too.”

Everyone looks around at him, and there’s a beat in which Seonghwa regrets ever opening his mouth.

Then Wooyoung cackles.

“Oh my god, they would.”

The others join in laughing too, even Yeosang, even Hongjoong. Seonghwa is so relieved he thinks he might faint, heart jack-rabbiting in his chest.

Some of the others are finishing up now too, Yeosang and Wooyoung stacking up their plates on top of Jongho’s empty one on the tray beside them.

“Seonghwa, you should sit with us from now on,” say Wooyoung decisively, out of the blue. “We’re getting a nice little club developing now. What should we call ourselves? The Capitol’s favourite victims?”

Seonghwa, reeling from the sudden acceptance – recruitment? – only stares, but a few of the others laugh.

“The Capitol’s most wanted,” says Hongjoong.

“The Outlaws,” Jongho suggests.

“Ooh, I like that,” says Wooyoung. “The Outlaws. That has a good ring to it.”

He gets to his feet.

“Alright, we need to get back to work. Sangie, let’s get you back on your crutches.”

Seonghwa almost moves to help, but he catches himself in time. Yeosang has both Wooyoung and Jongho to help him retrieve his crutches and get to his feet, he doesn’t need – or want – Seonghwa’s interference.

Fortunately, though, everyone else seems to be taking this as their cue to leave as well. Chairs scrape against the concrete floor as everyone gets to their feet, Seonghwa hurriedly following suit.

As they make their way back through the doors, Seonghwa finds himself falling into step beside Hongjoong. He hasn’t seen Hongjoong since the propo filming over two weeks ago. Seonghwa still feels odd about that.

On the one hand, he’d been able to make himself useful – he’d been able to give Hongjoong some advice, and it had even seemed to help him in his recording.

On the other hand…

As the others disperse with quick farewells, leaving just Hongjoong and Seonghwa left in the hall, Seonghwa steels himself and turns to Hongjoong.

“Um… about District 8,” he says, voice small.

Hongjoong grimaces.

“Ah,” he says. “What about it?”

Seonghwa takes a deep breath.

“I’m so sorry,” he says in a rush. “I should never have told them you spoke better in real situations. If I hadn’t suggested to Jin that they let you go out…”

“Hey, woah,” Hongjoong holds up his hands, and Seonghwa shuts up instantly. “Where is this coming from? I never thought any of that was your fault.”

“But it was my idea that they film you outside, in the real world,” says Seonghwa, trying to clarify in case Hongjoong doesn’t understand. “I almost got you killed!”

“The Capitol almost killed us,” Hongjoong corrects firmly. “They’d be trying to do that whatever happens.”

Seonghwa blinks. He’s not sure how to answer that. He feels like he should correct Hongjoong, but Hongjoong is undeniably right.

While Seonghwa’s mind is stalling, Hongjoong glances down at his watch.

“Hey, sorry, I have a meeting I need to go to,” he says. “Um, it was nice seeing you today though?”

He says it uncertainly, and Seonghwa feels just as uncertain himself, but he nods back.

“It was,” he says. “Thank you.”

“Ok, see you around!”

With that, Hongjoong is off, leaving Seonghwa alone in the corridor.

Despite the unfamiliarity and awkwardness of the entire mealtime, Seonghwa feels an unexpected flicker of hope in his chest.

Even if, just as Wooyoung said, they only want him around to complete the set of Hunger Games survivors living in 13 together, Seonghwa will still be grateful. At least they won’t want him to be the version of himself he had to construct to survive in the Capitol.

He can make a new version of himself that these people will like, maybe even a version of himself he feels better about and won’t hate so much.

Maybe, just maybe, he won’t have to be so completely alone here.

***

Jongho wakes to the sound of his own screaming.

It takes him a moment to understand why he’s upright when he’d thought he was lying down, why his throat feels raw.

Another nightmare about the Arena. This time it was the wild dogs again, the moment one of them had grabbed his arm and he’d truly thought for a moment that this was how he was going to die – his arm torn off and his body mauled and eaten by the ferocious pack.

The image is still vivid, so much so that he can’t seem to think of anything else, can’t do anything to calm the panic still coursing through his veins.

There’s a soft beep, followed by the whir of the door to Jongho’s room sliding open. He jerks around, tensed in preparation to fight, but it’s only Wooyoung.

“Hey,” he says casually, stepping inside as though this is something they do every night. “Where’s your head at? Can you speak?”

Jongho’s chest is still locked up, breath trapped in his lungs like he’s forgotten how to let it out. He stares for a long moment, then shakes his head jerkily.

“Alright.”

Wooyoung lets the door slide shut behind him and leans up against it, folding his arms.

“Wish they’d painted these walls,” he says, looking around the little room. “It’s all so drab here, don’t you think? Surely they could use a couple of different shades of grey, if nothing else, just to mix it up a bit.”

Jongho has no idea what to say to that. He stares at Wooyoung, waiting for some kind of explanation.

“I’m going to come sit next to you,” Wooyoung continues conversationally, “Unless you don’t want me to. If you want space, shake your head now.”

Jongho still doesn’t understand what’s going on, but whatever this is, it’s better than lying alone, paralysed by the image of the wild dogs descending on him. He doesn’t shake his head.

Wooyoung moves forward and sits down on the bed beside Jongho, leaving a short distance between then.

“I do like these mattresses though,” he says. “The proper thick foam, that’s nice. We never had that in District 3, only in the Capitol. I think it’s pretty nice. Don’t you?”

He looks over, and Jongho’s eyes widen when he realises Wooyoung wants a reply. He hasn’t really thought about the mattresses much, but he supposes they’re good. He manages a nod.

“I heard Hongjoong and Mingi complaining about the covers,” Wooyoung continues. “Said they miss having real down in them. We never had many animals around in 3, so we’ve only ever had synthetic stuffing for our pillows and bedding, so I dunno. I can’t really comment on that. I would’ve thought real feathers would be worse though. I mean, isn’t it weird? Don’t the shaft thingies poke you?”

Finally, Jongho finds his voice.

“Not – not really,” he croaks. “We always used duck down. It was nice. Warm.”

Wooyoung hums thoughtfully.

“Would wood shavings work?” he asks. “Did your District ever do that? I know everyone tends to find funny uses for things they’ve got in excess, especially in the outer districts.”

Jongho blinks again.

“Um… no,” he says. “Well. I don’t know. Maybe they’d work?”

It’s such an odd question, he doesn’t know what to make of it.

“Wood can work for insulation, right?” Wooyoung presses. “Do you think if it was those, like, soft curly sort of wood shavings, that could work like feathers?”

Jongho thinks.

“Oh, no,” he says after a moment. “It would rot, surely. It might work for a little while, but then if any moisture got in, it would start to break down, and that would be horrible.”

“Ah,” says Wooyoung. “I hadn’t even thought of that. Wait, but then, if your houses are made of wood, they’d get rained on all the time, wouldn’t they? How come they don’t rot?”

Jongho shoots him an incredulous look, and Wooyoung holds up his hands defensively.

“Computer district, remember?”

An unsteady laugh escapes from Jongho, almost without his permission. It makes a small smile appear on Wooyoung’s face.

“Feeling any better now?” he asks.

Jongho nods shakily, wets his lips.

“Wh-what are you doing in here?” he asks, hoping it doesn’t sound too rude.

Luckily, Wooyoung takes it in stride, like he does with everything else.

“You woke us up,” he says. “You’ve got quite the set of lungs. Have you ever considered taking up opera?”

This startles another slight chuckle out of Jongho, despite his growing embarrassment. This seems to encourage Wooyoung.

“You worried poor Yeosang,” he continues. “He’s stressed on your behalf now, but he couldn’t get his crutches sorted, so he booted me out to check in on you instead. You’re welcome.”

He looks over, sees Jongho already opening his mouth to apologise, and cuts him off.

“And before you say sorry, I want to be clear that that was a joke. You shouldn’t feel bad for waking us, but we both heard you and we were both concerned. Sangie would have come over, but it’s quicker and easier for me at the moment. That’s all.”

He reaches over and puts a hand on Jongho’s shoulder, slowly enough he could shift away if he wanted.

“Everyone has these nights. The nightmares and the flashbacks and shit. It’s not our fault, and it’s better with a friend.”

“A friend,” Jongho repeats shakily.

Is that what Wooyoung is now? Jongho supposes he’s right.

“A friend,” says Wooyoung again, firmly, like that settles the matter. “And hey, if you need company to help keep the demons away, you’re very welcome to bunk in our room.”

Jongho blinks, not expecting this.

“What? Sleep in your room?”

Wooyoung nods.

“If it would help you sleep properly,” he says. “Tonight, or some other time in the future if you want. The beds both extend, so we’ve got room.”

Jongho braces himself for a quip about wanting to sleep with Yeosang – he knows he hasn’t been as subtle as he’d like – but it never comes. Wooyoung really is just offering a spare bed to help with his night terrors, despite not even knowing each other that well.

“Thank you,” Jongho says quietly. “That… that means a lot.”

He won’t go tonight, but having the offer there is enough to make him feel more settled already.

Wooyoung pats Jongho’s shoulder again, and gets to his feet.

“Well, I’m going back to sleep,” he says. “I hope you manage to as well. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

Jongho watches Wooyoung leave, then slowly gets back under the covers and settles back into bed.

This time sleep, when it comes, is peaceful.

***

The next day, news of the success of the attack on the hydro-electric dam in District 5 is being whispered everywhere.

Even the Capitol has lost power! It’s not complete, they have emergency generators, but it’s still a massive blow.

Mingi, who had been brought into the loop and then sworn to secrecy by Hongjoong, feels relief and fierce satisfaction at the rebels’ success. There’s a spring in his step that morning, as he goes about his tasks and then meets to whisper gleefully with the others at lunchtime.

Progress against the Capitol! A real, tangible event to show that they can hit the enemy where it hurts!

Then, that afternoon, the Capitol responds.

And it’s not Snow giving the speech publicly condemning the attack, nor any of his subordinates, nor even Caesar.

It’s Yunho.

Wooyoung comes running to find Mingi and Hongjoong the second the broadcast goes live. At the mention of Yunho’s name, Hongjoong is off like a shot, and Mingi follows him without thinking.

Luckily, no one turns him away when they arrive at what must be an important office on one of the lower levels, a darkened room lit by a row of computer screens. President Hwasa is here, along with Namjoon, Soyeon, Seokjin, Eden, and the rest of their retinue. Yeosang is already here too, and Wooyoung quickly slips back into a seat beside him – this must be where they come to work – and Jongho hovers behind Yeosang’s chair, one hand on Yeosang’s shoulder.

No one looks around when Mingi and Hongjoong stumble inside, transfixed instead by the largest screen.

And there, on the central display, is Yunho.

“…and reports of derailed trains, granaries on fire, and most recently, a savage attack on the hydro-electric dam in District 5.”

Mingi feels his whole body go numb with horror at the sight.

God, he looks awful. So pale, so gaunt, holding himself rigid at the podium they’ve stood him at, the Capitol’s banners looming behind him.

“I am begging,” says Yunho, voice frail and unsteady, “For the rebels to show restraint, decency and humanity. This has gone too far.”

“What have they done to you?” whispers Hongjoong, agonised.

That shirt looks so uncomfortable, thinks Mingi, still staring. The collar’s too tight, choking him. The suit is so stiff, too. Even his clothing is a prison, keeping him locked rigidly in position.

Yeosang and Wooyoung are whispering frantically, heads together. Yeosang looks up sharply, catching Namjoon’s eye from the other corner of the room, and receives a quick nod in response.

“Now,” says Namjoon.

Yeosang nods back shortly, face tight with focus, and clicks a rapid series of switches.

On the screen, Yunho takes a shaky breath.

“The attack on the dam…”

“And in three, two…” says Yeosang, sliding one final switch down smoothly. “One.”

The Capitol broadcast blurs into static.

“People!” comes Hongjoong’s voice, tinny and crackling through the transmission, “Open your eyes! Now is the time for freedom if we try!”

It only lasts for a second before the image resolidifies into the Capitol’s footage. Yunho blinks and straightens, head tilted like a hunting dog fixing onto a noise.

“…Hongjoong?” he says softly.

He looks lost, eyes heartbreakingly hopeful.

“Yunho…” whispers Hongjoong, voice tight as though he’s in physical pain.

“He heard it!” hisses Hwasa, leaning forward, eyes burning into the screen. “We’re through!”

“Not for long,” says Wooyoung tightly, frantically adjusting the dials on the control panel. “They know what we’re doing, they’ll be adjusting the frequency as we speak.”

“…Hongjoong?” Yunho whispers again, still looking around for the source of the voice.

Mingi’s vision blurs, and he realises with muted surprise that his eyes are full of tears. When did he start crying? He scrubs a hand over his eyes quickly, intent on not missing anything.

A sharp voice somewhere off screen says something unintelligible to Yunho, who snaps back to attention.

“Ah,” he says, clearing his throat. “The attack on the dam was a… a barbaric act… of senseless violence.”

“Try again,” orders Namjoon tersely.

Yeosang complies, and Hongjoong’s voice filters through once more.

“If you want to wear the crown, bear the crown!”

When the static clears, Yunho looks ready to faint, gripping the podium in front of his with shaking hands.

“Hongjoong,” he says, voice wavering, “Hongjoong, if you’re listening, please, think about what will happen. This rebellion – this war. We’ve gone too far. Now no one is safe.”

He wets his lips and glances offscreen briefly, looking beyond the camera. His eyes widen slightly in fear before skittering back to the screen.

“Nowhere is safe anymore,” he emphasises. “None of the districts.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Mingi sees Namjoon and Hwasa exchange a tense glance. Wooyoung and Yeosang draw together, grim faces fixed on the screen. Jongho’s grip on Yeosang’s shoulder has turned white-knuckled.

Hongjoong leans forward, unable to look away, and Mingi finds his breath stuck in his throat, body locked up with tension.

Yunho takes a ragged breath, seemingly trying to gather himself, and glances away from the screen again. However, whatever he sees beyond the filming equipment seems to paralyse him for a moment, his face becoming a mask of terror.

Suddenly, his gaze snaps back to the camera, eyes wide and wild.

“Hongjoong, they’re coming!” he says urgently.

Panic surges through Mingi like a lightning bolt. He starts forward toward the screen automatically, but there’s nothing he can do from here.

Figures in white – peacekeepers – appear from either side of the podium within seconds. A gloved hand comes down on Yunho’s shoulder, another seizes his opposite arm, pulling him back.

Yunho fights back against them, staring eyes still fixed madly on the camera, voice raising to a shout.

“They’re coming for you! In District 13, they know, they’re comi-”

The feed cuts suddenly, replaced by a static screen with the Capitol’s emblem.

The tiny control room erupts into chaos.

“Yunho!” Hongjoong cries, “Fuck, they’re going to kill him!”

“He said they’re coming,” says Eden urgently. “He’s warning us about something, but what?”

“They’re keeping him in the Capitol, in Snow’s mansion,” says Namjoon grimly, “he could have overheard something. Some plan of Snow’s.”

“Check the radars,” orders Hwasa. “Is there anything in our airspace?”

Mingi’s knees give out and he drops to the floor, head spinning as his knees collide painfully with the floor. Hongjoong is quick to grab his shoulders, steadying him.

Wooyoung darts across the room, pulling up a different screen.

“Nothing visible on the radars,” he says, “Yet.”

Hwasa scans the room, eyes hard, then sets her jaw.

“Time for an air raid drill.”

Chapter Text

The sirens are blaring, volume almost deafening in the small room. Everyone, bar Namjoon, Hwasa, and a few of their helpers, heads quickly for the door.

Yeosang struggles to get his crutches under him to heave himself out of his chair, hyper-aware that Jongho and Wooyoung are waiting for him.

“Go ahead,” he grunts, pushing himself up. “I’ll be right behind you, just-”

He breaks off as Wooyoung’s hands abruptly cover his own, pulling the crutches firmly away from him.

“Not the time, Sang,” he says shortly.

Before Yeosang has a chance to reply, Jongho is stepping forward and bending down, slipping one arm behind Yeosang’s back and another under his knees. Yeosang yelps involuntarily as he’s scooped up, but Jongho ignores him, already striding across the room to the exit.

There’s already a busy flow of people hurrying down from the upper levels by the time they reach the landing, and Jongho doesn't hesitate before wading into the stream. Yeosang jerks his head around in brief panic as they’re swept downstairs on the orderly tide, but relaxes again once he looks over Jongho’s shoulder and sees Wooyoung following right behind them, Yeosang’s crutches still tucked firmly under one arm.

“Code red alert. Proceed in an orderly fashion to your nearest stairwell, and descend to level 40,” repeats a recorded voice on loop.

The sirens continue to wail, amplified by the towering concrete walls surrounding them and mingling with the steady clangs of feet against the metal grating of the stairs. Yeosang is quietly thankful the others didn’t let him try to walk on his own after all. He’d never make it down these stairs on his crutches at the brisk pace needed to match the rest of the crowd.

“Do you think we’re really about to get bombed?” mutters Wooyoung as they go, eyes darting around warily.

Jongho’s grip tightens a little, pressing Yeosang closer to his chest.

“I think Capitol’s about to give it their best shot,” he says. “Whether or not they’ll manage, I don’t know.”

“I thought they didn’t know where we were,” says Wooyoung breathlessly, as they round another landing and continue down the next flight of stairs. “I mean, in 13, obviously, but I didn’t think they knew our location here.”

“Doors closing in 5 minutes,” announces the voice over the speakers, and a ripple of urgency spreads through the crowd.

They don’t move any faster – they can’t without risking becoming a stampede on the crowded stairs, but there’s a new focus in the way everyone keeps moving forward.

“Are we going to make it?” asks Jongho, fear lacing his tone.

“Surely,” says Wooyoung, although he sounds as though he’s trying to convince himself as well. “They won’t close the doors before we’re in. There’re still so many people behind us.”

Yeosang refuses to think about it, cutting off all thoughts of being trapped outside the bunker and left to fend for themselves, before he allows himself to spiral.

His neck aches from holding it at a strange angle to look around, so he gives in and lowers his head to tuck against Jongho’s shoulder instead, screwing his eyes shut for good measure.

“We’ll make it,” he says, voice muffled by Jongho's shirt. “We have to.”

Jongho squeezes him again briefly in response, his chest rising and falling faster and faster as they go.

Someone a little behind them stumbles, and it passes down like a wave, people being shoved into their neighbours and causing them to stumble in turn. Wooyoung is pushed from behind and curses as he bumps into Jongho, who nearly misses a step. He staggers briefly, without his hands free to steady himself, and Yeosang's replacement leg clangs noisily against the metal railing, jolting him.

“Shit, sorry,” Jongho mutters, as he regains his balance, as if it was his fault. “Are you ok?”

“Fine,” Yeosang is quick to reply without thinking, worried only that Jongho’s concern will slow them down.

His upper leg does throb a little, he decides as they continue down, but that’s less than important right now.

“Doors closing in 4 minutes.”

“There,” pants Wooyoung, relief evident in his voice. “There are the doors.”

Yeosang looks up, peering down the stairs ahead of them. Sure enough, two massive metal doors lie at the bottom of the steps, waiting to seal shut again as soon as they’re all through.

Keeping pace with the others jostling around them, they hurry inside.

The bunker is a vast space, low-ceilinged but stretching as far as they can see. There are rows upon rows of bunk beds, as well as shelves stocked with supplies. At the front are a row of desks for registration, and Jongho leads them to the nearest one. Their names are marked off quickly, and they’re all assigned bunk numbers, thankfully right beside each other.

They’re instructed to collect a supply pack each from the shelves, and Wooyoung takes all three, balancing them precariously in his arms while Jongho continues to carry Yeosang. The sight reminds Yeosang fleetingly of the Cornucopia in the Arena, and he shudders, burying his face against Jongho’s shoulder.

Wooyoung drops the three packs on his bed, and Jongho takes more care placing Yeosang down on his. They look around at the stream of people heading from the check-in desks to their beds.

“Doors now closing,” announces the recorded voice, “Stand clear. Repeat, stand clear.”

Yeosang jerks around to see the doors give a loud beep and begin to slide slowly closed. People standing nearby stumble back and look spooked, but there’s no rush and no one outside as far as he can see. Amazingly, it looks like everyone is safely inside.

Yeosang looks back to Wooyoung and Jongho.

“The others made it, right?” he asks urgently. “Have we seen them?”

Wooyoung nods at once.

“Hongjoong and Mingi are over there,” he says, pointing to a block of bunks closer to the door. “They must have got here together just before us. And Seonghwa… I saw him…” he trails off for a moment, craning his neck and squinting to see through the mass of bodies in the dim light, then nods again, “Oh, he’s just there. By the wall.”

Yeosang follows his gaze, and finds Seonghwa sitting perfectly still in the centre of a lower bunk, knees tucked up to his chest and arms locked around his legs, staring straight ahead. He looks like he might be in shock. Yeosang doesn’t blame him – he feels much the same.

The doors finish their slow slide closed, and seal shut with a hiss.

“Doors closed,” says the voice with finality.

“Well, I hope that was everyone,” says Jongho quietly. “No one’s getting through that door now.”

“It must have been everyone,” says Yeosang.

Once again, he has to believe it, because the alternative is too awful to contemplate. Besides, the officials marking off the roll don’t seem bothered, and no one is panicking loudly near the doors, which would surely be happening if they were aware of someone behind left behind.

Instead, everyone is panicking quietly, either sitting on their beds or milling aimlessly in the aisles, worried voices making up an ongoing hubbub around them.

“Well,” says Wooyoung shakily, “Now we wait, I guess.”

On unsteady legs, he moves to sit beside Yeosang and Jongho on Yeosang’s low bunk.

“Now we wait,” Yeosang agrees.

A few rows away, Hongjoong wrings his hands. Now that they’ve made it safely to the bunker and are out of immediate danger, the haunting image of Yunho’s tortured face is once again consuming him.

“They’re going to kill him,” he whispers again, for perhaps the tenth time. “He risked everything to warn us, and now they’re going to kill him. We’re stuck down here, so we can’t do anything, we can’t help him, and they’re going to kill him…”

“Will you stop saying that?” snaps Mingi.

Hongjoong startles, head jerking around. Mingi is glaring at him, tears in his eyes.

“I know he’s in danger, and I know we can’t do anything,” he says. “You saying it over and over again is only making it worse.”

He turns away sharply, sitting down heavily on his bunk.

“Well, what am I meant to do?” Hongjoong bites back. “Not worry about it?”

“I didn’t say that,” says Mingi. “But we…”

At that moment, a distant rumble like sudden thunder sounds over their heads. It takes a moment for it to sink in, for the noise to travel downwards and reverberate powerfully through the walls and floor, before everyone realises what’s going on.

Then, the screaming starts.

Hongjoong almost loses his balance, and staggers over to drop beside Mingi on his low bunk. His arms go around Mingi without thought, and Mingi reaches for him in return automatically, clinging to each other as dust begins to shake free from the ceiling.

This is really happening. They’re being bombed.

“Oh god,” Mingi whispers, “Oh fuck, what the fuck.”

Around them, everyone is doing much the same as them, seeking out the comparative shelter of the lower bunks and huddling together. Faces pale with terror and wide eyes upturned to the ceiling stand out in the gloom, as the entire room shakes with the force of what must be another bomb dropped somewhere above them.

Hongjoong can’t breathe, the air locked in his lungs as he waits, body frozen and braced for the moment the ceiling begins to crack and cave.

Another blast shakes the bunker, and metal frame of the bunk rattles. Hongjoong curls into Mingi’s side, mind blank with panic, sure that the next one will be it, the next bomb will be the one to bring the ceiling down on their heads.

One tense minute passes, then another, as the distant booms continue to sound overhead.

But the bunker, miraculously, remains intact.

Slowly, agonisingly slowly, people begin to unfreeze. Looking around, Hongjoong can see people uncurling from where they’d braced themselves, unfolding from the beds and looking around.

He looks back to Mingi, and finds his own tentative hope reflected on Mingi’s face.

“We… we might actually be ok,” he whispers.

“I guess we are pretty deep,” Mingi replies quietly.

Another bomb booms overhead, this time more distant. Have the Capitol moved away to bomb other areas?

“Oh, and we’re hidden from the surface, aren’t we?” says Mingi suddenly, mirroring Hongjoong’s thoughts. “They probably don’t actually know which bits of the district to attack.”

“Oh, damn, you’re right,” says Hongjoong. “Do you think it was just chance they started overhead?”

“Might have been,” Mingi agrees. “They could just be bombing random places and counting on us being unprepared and near the surface.”

Hongjoong glances at his watch.

Just fifteen minutes ago, they’d all been on the upper levels. If Yunho hadn’t warned them, they’d be there still.

“Yunho really saved us all, didn’t he?” he says softly.

Mingi nods, mouth downturned.

“He’s… fuck, he’s so brave,” he says roughly. “The look on his face – he was so scared, Hongjoong. I can’t even imagine what they’re doing to him, but he still decided to warn us. He didn’t even know if it would work.” Horror dawns on his face. “He doesn’t know! Hongjoong, he must have known they were about to bomb us, and he couldn’t do anything but shout into the void and hope we heard! Shit, he must be so worried, he must think we’ve just been killed!”

Another blast sounds overhead, and they both flinch.

“We still might be,” says Hongjoong grimly.

But once again, they wait in tense silence for a minute, then hear another bomb dropped further away. The bunker walls hold firm.

Hongjoong slumps again, then rocks forward to put his head between his knees, fists gripping his hair and tugging painfully just to feel something which isn’t panic and dread.

“God, I fucking hate this,” he mumbles. “There’s too much going on, I can’t… I’m so fucking scared for Yunho, I’m so fucking scared for us, I don’t know how much more of this I can take.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Mingi reaching into his pocket for a little plastic jar. He shakes some unmarked white pills out into his palm and swallows them dry

“Benzodiazepine?”

Hongjoong looks at him blankly, and Mingi seems to realise the name doesn’t mean anything to him.

“Ah… y’know, downers,” he says.

Hongjoong shakes his head uncomprehendingly, and Mingi sighs.

“For panic attacks,” he says. “Makes you floaty and sleepy instead.”

“Oh,” says Hongjoong. “Um, no thanks.”

It would probably help, actually, but the idea of not being fully alert at a time like this seems worse than the panic.

Mingi nods, unphased by his refusal, and puts them away again quietly. They lapse back into silence, sitting side by side on the low bed.

Overhead, distant booms continue to sound at irregular intervals.

After the first half hour passes, people seem to decide it’s alright to talk and move around more. People mill around in the aisles between the beds, chatting in low voices

Seeing this, Hongjoong decides he needs to stretch his legs, to do something other than sit still and worry. Looking around the room, his eyes fall on the little huddle formed by Wooyoung, Yeosang and Jongho a few rows away.

He gets to his feet.

“I’m going to check in with the others.”

“Oh! I’ll come too.”

Mingi tails him over, clearly just as restless.

Yeosang is lying on one of the lower bunks, propped up by some pillows, with Wooyoung sitting on one side and Jongho on the other. They’re talking in low voices, but break off when Jongho notices Hongjoong and Mingi approaching.

“Hey,” says Wooyoung, and Yeosang raises a hand in silent greeting.

“Hey,” Hongjoong returns. “Can we join you?”

“Sure, come join,” says Wooyoung easily.

“You can sit on this other bed,” says Jongho, pointing to the empty bed opposite the one the trio are seated on, “It’s mine.”

“Ah, thanks,” says Mingi.

The pair sit, a little awkward.

“I didn’t have anything to say, really,” Hongjoong admits. “Just wanted to check how you’re all going.”

“Could be worse,” says Wooyoung.

Yeosang snorts.

“Could be a lot better.”

Wooyoung gives him a flat look.

“Well, it’s true,” says Yeosang. “We’re literally being bombed.”

“Yes, but we’re safe down here, so it could be worse,” says Wooyoung.

“But we are getting bombed, so it could also be better,” Yeosang mimics his tone.

Hongjoong finds himself laughing. They remind him of siblings, specifically of the twins that lived on his street, brother and sister, who used to bicker this way all the time.

Jongho starts giggling too, and Mingi joins in, followed by the other two. The situation really isn’t that funny, and they all sound a little hysterical. Hongjoong supposes it’s the adrenaline. Still, it feels good to smile for a moment.

A couple of people glance over curiously at their laughter, and they’re quick to settle down again.

Hongjoong breathes deeply, getting his giggles under control, and looks around the bunker for something else to distract him. He watches a small family unpacking their supply pack, taking out regulation drink bottles and neatly folded blankets.

“They’re very organised, aren’t they?” he says. “Who would have guessed that all this was down here?”

“Not me,” says Jongho. “I had no idea this was here.”

“Yeah, I knew from the maps that there was a bunker, but I didn’t realise it’d be so… I dunno, civilised,” says Wooyoung. “I was just kind of picturing a big empty basement, I guess.”

“I knew,” says Mingi. “I’ve been down here a couple of times actually.”

The others turn to him in surprise.

“What?” says Hongjoong. “You didn’t tell me that!”

“We needed to restock the perishable medical supplies,” says Mingi with a shrug. “There’s a med bay over there.”

He nods, and Hongjoong realises he’s right – there’s a partitioned-off section in the far-left corner with a large ‘M’ in black on the wall.

“Wow, they really did think of everything,” says Wooyoung.

“They’ve been at war for longer than we’ve been alive,” says Jongho. “It makes sense.”

It’s a sobering thought. Hongjoong stares at the bunker ceiling above them, wondering what it must be like to be born in District 13, to live your entire life underground.

“That’s so weird,” says Wooyoung, echoing his thoughts. “It must be so miserable to grow up in a place like this. No light, no colours, no fun.”

“Would it?” asks Mingi. “You’d grow up safe. You’d always have enough food to live on. You’d never be in the draw for the Games, or have any friends or family taken.”

“That would be amazing,” Jongho agrees. “But… I don’t know, do they ever see the sky? Grass? Trees? I think I’d go insane.” He looks around and draws up his shoulders. “It’s been bad enough these last few weeks, being underground all day, every day.”

“They go to the surface occasionally,” says Yeosang. “Even if they didn’t, I think it would be worth it. To be safe from the Capitol, that’s invaluable. Well…” he glances upward, at the low ceiling of the bunker, the booms still sounding above, “Almost safe.”

“The Capitol must have figured out that we’re here now, though,” says Mingi grimly.

“Or they already knew,” points out Wooyoung. “It’s quite possible that they always knew and suspected District 13, and just didn’t attack because they knew they hold all the weapons. Not until it was worth the risk.”

“Oh,” says Hongjoong slowly as realisation dawns on him, “But the other districts didn’t know until now!”

“What do you mean?” asks Jongho curiously.

“Well, Yunho wasn’t just talking to us, with his warning, was he?” says Hongjoong. “He was live on air, remember? All twelve districts would have heard him mention 13. That must have been a massive shock to them, they would have thought District 13 was destroyed decades ago, like we used to.”

Jongho’s eyes widen, and a couple of the others hum in surprise as they realise the gravity of the situation. The other districts must have known that the rebellion had a stronghold somewhere in Panem, or they wouldn’t be able to operate at such a scale, but it was always shrouded in mystery.

Now, the curtain has been pulled back.

“This could be huge for us,” says Wooyoung, sitting up straight. “Think about it – once people realise an entire district, one the Capitol claimed to have destroyed, no less, is behind the revolution, it will give the movement so much more legitimacy. It will take away some of the mystery, but it will make us look so powerful.”

“13 is known for having nuclear weapons, too,” says Mingi, voice hushed. “The fact that it’s the Capitol’s old production team for all their military might, and now it’s mobilising against them, that’s gotta look good.”

“Only if we survive this bombing,” says Yeosang. “Who knows how much of our weaponry is being taken out right now.”

There’s a heavy pause as everyone stops to consider this, listening for any more booms above.

“We’ll just have to wait and see how this ends,” says Jongho.

After a long pause, another bomb is dropped somewhere overhead, and they all flinch.

Hongjoong looks back at the ground, holding his breath until he feels reasonably sure that the most recent strike isn’t going to bring the roof crashing down.

He scuffs the toe of his boot against the ground and thinks more about Yunho’s broadcast.

What do the other districts think of him now? Surely today will prove that he’s not actually a traitor, if nothing else. Anyone could see the fragile state Yunho was in, see the terror in his eyes, the desperation when he decided to throw caution to the wind and call out a warning. Surely the curtain has lifted now, and they can all understand what’s really going on – that Yunho has been coerced into his role as the Capitol’s mouthpiece, that beneath it all, he still wants to help Hongjoong and the other rebels. Surely this will clear his name.

But even as he has the thought, cold slices through Hongjoong’s stomach.

If Yunho can’t convincingly act as the propaganda pawn anymore, the Capitol could very well decide that he’s of no further use to them. Coupled with the fact that Yunho just defied them so openly and ruined their surprise attack, they could easily decide to kill him tonight.

Fuck.

Hongjoong feels like his blood temperature has dropped several degrees. He’d already been worried about what will happen to Yunho after his warning to them, but now things look even worse.

He moans aloud and leans forward, burying his head in his hands.

He hears a vague murmur of concern from the others, and Mingi puts a hesitant hand on his back.

“What’s wrong?”

Hongjoong has to take a couple of shaky breaths before his voice is steady enough to reply.

“Worried about Yunho,” he says shortly.

Mingi sighs, hand moving to rub circles on Hongjoong’s back.

“I know,” he says quietly. “Me too. This is fucking awful.”

There’s a long silence, during which Hongjoong tries hard to get his breathing back under control. Eventually, Wooyoung starts a conversation with the other two about the order of bunk assignment, wondering if the people on either side of them are their neighbours to their rooms on the upper floors too.

“It would make sense,” says Jongho. “You two are together, and I’m next to you, like our corridor upstairs.”

“But the person on our other side doesn’t look familiar,” Yeosang muses. “Unless we just haven’t bumped into him.”

“We do mostly avoid other people,” says Wooyoung. “It wouldn’t be too surprising if we’ve never met one of the

“We know the person opposite though,” says Yeosang, looking around. “The tall woman. Is she…?”

“Oh yeah, there she is,” says Wooyoung. “But further down this same row, not opposite us.”

“Do you think it’s a row per floor, then?” asks Jongho.

“That would make sense, logistics-wise,” says Yeosang.

Hongjoong keeps his head bowed and clings to the scraps of conversation like a lifeline, seizing on every little moment of distraction which might keep him from spiralling deeper. Slowly, agonisingly slowly, the pure panic begins to recede into a more manageable level of stress, and he can focus more on his real surroundings than the imagined horrors of Yunho in the Capitol.

He stays huddled as the conversation continues, Wooyoung making a clear effort to fill any pauses and keep it flowing.

Occasionally Wooyoung pulls Hongjoong into the conversation – “Hey, you’re in the same corridor as Mingi, have you seen any other neighbours?” – and Hongjoong manages to answer. He thinks Wooyoung might be doing it on purpose, recognising that Hongjoong needs including to keep himself distracted, and he’s grateful for it.

Looking around at the others, he’s glad he has this little group to huddle with and to help keep him sane down here. He hasn’t known any of them very long, but he doesn’t know what he’d do without them. He’s lucky to have found the five of them.

…the five of them…

It’s then that Hongjoong realises that something is missing – or rather someone.

“Hey…” he says, glancing around, “Has anyone seen Seonghwa?”

Wooyoung and Mingi both nod, and Wooyoung jabs a thumb over his shoulder.

“His bunk is back there, one of the ones against the wall. I checked he made it down here when we first got in.”

Hongjoong is immensely relieved, and also immediately guilty that he hadn’t thought to check for Seonghwa’s presence himself. Why hadn’t he thought of the other man until now? He supposes he’d been too smothered by his own panic, the impeding threat of the bombs, and making sure he stayed close to Mingi.

“I might go check on him,” he says now, rising to his feet. “Make sure he’s alright.”

“Good idea,” Wooyoung encourages him. “Let him know he can come and sit with us if he wants company.”

Yeosang nods fervently. It’s interesting that these two seem to have decided they care about Seonghwa as well now. Hongjoong wonders if they ever came across each other in the Capitol, frequenting the same parties, if they have some history he’s not privy to. He might ask Yeosang when he has a chance, since Yeosang was the one to bring Seonghwa to join their table the other day. It was certainly a surprise to Hongjoong, albeit a welcome one.

Hongjoong weaves through people milling in the aisles until he reaches Seonghwa, in his low bunk against the wall just like Wooyoung had said. Luckily, no one seems to pay him any attention, too caught up in their own conversations and worries. The upper bunk is currently unoccupied, its owner presumably elsewhere to check in on friends.

As Hongjoong had feared, Seonghwa looks like he’s in distress. Hongjoong approaches slowly, giving Seonghwa time to notice him so he doesn’t get startled.

“Hey,” he calls softly, “How are you going?”

It’s a stupid question. Seonghwa obviously isn’t doing well. He’s shaking miserably, shoulders hunched up to his ears, eyes fixed on the ground.

Hongjoong sighs quietly, wets his lips and straightens his shoulder, and tries again.

“Hey,” he says, trying to sound comforting, “We’ll be ok. We’re safe down here.”

“Are we?” asks Seonghwa without looking up, voice strained.

“Of course,” says Hongjoong, with far more confidence than he feels. “We’re miles underground. Even if they bomb directly over us, it won’t reach us down here.”

…he thinks. He hopes.

“What if it damages the structure though?” Seonghwa whispers, still staring straight ahead with haunted eyes. “What if it all caves in on top of us?”

He slowly raises his head, glancing around the room.

“We’re so deep down,” he continues, trance-like, “What if the ceiling collapsed? We’d be completely buried, and we’re deep, so deep, we’d never be able to dig our way out…”

His voice catches, and he breaks off, breath starting to speed up.

“Hey, hey,” says Hongjoong, stepping closer, “Breathe. Deep breaths.”

It takes a minute, but Seonghwa does manage to get his breathing under control. Hongjoong reaches out a tentative hand and rubs his shoulder gingerly.

“I guess it would be quick, at least,” Seonghwa mumbles, almost to himself.

Hongjoong swallows. Unfortunately, coming from the mining district, he’s all too familiar with the concept of cave-ins. He knows that in many cases where caves or shafts partially collapse, the miners can remain alive inside for hours, sometimes even days. When there are teams on the outside who can realise that they’re missing and can search for them, this can be mean survival. But here, with the entire district hidden together so deep in the earth with no one on the outside to help, it could mean a maddeningly slow death by starvation.

Hongjoong gives himself a little shake to dispel the thoughts, hoping that his worry hasn’t shown. His hope is in vain.

“I’ve made you panic too now,” says Seonghwa, hunching his shoulders even further. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

“No, it’s fine,” says Hongjoong hurriedly.

He edges forward, carefully sits down next to Seonghwa on the bed.

“I’m fine,” he says again. “It’s normal to be worried, in a situation like this. Who isn’t worried? We just need to…” he casts around, “we just need to comfort each other through it. At least none of us are down here alone.”

“That’s true,” says Seonghwa in a tiny voice. “I’m usually alone. This is… this is better.” Then, even more quietly, so soft Hongjoong can barely hear it, “Thank you.”

Hongjoong doesn’t reply, a feeling of overwhelm locking up his chest. How lonely has Seonghwa been, that even someone sitting beside him for a few minutes and offering a few clumsy words of comfort feels like an improvement?

He looks around the room again, trying to think of something else to say. He feels like he should make an effort to keep the conversation moving, give Seonghwa something else to think about so he doesn’t spiral, like Wooyoung did for him earlier.

“Wonder what the emergency food rations are like,” he says, kicking his feet and hoping it’s not too transparent of a filler question. “Have you seen any sign of food down here yet?”

Seonghwa blinks then shakes his head.

“Not yet.”

“Well, whatever it is, it’ll probably be grey,” says Hongjoong, thinking back to the shy joke Seonghwa had made when he joined them to eat.

That gets a tiny laugh from Seonghwa, a quick upward twitch of his lips that gives Hongjoong a little rush of satisfaction.

“What’s your favourite food?” he continues, “Do you have something you miss the most?”

Seonghwa hesitates, looking conflicted.

“Um, well… yes,” he says after a moment, reluctantly.

“What was it?” Hongjoong prompts, confused at his reluctance.

Seonghwa grimaces.

“It’s… fancy,” he says quietly. “I’ll sound spoiled.”

Hongjoong laughs, surprised.

“Oh, is that all?” he says. “Don’t worry about that! I know you had to stay in the Capitol a lot, and they objectively have the best food in the land. It’s only natural you’d like something from there.”

Seonghwa stares at the ground for a moment, considering.

“…Strawberry cheesecake,” he mutters.

“That’s your favourite?” Hongjoong asks.

Seonghwa nods, still looking at the ground.

Hongjoong puts his head on one side.

“I’m not sure if I’ve had that,” he says. “I’ve had cheesecake, I’m pretty sure, but not strawberry flavour.”

“Other flavours aren’t as good,” says Seonghwa. “Well, not to me, anyway.”

“Is strawberry your favourite flavour in general?” asks Hongjoong, curious.

Seonghwa nods at once, and Hongjoong smiles.

“Strawberries are nice,” he says. “We didn’t get them very often in 12, the ones people grew in their gardens were too expensive, but they’d grow in the forest occasionally. I found a little patch in a clearing one time, when I was out looking for food. There were only a few, but they tasted so good.”

Seonghwa draws back into himself, looking guilty again. It takes Hongjoong a moment to realise that his attempt to find common ground has probably only drawn more attention to the differences between them. Seonghwa probably thinks of strawberries as something served up in bountiful piles on fancy serving plates, not scrounged from small bushes in the woods.

He sighs internally and kicks his feet again.

“Hey, you know I don’t…” he starts, then trails off awkwardly, not sure of the words to choose, “…You know I don’t hold any of this stuff against you, right?”

Seonghwa looks over at him, head tilted, shoulders still hunched self-consciously.

“All the… luxury stuff,” Hongjoong tries to clarify. “I mean, we don’t control where we’re born. Of course you’ve had different experiences to me, we grew up in totally different places. And you’ve been a victor for way longer, too. I mean, maybe if I’d had a few more years as a victor, being invited back to the parties and all that, I’d be used to more fancy food and stuff too.”

Seonghwa blinks, surprised, before his face clouds over and he looks away again.

“Still,” he mutters, “I should be more thoughtful about it. I had so much, and so many people had nothing. I don’t have a right to complain about any of it.”

“When did you complain?” asks Hongjoong. “I asked you what your favourite food was, and you answered me. There’s nothing wrong with that. It’s not like you were bragging.”

Seonghwa looks like he wants to argue, but isn’t sure how. Before he can find another way to self-deprecate, Hongjoong doubles down.

“I know it wasn’t your fault you were always at those parties, with all the fancy food and everything. They only started inviting you after they made you fight for your life for their entertainment. And I’m sure they didn’t give you a choice about whether or not to attend, anyway. So how could I blame you for any of it?”

Seonghwa looks down at his hands.

“I thought you hated me for it,” he admits quietly. “You… you used to glare at me, sometimes, at those parties. Across the room.”

Crap. Hongjoong doesn’t doubt that, but he hadn’t realised Seonghwa had ever noticed.

“Of course, I wouldn’t blame you,” Seonghwa continues. “I would have hated me too, if I were you.”

“I didn’t hate you!” Hongjoong protests.

Seonghwa looks at him silently, and Hongjoong grimaces.

“Well, not… it wasn’t personal,” he says. “I didn’t know who you were, not really. I hated the Prince of the Arena I kept seeing everywhere, this perfect person who seemed completely at home in the Capitol and was allied with the other Careers. But, obviously, that wasn’t you. Not really.”

“It sort of was,” says Seonghwa. “I feel like I lost myself there, having to… to conform to everyone else in the Capitol. I let them turn me into one of them.”

“You’re not Capitol,” says Hongjoong firmly. “Just because you had to spend a lot of time there doesn’t mean you’re not one of the people they’re oppressing. They still made you suffer. You’re a victim just as much as the rest of us. Just… in a different way, that’s all.”

Seonghwa blinks rapidly and looks away. For a moment, Hongjoong could have sworn there were tears in his eyes.

“…Thank you,” say Seonghwa after a moment, voice weak. “That… means a lot, to hear you say that.”

“It’s the truth,” says Hongjoong.

Seonghwa sniffs quietly, and the silence stretches.

Finally, Hongjoong forces himself to swallow, and perks up.

“So, what other foods do you like?”

Seonghwa seems grateful for the subject change, and they manage to steer the conversation back to lighter topics, even if it’s still a little stilted.

They talk about food, both fancy Capitol fare and the more modest food from their home districts, then their own districts in general. They skirt around the big things – the differences in class, the fact that their families are back there somewhere, maybe alive or maybe dead, the fact that they may never get to return – and instead talk about the small things. How the weather differs between the areas they live in, what their favourite season is, which animals they like seeing in the wild.

“We don’t see much in District 1,” says Seonghwa, “Since there aren’t that many trees. But I see rabbits sometimes. They’re so cute.”

Hongjoong tactfully doesn’t mention that when he sees rabbits in 12, his first thought is usually to wonder if he can catch and eat it.

“I always like seeing the squirrels,” he says instead. “They’re cute too.”

“Oh, I’d love to see a squirrel,” says Seonghwa, eyes shining. “I’ve only ever seen pictures.”

Eventually the conversation slows, and they find themselves lapsing into silence again, both staring at the floor.

The bombs overheard seem to be coming less frequently now. Across the bunker, people are starting to settle and bed down for the night, huddling under their thin regulation-supplied blankets.

Seonghwa lets out a ragged sigh and runs a hand through his tangled hair.

“God, I’m so tired,” he mumbles. “I wish I could sleep.”

“Too stressful with the bombs still going off up there?” asks Hongjoong sympathetically. “They seem to be slowing down now, at least.”

Seonghwa nods and shrugs noncommittally.

“And all these people,” he says. “I can’t… I can’t really let my guard down around so many people I don’t know. Not enough to sleep.”

“Ah.”

Hongjoong hadn’t considered this, but it makes sense. In a massive room with no walls, surrounded by people and with no one trusted to watch his back, he doubts he’d be able to relax either.

“Um… would it help if I stayed with you?” he asks tentatively. “I know we don’t exactly know each other that well, but I could keep an eye out, make sure no one comes near while you’re resting?”

Seonghwa looks at him, wide-eyed.

Hongjoong almost expects him to refuse, to say that they aren’t close enough for that, but instead –

“Are you sure?” Seonghwa asks hesitantly. “I… I don’t want you to feel like you have to…”

“It’s fine,” Hongjoong cuts him off. “I mean, it’s not like I have anything else to do. I’m too wired to sleep right now. I’ve just gotta sit and wait it out, and I may as well do that here.”

Seonghwa hesitates for a moment more, then slowly nods.

“Um, alright,” he says. “Thank you.”

There’s an awkward moment where neither of them move, unsure what to do now, then Hongjoong takes initiative and shifts further up the bed, with his back against the wall. He moves the pillow to the other side and makes sure he’s taking up no more than half of the bed, so Seonghwa has room to lie down, which, after a moment, he does.

“Are you sure this is alright?” Seonghwa asks, so quietly Hongjoong barely hears him.

“Of course,” he assures him. “I wouldn’t have offered otherwise.”

Seonghwa nods, almost to himself, and after a few more moments, closes his eyes.

Trying to make himself a comforting, non-threatening presence, Hongjoong keeps himself as still as possible, breathing slowly, and keeps watch over the room, making sure no one else tries to approach. He doesn’t think they would, but you never know, and he did promise Seonghwa he’d stay aware for both of them.

Eventually, Seonghwa’s breathing evens out and becomes heavier, and Hongjoong smiles briefly to himself, glad that it worked.

Seonghwa has been through so much, looks so miserable every time Hongjoong sees him, it’s nice to be able to at least do this one small thing for him. He definitely seems like he needs a rest.

Time ticks on, Seonghwa slumbers, and Hongjoong watches him sleep.

Maybe that’s creepy, but he’s too tired to care. He’s not strong enough to drag his eyes away from that face right now, not when all his energy has deserted him and there’s no consequences, no one else to see.

He stares and stares at Seonghwa’s face, so different now it’s slack with sleep.

He’s so beautiful.

Hongjoong knew that already, of course, but it’s different now, seeing him relaxed and serene like this.

His eyes trace over the elegant curves of his nose and jawline, his long lashes, his dark brows. He has some of the smoothest skin Hongjoong has ever seen, marred though it is by little scars and cuts, much like the rest of them. Perhaps being the Capitol’s darling means he has access to… some sort of products, something that make his skin look pretty and smooth even when he’s not covered in makeup.

Hongjoong wouldn’t know. He’s from District 12, where most people work in the mines. ‘Skin care’ is a foreign idea he’s heard Capitol people allude to, nothing more. He vaguely remembers some of his stylists smoothing some kind of cream into his skin once or twice, tutting that it wouldn’t be able to make much difference in such a short timeframe, but that’s all.

Maybe that’s why they use it, though, if this is the effect it has. Or maybe that’s just how Seonghwa is, inhumanely beautiful in every way.

There’s a strange sense of rightness settling over Hongjoong, the longer he sits beside Seonghwa. It makes no sense, but it’s practically a physical effect on his body. Everything feels like it’s falling to pieces around him, himself included, but in this moment, with Seonghwa sleeping peacefully beside him, Hongjoong feels like he can breathe again. A tiny little pocket of calm in the maelstrom.

At one point, Hongjoong couldn’t say at what time, Seonghwa seems to stir slightly. Hongjoong is prepared for him to wake up, but Seonghwa just frowns slightly, eyes still closed, then rolls over towards Hongjoong. Perhaps he’s unconsciously seeking the heat from his body, because he ends up curled against Hongjoong’s leg, face resting on his thigh.

Hongjoong freezes, heart in his mouth, waiting for Seonghwa to wake, to jerk away. Instead, Seonghwa lets out a long sigh, face relaxing from his frown, and settles back into his deep, steady breathing.

After a few agonising moments, Hongjoong realises that he’s going to stay there, asleep like this, and he forces himself to start breathing again.

He’s afraid to move, afraid to breathe too heavily and disturb whatever this situation is. Part of him feels guilty – would Seonghwa be embarrassed or unhappy about sleeping like this? Should Hongjoong wake him, or gently move him back? – but a selfish part of him doesn’t want Seonghwa to move. Besides, Seonghwa hasn’t been asleep for long, and he clearly needs the rest. He doesn’t need Hongjoong disturbing him and making him feel bad just for rolling over.

So Hongjoong stays still, breathing slowly and evenly.

Seonghwa sleeps for three hours, still nestled comfortably against Hongjoong’s thigh. He twitches occasionally, but otherwise doesn’t move.

Hongjoong needs to move a couple of times, as his legs and backside protest holding still for so long, but he manages to do so without jostling Seonghwa awake.

At one point, Mingi passes, evidently looking to check in on Hongjoong, and raises his eyebrows questioningly when he sees them.

Hongjoong gives an awkward half-shrug in return and shakes his head to let Mingi know not to come any closer, and Mingi accepts with a nod and shrug of his own. Hongjoong senses he’s going to be questioned later, but that’s fine.

Time creeps on, and Hongjoong begins to doze too, although he doesn’t sleep properly – not while Seonghwa is relying on him to keep watch.

Finally, just as Hongjoong’s watch shows two in the morning, Seonghwa begins to stir.

He wakes slowly, making a couple of soft noises as he stirs which make Hongjoong’s heart contract. His eyes flutter open and he stares unseeingly for a moment before suddenly realising the position they’re in. Then his eyes widen in panic and he scrambles to push himself up.

“I’m so sorry!”

Without thinking, still half in a doze himself, Hongjoong jerks his arm up and quickly catches Seonghwa’s shoulder, holding him in place.

“No, stay,” he says groggily.

Seonghwa freezes, wide, dark eyes staring up at Hongjoong in confusion. Hongjoong snaps out of his own daze, waking up properly and realising what he’s doing.

“Oh, I mean, sorry, not if you don’t want to,” he says hurriedly, releasing his tight hold on Seonghwa’s shoulder as if burned. “Sorry, don’t feel pressured, I just, I just meant,” he swallows, “It’s fine. If, if you want to stay. Then. Please.”

Fuck, he’s such a mess. Seonghwa isn’t going to want anything to do with him after this. Hongjoong grimaces, waiting for Seonghwa to get up and leave, or ask him to.

But instead, slowly, so slowly, Seonghwa turns his head and lowers it to sit against Hongjoong’s thigh once more.

It’s a bit different now, awkward, Seonghwa’s body tense with uncertainty. Hongjoong, too, has to remind himself to breathe.

“Um, I might doze a bit too,” he says after a moment, “Just so you know. Is that alright? I’m a light sleeper, so I’ll still notice if anyone comes near.”

“Of course,” says Seonghwa quickly. “I don’t want to stop you from sleeping. Sorry.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Hongjoong assures him. “I just wanted to check in with you. I wouldn’t be sleeping properly anyway.”

They lapse back into silence, and after a few more minutes, the tension finally seems to seep from Seonghwa’s frame again as he drifts back to sleep.

Hongjoong’s heart keeps on fluttering in his chest.

***

Around hour ten in the bunker, Wooyoung gives up on sleeping.

They’d all decided to try and get some rest once the clocks hit two in the morning and the bombing seemed to wane. Yeosang, who was already exhausted, is sleeping soundly, but Wooyoung has only managed a restless doze, and now even that is eluding him.

He sits up, careful not to disturb Yeosang beside him, and stretches his arms before looking around.

Jongho is still perched on the bed next to them, wide awake. He raises his eyebrows in silent question when Wooyoung stands up.

“Bathroom,” he says quietly, by way of explanation, and Jongho nods and sits back.

Wooyoung takes the long route to the bunker’s toilets, meandering round the aisles of bunk beds for longer than necessary to stretch his legs and work off some of his restless energy.

He sees Mingi lying on his back on his bunk, not sleeping either but staring boredly at the bottom of the bed above. He keeps tossing something lightly into the air and catching it again – his water bottle lid, Wooyoung realises when he looks closer. He makes eye contact with Wooyoung as he passes and nods in greeting, but doesn’t say anything or get up, so Wooyoung just returns the nod and keeps moving.

He passes Hongjoong sitting on Seonghwa’s bed, spots Seonghwa a second later, curled beside Hongjoong and apparently sleeping, his head almost in Hongjoong’s lap. Interesting. Wooyoung meets Hongjoong’s eye and raises an eyebrow in question. Hongjoong lifts his chin defiantly and glares back, as if challenging Wooyoung to tease him. Even more interesting. With a quiet chuckle, Wooyoung raises his hands in surrender and leaves them to it.

When he returns to his own bed, he’s feeling a little less filled with pent-up energy, but still too wired to sleep. Instead, he turns to Jongho, and points to the foot of his bed.

“Can I sit?” he asks. “Don’t want to disturb Yeosangie, while he’s actually managing to get some sleep.”

Jongho nods at once, and Wooyoung sits gratefully beside him on the low bunk.

For a long moment, they both sit in silence, listening to the gentle background noise of others moving around the bunker, murmuring in low voices.

“Hey,” says Wooyoung eventually, “I’ve been wanting to ask you – what’s the deal with San?”

Jongho frowns.

“…the deal?”

“You know,” says Wooyoung, waving a hand. “Why’s he like that?”

“Like what?” asks Jongho, cagey. “What kind of question is that?”

Wooyoung sighs. Too direct. He’s been getting closer to Jongho lately, and it’s nice, but he still needs to be careful not to overestimate just how familiar they’ve become.

“Well, you know,” he says, “So… defensive. Bitter. Distrustful. I just get the feeling he’s not naturally like that. I wondered if you knew what might have happened to make him that way.”

Jongho is still eying him with distrust himself.

“The Hunger Games happened,” he says. “Surely you don’t need me to tell you that.”

Wooyoung sighs again.

“Ok, look, sorry,” he says. “I was too blasé bringing it up like this. It’s just, well…”

He shifts on the bed, looking away for a moment to gather his thoughts before looking back to Jongho.

“I’m really hoping that we manage to get both him and Yunho out of the Capitol,” he says. “Yunho really saved us with the warning before the air raid, so this could change everything. There’s a chance the rebellion leaders could actually send a rescue party now, that we could actually get them back.”

Jongho sits forward suddenly, eyes alight with new interest.

“Really?” he says. “Are they making plans? Did you hear something?”

“No, nothing concrete,” Wooyoung clarifies, “But Yunho just undeniably saved a lot of resistance lives. I’d be very surprised if there’s no movement once this is over. I mean, think of how it would look if we didn’t do anything to help him, after this.”

Jongho nods thoughtfully.

“Ok,” he says. “Well, that’s good then.”

“So,” Wooyoung pushes on doggedly, “If San does get rescued, and he can come back here, I’ll get to see him again, outside of the Arena for the first time. And he’ll have gone through hell, just like Yunho, so he’s going to need our help.”

“I know,” says Jongho, mildly defensive. “I’ll be there for him.”

Wooyoung sighs again.

“I know you will,” he says. “But I’d like to be there for him too, if I can. I know it may not have seemed like it in the Arena, I know I don’t always have the most… normal way of showing it. But I do care about him, you know.”

“You spent the whole Games trying to wind him up,” says Jongho flatly. “I wouldn’t count flirting just to get a reaction as caring.”

Wooyoung smiles ruefully.

“Again, I know how I can come off,” he says, “Especially when we need to perform for the cameras. But I do like San. I just want to understand him.”

“Maybe that’s your problem,” says Jongho, “He’s a person, not some puzzle for you to solve.”

That makes Wooyoung pause. Is that how he’s coming off? Is that how he’s actually thinking about San? Maybe just a little, but that’s not the whole picture.

“I suppose he is a puzzle,” he says slowly, “But it’s not something I’m trying to solve for fun, or because I’m bored. I genuinely want to find out more about him, to get to know him better.”

“Because he’s an abnormality?” asks Jongho challengingly.

“Because he’s a nice person,” says Wooyoung.

That makes Jongho pause. Clearly, that wasn’t what he was expecting to hear.

“What?”

“He’s a nice person,” Wooyoung repeats, “I’m sure of it. At his core, anyway, even if he doesn’t act like it right now.”

“What makes you say that?” Jongho asks.

Wooyoung thinks back to their time in the Arena together.

“Well,” he says, “It’s clear that he’s got a really strict moral code, and cares strongly about being a good person and doing the right thing. Cares about making sure others do the right thing, too. Doesn’t want bad things to happen to others, even if they’re annoying.”

Like me.

It hadn’t been lost on Wooyoung that San had been concerned for him, had looked out for him and seemed truly worried and upset when Wooyoung had been poisoned. Yes, he’d told him off, but in the way people do when the anger is born from panic rather than irritation.

“He’s a good person,” he says again. “So, for someone like that to end up so deeply bitter, to shut everyone else out and decide not to trust them, something has to happen.”

He turns and looks Jongho directly in the eye.

“So,” he says again, “What’s the deal with San?”

Jongho is quiet for a long time. He stares at his own clasped hands, clearly trying to find where to begin. Then, finally he speaks.

“San… didn’t like to perform,” he says. “He didn’t like the pageantry of the Games, as you know. The trouble was, it doesn’t end there, does it? Once you’re a victor, you’re in the spotlight for life. And being dragged back year after year, expected to fit back into a role, a persona he never even wanted in the beginning, it really got to San.”

“Yeah, I got that impression,” says Wooyoung. “Especially from his interview. I mean, I sympathise, obviously. The Capitol is… evil, obviously, but also ridiculous, the way they honestly keep expecting you to be delighted to be there. It’s hard to bear.”

Jongho nods.

“Harder for San than the rest of us, I think. He hates acting. Hates lying. I get the impression he was raised to really value honesty. Being surrounded by such fake people, and being expected to be as fake as them to fit in, it chafed at him.” He sighs. “…Then, eventually, he stopped cooperating altogether. Stopped coming to the events he was invited to.”

Jongho grimaces, seals his lips and stares hard at the ground. There’s a pause, where Jongho seems to be deciding whether or not to continue his story.

Wooyoung decides to fill in the blanks for him.

“They killed his family, didn’t they,” he says dully.

It’s barely even a question. Wooyoung had already suspected it, he’d just hoped he’d been wrong.

Jongho blinks, surprised by his guess.

“How did…?”

“That’s what they do, isn’t it?” says Wooyoung. “I mean, you know my story. I was only chosen for the Games because they thought Yeosang’s victory was an anticlimax.”

Jongho grimaces.

“True.”

“So that’s really what happened?” Wooyoung presses.

“I think so,” says Jongho. “He’s never really talked about it with me. Maybe not with anyone. Not openly, at least. But he’s… said things. Enough for me to piece some of it together.”

Wooyoung nods solemnly, and they sit in silence for a moment, the air suddenly heavy around them. Jongho is blinking rapidly, like he might tear up.

“So did he just kind of… vanish from the scene?” Wooyoung asks after a long moment. “I mean, do you know if it was something he planned to do?”

“He told me,” says Jongho, voice catching, “I still remember the night. We were both at a party together, and we’d both gone out onto the balcony to get away from the crowds, and we got talking. He said he hated coming back to the Capitol, and that he was going to stop responding to the invitations.”

He drops his head, sniffs.

“I wish I’d tried harder to talk him out of it,” he whispers. “I mean, I tried to warn him. That the Capitol wouldn’t like it, I mean. But we’d only just met, I didn’t feel like it was my place to give him advice.”

He sighs.

“He probably wouldn’t have listened to me anyway,” he says, smiling bitterly. “He was done being told what to do.”

“So that was all he did wrong?” Wooyoung clarifies. “He declined their invitations and stopped making public appearances?”

“As far as I know,” says Jongho. “He stopped appearing at all for a while, and when he finally reappeared, it was only for the most important events. It would have been about a year that he spent off the grid.”

“And they killed his family for it?” says Wooyoung, frowning. “That seems extreme, even for the Capitol. I mean, I suspected something had happened behind the scenes, but I thought maybe he’d have got in a fight with some officials or something. Insulted someone high up, at least.”

Jongho shrugs.

“Maybe something like that did happen, and I just never heard about it,” he says. “I have my own theory though.”

“Which is?” Wooyoung prompts him.

Jongho sighs heavily.

“I think they were just waiting for him to do something, anything wrong. They would have taken any excuse.”

Wooyoung tilts his head, confused, and Jongho elaborates.

“He was a nightmare to work with,” he says, “From the Capitol’s perspective, anyway. He hated them and they hated him. But he hadn’t done anything that would justify them punishing him, not officially. And Snow didn’t have any problem with him, since he hadn’t outwardly said or done anything to undermine the Capitol’s image or authority. I think, instead, a few private citizens of the Capitol pulled some strings and arranged an accident for his family. Just out of hatred and pettiness.”

“Private citizens?” echoes Wooyoung. “So it wasn’t anyone in government or law enforcement?”

“I think…” says Jongho, “And again, this is just a theory, but I think his handler may have been involved.”

“His handler?” repeats Wooyoung, confused.

Jongho waves a hand.

“Ah, his Capitol host. His liaison. San always called them ‘handlers’ and I guess I picked up the habit too at some point.”

His handler. Like someone who herds livestock, or someone in charge of a prize horse or cow for a show. Wooyoung can well imagine Sane saying that resentfully, the boy from the livestock district feeling like a show pony, or like one of the cattle he was used to seeing sent to their deaths in the abattoirs.

Wooyoung can also imagine the person in charge of communicating with San on the Capitol’s behalf – in charge of convincing him to come to party after party, getting him to dress up and behave – growing tired and bitter, as resentful of San as San was of them.

“And you think they killed his family to spite him?” he asks.

“I think they did it to provoke him,” says Jongho. “I think they would have found it entertaining to make him snap. To do something so upsetting that it caused him to lash out in return, giving the Capitol officials a reason to pay attention to his behaviour and punish him officially.”

Wooyoung feels his stomach turn.

“You mean they got sick of arguing with him, so they tried to bait him into attacking them instead, just to get him in trouble?”

“That’s my theory,” says Jongho. “But San isn’t crazy, or stupid. He was never going to go charging up to the Capitol gates with a knife, or whatever else they thought he might do. They were believing their own story they wrote about him, not actually looking at the real person who existed in front of them. And what everyone likes to call his ‘murderous rampage’ in the Arena was entirely in self-defence, against Careers who were actively hunting him. People like to forget that.”

“Yeah,” says Wooyoung thoughtfully, “So they didn’t succeed in provoking his crazy murderous side to come out, because it doesn’t exist. They just solidified him as an enemy of the Capitol, one who would bide his time and take the first opportunity he got to join a plot to sabotage them.”

Jongho nods.

“I wonder why he never brought any of it up,” Wooyoung continues. “In the interviews and stuff, I mean. He was clearly angry, and he wasn’t holding back. Why wouldn’t he confront Caesar about it?”

“I’m not sure,” says Jongho, “But if I had to guess, I’d say he didn’t want to give anyone the satisfaction of seeing how it affected him. I think he would have wanted to keep his pain private. He didn’t want to give them any more fuel for their narratives.”

Wooyoung nods to himself. That makes sense.

“That’s all just so awful,” he says quietly. “He’s suffered so much.”

“He has,” says Jongho.

He’s silent for another long moment before speaking again.

“Answer me honestly, please,” he says, “Do you truly care about San? I mean, you’ve only known him for a few weeks.”

“That’s long enough to start caring about someone,” says Wooyoung. “You of all people should know that.”

He nods his head back towards where Yeosang is still sleeping, face smooth and angelic and peaceful in the way that only comes when he’s unconscious these days. Jongho follows Wooyoung’s gaze and frowns.

“That’s… that’s not…” he pauses, stuck, then huffs, “That’s not the same.”

He looks away.

“Isn’t it?” asks Wooyoung gently, after a moment.

Jongho keeps frowning at the ground.

“…I don’t know,” he says. “I just… I think anyone in their right mind would love Yeosang. At least platonically, I mean. He’s just… easy to love.”

“He is,” Wooyoung agrees. “…And San?”

Jongho’s expression remains even.

“I care about him a lot, but that doesn’t mean I’m not realistic,” he says. “I don’t think many people would say San is easy to love. He’s difficult and hostile to most people these days. It doesn’t make him any less of a good person, but we all know it’s true.”

Wooyoung nods, respecting his honesty.

“Fair,” he says. “Can’t fault you for checking. And, for the record, I wouldn’t call it love yet, but I do genuinely care about San. I promise you that.”

Jongho regards him for a second, evaluating his sincerity, then nods.

“Ok,” he says. “Good.”

“You’re protective of him,” Wooyoung notes. “Isn’t he older? Weren’t his Games before yours?”

“Yeah,” says Jongho. “Doesn’t really matter though, does it? He’s been through more, lost more. He needs someone to care for him more than I do.”

Wooyoung tilts his head, considering.

If he’s remembering correctly, Jongho is younger than all of them, one of the youngest victors on record. It’s easy to forget, sometimes, because he doesn’t particularly look it, being well-built and intimidatingly strong, and he carries himself with quiet confidence, always seems mature and reserved. Underneath it all, though, he’s just a lonely, traumatised kid like the rest of them, robbed of his teenage-hood, and perhaps any chance at a normal adult life too.

Yet, through it all, he’s still so selfless. He never complains, always puts the needs of the people he’s decided to care for above his own. Wooyoung was glad to have him as an ally in the Arena, and he’s even more glad to have him on side now, as another person who can help care for and protect Yeosang.

Which reminds him…

“So… ‘easy to love’,” he says, referring back to earlier. “Does that mean you’re admitting you’re in love with Yeosangie?”

Jongho sighs.

“Not much to admit,” he says. “You already knew that, didn’t you?”

“Of course,” says Wooyoung. “But I wasn’t sure if you knew. These things can take a while to figure out, or so I’ve heard.”

Jongho huffs.

“I’m not a baby,” he says. “I know how it feels to be in love.”

It takes all of Wooyoung’s strength not to react to that, not to flinch away. It shouldn’t hurt as much as it does that this obvious thing, this quintessential human experience, is still something he knows so little about. That he still doesn’t know now, that he can’t tell if these feelings for San are something he could confidently label. Love? Fascination? Desperation? All three?

He knows that Jongho isn’t saying it to be cruel, that he probably doesn’t know much about Wooyoung's life or how this might make him feel, but it still stings.

Still, Wooyoung puts his hurt aside for later and smiles.

“Well, in that case,” he says, “Going to do anything about it? Apart from hover around him and pine, I mean.”

Jongho is silent for a long moment, staring expressionlessly at Yeosang’s sleeping face. Then he turns away, head lowered.

“I don’t know if love is what Yeosang needs right now.”

Wooyoung frowns, confused.

“What do you mean?”

Surely they all need love right now, Yeosang most of all. He’s lost a leg, for god’s sake! He needs all the allies and help he can get. Wooyoung had thought Jongho would be the first to agree with him on this.

But Jongho just keeps staring at his own folded hands.

“We’re in the middle of a revolution,” he says, “And Yeosang is recovering from a major injury. Not to mention all that you’ve both been through before this. I’m not sure if now is the right time to start a relationship.”

Ah. Wooyoung hadn’t been considering that angle. He supposes that most people probably do view a romantic relationship as something with rather more gravity than an allyship. Wooyoung realises that he had been planning to encourage Jongho to fall in love with Yeosang because he wants to lock in another person who will truly care for Yeosang should anything happen to Wooyoung. From Jongho’s point of view – indeed, most people’s point of view – that probably sounds terribly mercenary.

Still, he reflects, it’s not the only reason. There is more to it than that.

“Well… maybe,” Wooyoung says. “But, the thing is… Yeosang’s never had a chance to be in love before. Neither of us have. Not with… the job the Capitol gave us.”

Jongho blinks, surprised.

“No one?” he asks, then purses his lips and looks away again. “Well, I suppose that makes sense.”

“Yeah,” says Wooyoung. “So, he’s never been able to experience a normal relationship, having someone who cares about him that way. Honestly, I think it could be good for him, especially while he’s so low at the moment.”

“I just don’t want him to feel any pressure,” says Jongho. “He’s already had a lifetime’s worth of that. To… to have to do all of that, to,” he pauses, cringing as he searches for the word, “entertain people like that, from such a young age too…” he shakes his head, “I couldn’t begin to image what that was like.”

“Yeah,” says Wooyoung, “But I can. And from my perspective, it’s confusing and weird and totally foreign to actually finally have feelings for someone else, to have someone you’d voluntarily want to be close to like that, but… well, it feels good, too. Almost powerful.”

Jongho tilts his head curiously, and Wooyoung continues.

“The Capitol has already taken so much from us,” he says. “We can’t let it ruin love for us. And to finally choose someone for ourselves, to get to experience affection that we want, on our own terms, I think that’s pretty special. I know it’s something I’d like, given the chance.”

“Wouldn’t it be best to give it some time, though?” asks Jongho helplessly. “To, I don’t know, to adjust to not being in that sort of situation anymore first.”

“Oh, probably,” says Wooyoung. “But do we have time?”

He waves a hand.

“I mean, look at us right now,” he says, “We’re hiding in a bunker because we’re being bombed. If we hadn’t gotten lucky, if Yunho hadn’t managed to warn us, we could have died tonight.”

Jongho looks back at the ground, shoulders hunched, looking conflicted.

Wooyoung pats him on the shoulder.

“Look, I’m not saying the world is ending and you need to throw yourself headfirst into something you’re not ready for,” he says. “But don’t sit on your feelings forever, waiting for perfect circumstances, because we may not get them. And one day it might be too late.”

That seems to make sense to Jongho. He sits up a little straighter, then turns back to Wooyoung and nods.

“Alright,” he says, “Thank you. I wouldn’t have thought of it that way, but it’s a good point. Thank you for the perspective.”

“I’m not sure if that’s what Yeosang thinks about the whole situation too,” Wooyoung clarifies. “But like I said, we’ve been through the same stuff.”

“That’s true,” says Jongho. “I suppose you just seem more…”

He pauses, searching for the word.

“Put together?” says Wooyoung. “I’m better at faking it right now, because I haven’t lost a leg. I still have breakdowns.”

Jongho is silent for a moment at that, looking away again. When he does speak again, it’s not what Wooyoung expects.

“You can come to me.”

“What?” asks Wooyoung, puzzled.

“When you’re having a break down,” says Jongho, still looking at the ground. “You can come to me, you know, like you’ve been there for me before. We’re friends now, aren’t we? Or does that only count when someone else is the one who needs your help?”

He looks back at Wooyoung and raises his chin slightly, almost defiant.

Wooyoung blinks back, surprised. He’d been thinking of Jongho as someone they can bring into the circle to help Yeosang, not himself. Of course, he enjoys Jongho’s company, thinks he’s a good person and is happy to be a friend and offer support to him in return for helping Yeosang, but he hadn’t really considered that Jongho might be there for him too.

A weird spiral of emotion makes its way up Wooyoung’s chest, and for a moment he feels his throat close and thinks he might cry.

“Oh… thank you,” he says. “I’ll… keep that in mind.”

Jongho nods, and they lapse back into silence.

***

Eventually, the sound of bombs has ceased altogether, and people stop huddling and flinching, and start getting bored. The group gravitate back together, spread over the bunks assigned to Yeosang, Wooyoung and Jongho.

“How long have we been down here?” asks Yeosang, from where he’s lying sideways on his bunk, looking upside-down at the rest of the group.

Hongjoong checks his watch.

“Around sixteen hours.”

There’s a buzz of interest from everyone except Seonghwa, who is sitting glued to Hongjoong’s side, ramrod straight and silent as though his invitation to sit with the others might get revoked if he doesn’t behave.

“Wow, really?” says Wooyoung. “I thought it would have been way longer by now.”

“Huh, I thought it was less,” says Jongho, “Like, eight hours at most.”

“Being underground makes time weird,” says Mingi, and everyone else nods in agreement.

“It was the same in the Games,” says Wooyoung. “You know, when we were in that underground section? I had absolutely no concept of time. It was so weird.”

Hongjoong shudders, as do Mingi and Yeosang.

“Yeah, plus time probably was weird then,” Hongjoong says. “We were in the Arena, the days lasted as long as the Gamemaker wanted them to.”

Wooyoung clicks his tongue.

“Oh, true.”

Mingi tilts his head.

“It’s so weird looking back on all of that now,” he says, “Now that we know Kim Namjoon was actually on our side.”

Hongjoong snorts.

“It certainly didn’t feel like it at the time,” he says, “Not with how hostile that Arena was.”

“It didn’t for us either,” says Jongho, “and we knew he was rooting for us.”

“He couldn’t afford to raise suspicion,” says Yeosang. “I got the feeling he was looking out for us, at least a bit, after we got dropped into the second level at the end of day 1.”

“Oh, I forgot that happened to you,” says Mingi, eyes wide. “You said the ground just opened under you right?”

Wooyoung nods fervently.

“It was so scary,” he says. “I thought we were getting buried alive. Dropping down through the dunes and having the sand closing in over our heads before we came out the other end. Ugh, terrifying. I wish I could forget it.”

“Oh, don’t. Don’t go into detail while we’re down here,” says Yeosang, screwing his eyes shut. “I don’t want to think about it.”

Wooyoung laughs and pats Yeosang’s shoulder.

“Sorry, sorry,” he says. “I’ll stop.”

“And the bombing’s stopped too, now,” says Jongho reassuringly. “I’m sure we’ll get out of here safely now, once they decide the coast is clear.”

“How did you find the underground section, Seonghwa?” asks Mingi. “We would never have even found the place if we hadn’t been stuck in that cave. Namjoon must have set that gas attack to drive us further down underground, so he could unite us with Yeosang and Wooyoung and keep us all out of other dangers above ground for a day or two. Was there another way in?”

Beside Hongjoong, Seonghwa tenses up.

“I…um…” He looks around at them all, eyes wide.

“It’s alright,” says Hongjoong, concerned by his skittish reaction. “You don’t have to say if it’s a bad memory.”

Seonghwa bites his lip, then shrugs jerkily.

“I, well, no, it’s fine,” he says. “I guess.” He swallows, then continues. “One of the others suspected you’d hidden in that cave. He wanted to go in and explore, once we stopped bumping into other tributes above ground. They’d been looking for you all, obviously, so they’d started suspecting there was more to the Arena after a bit of time. I…” his breath catches, and he looks around at them imploringly, “I did try to stop them, I promise, I tried to talk them out of it, but they just wouldn’t listen, and…”

“Hey, hey, it’s ok!” says Wooyoung quickly, sitting up. “We weren’t expecting you to be trying to protect us, especially not before we’d even had a conversation.”

“We don’t blame you for anything the other careers did,” Yeosang adds earnestly, propping himself up on his elbows to look around at Seonghwa too. “We know that you’re not like them now. Don’t feel bad!”

Once again, Hongjoong wonders if something has happened between Yeosang and Seonghwa in the past, for quiet, reserved Yeosang to keep making an effort to include Seonghwa and make him feel at ease. Wooyoung just said they’d never spoken, but Hongjoong gets the sense that Wooyoung would make an effort to include anyone, so long as they’re not a danger to him or Yeosang. Yeosang, on the other hand… Hongjoong makes a mental note to ask him later, if he gets a chance.

“And anyway, you helped us,” Hongjoong says now, putting a gentle hand on Seonghwa’s shoulder. “When we were hiding, and you found us in the dead end, remember? You told the others we weren’t there.”

“You really saved our skins then,” Mingi agrees.

Seonghwa frowns.

“I was just trying to avoid a fight,” he says. “I didn’t want to have to kill anyone else, or watch anyone else die.”

“And we’re grateful for it,” says Hongjoong firmly.

Seonghwa still looks uncertain, but he doesn’t argue further, and the conversation turns to other topics.

Then, finally, the long-awaited announcement sounds over the loudspeakers – they’re cleared to return to the upper levels once more.

***

As they filter back upstairs, it’s with both relief and trepidation. While everyone survived, they know that there must be at least some structural damage, from the loud noise and bone-shaking impact of the explosions.

Fortunately, the area that Hongjoong and Mingi’s rooms are in is still intact. Some of the highest levels were not so fortunate, and this necessitates some reshuffling. With fewer rooms to house people, more people will be required to share until repairs can be made. It’s inconvenient, but everyone is so relieved that a few demolished living quarters are the only consequences of the potentially deadly attack that nobody minds much.

When Hongjoong is summoned to speak to someone in charge, he expects that he’s going to be asked to move to Mingi’s room, since both of currently have a single room to themselves, and he’s fine with it.

Instead, he finds himself face-to-face with a haggard-looking Namjoon.

“Hongjoong,” he says, waving him in. “I don’t have much time to chat, but I thought you should know that it’s been decided. We’re sending a team to get Yunho back from the Capitol.”