Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

hey, hey, heyyy, welcome back everyone! if you've read the first part of this story, perfect! if not, GO READ IT FIRST! this has officially turned into a series, so this is ‘Survival on the Field,’ part two! I'm really looking forward to writing this one, I've been dying to finally share all these ideas with you guys. the love you gave the first story was truly amazing, and I'm so, so, SO grateful for everyone who loved and supported my fic. I wouldn't be making this one now if it weren't for you guys, so thank you and I love youuu!!!!

anyway, you guys know how this goes, information time!! get excited whoop whoop!!

TRIBUTES & DISTRICTS:

District 1: Oikawa and Hoshiumi

District 2: Kuroo and Maiko

District 3: Kenma and Terushima

District 4: Malik and Rose (ORIGINAL CHARACTERS)

District 5: Blossom and Moxie (ORIGINAL CHARACTERS)

District 6: Jun and Darcy (ORIGINAL CHARACTERS)

District 7: Kyotani and Akane

District 8: Akaashi and Otaki

District 9: Shoyo and Natsu

District 10: Kita and Nametsu

District 11: Daisho and Mika

District 12: Tobio and Sora (ORIGINAL CHARACTER)

CAPITOL MEMBERS:

Ushijima as the President

Sakusa as Head Gamemaker

Tendou as Games Host

Tenma (Tiny Giant) as Hinata’s mentor

Ukai as Tobio’s mentor

Yaku as Kuroo’s Fashion Designer

also guys, I do hope for this story I can post a few bonus chapters because I’ve got a few things in mind that aren’t really relevant to the story, but I’d still like to include because I think you will like them! let me know if you’re keen on that idea!! but anyways I think that’s all for now, any questions you have please feel free to ask! ENJOYYY!!!

Chapter Text

Shoyo drifted into sleep accompanied by something unfamiliar–a departure from the recurring nightmares that had long haunted him.

This was not the familiar torment of reliving death, witnessing the demise of innocents, or staring at blood stained hands trembling with regret. He didn’t see Atsumu, nor Kaori or Bokuto, Tadashi.. Miwa..

No. This was something entirely different.

There was a boy. He couldn't have been more than thirteen, maybe fourteen. He was bound tightly to a chair, his face a ghostly white, the dark circles under his eyes a clear sign of sleepless nights and torment. Though his eyes were open, they held a weary alertness that betrayed his exhaustion. Bruises and scratches marred his skin, and tubes and bandages were attached to him, giving the unsettling impression of a patient in a hospital. But the room was dark and unfamiliar, leaving Shoyo unable to discern the nature of the scene. Whatever this place was, it was clear the boy wasn't being treated well.

He looked sick, neglected like a stray pup left to fend for itself on the streets.

His slender wrists were secured to the chair's arms by cold, unyielding metal restraints, their harshness contrasting against his worn skin. Each mark and bruise told a story of days, perhaps weeks or months, of desperate attempts to break free. Yet, in this dream, the boy remained as still as a statue, as if he had long since surrendered the hope of escape.

In the dimly lit room, where the only source of light cast a stark glow on the boy's sickly pallor, the echo of a door opening shattered the silence. It slammed shut with a resounding clang, as if made from solid iron. The boy remained motionless, seemingly unfazed by the noise, as though he had heard it countless times before. Yet, Shoyo noticed the subtle tremor that ran through the boy's fingers the moment footsteps began to reverberate through the room. His nails dug into the hard arms of the chair, an attempt to suppress the trembling.

The footsteps advanced until they ceased, revealing a tall man in a full black suit who stood before the captive. He appeared middle-aged, perhaps older, and his face possessed a familiarity that twisted Shoyo's stomach into a knot of nausea. The man scrutinised the boy with a meticulous gaze, as if searching for some alteration, a shift in his attitude, anything new to exploit. Finding nothing of note, he pulled out a clipboard, which Shoyo presumed held the boy's file. He couldn't get a good look, however. He had no idea who this boy was.

The man’s voice, deep and laced with intimidation, cut through the silence. "Progress report: Subject forty-two, Day eighty-seven," he intoned, his tone a low, impatient grumble, especially as that last number rolled off his tongue. He lifted his gaze from the clipboard, his eyes piercing into the boy as he added, "Let's see if we've finally made any headway.”

The boy remained silent, his eyes vacant and distant, as if his consciousness were only partially present. As if he was not all there. Perhaps he was finally losing his mind after all these days.

The man tilted his head, a feigned sigh escaping his lips. "Still not talking?" he said. "That's unlike you, considering how much you once relished hurling creative insults at me and the team—the very people who only want to help you."

A twitch flickered across the boy's face, his brows drawing together as he eked out a quiet, disgusted, "Help me?" His gaze lifted to meet the man's, who appeared both surprised and gratified by the response.

"Well, look who's still kicking," he hummed, a note of satisfaction in his voice. "I nearly thought you'd end up like subjects twenty or thirty-one. And I'm sure you remember what happened to them, don't you?"

The boy scoffed weakly—it was more of a ragged cough. "Being another one of your failed experiments sounds a lot more comforting than going through this for another two months."

"Hey now, don't say that. Not when you're so close," the man said, taking a deliberate step towards the boy. The boy tracked his movements, his weakened body stiffening as the man loomed over him. "Tell me," the man began. “have you had any exciting dreams of your old life recently?”

The man maintained unwavering eye contact, anticipating an answer, a snide remark, any reaction at all. The boy's nervousness was obvious. His dry lips pressed into a tight line, a response that spoke volumes to the man—perhaps the boy was finally losing his grip on his past. His old life. His family.

As the boy's gaze dropped, the man's smile widened in triumph. "Ah, see?" he said. "We are making progress."

The man retreated a step, busying himself with jotting notes on his clipboard. Shoyo could discern the distant tapping and clicking of keyboards and buttons, a reminder that they weren't alone. It was as if a whole team was working in concert with what Shoyo now thought of as the evil man, lurking just beyond the edges of the room.

The man retreated into the shadows, disappearing from Shoyo's sight, though he could still hear the hushed murmur of a conversation between the man and someone else. Orders, Shoyo surmised. The man was issuing orders. Then, a low hum filled the air, like a machine powering up. The sound sent a jolt of fear through the boy, and he flinched, shifting restlessly against the restraints and tubes that tethered him.

The man reappeared, stepping back into the light. "Calm down, would you?" he said, his tone devoid of warmth as he observed the boy's distress. "You know the routine by now, so settle in and prepare for the questions. Remember what I said—we're only trying to help you."

The boy's eyes darted around the room, a nervous energy making him skittish as he watched the figures in white coats prepare for the unavoidable. "Is that what you call it?" The words tasted like ash in his mouth. "Last time you 'helped' me, I was thrown into an empty steel room. And last time I checked, empty rooms with no airflow aren't exactly known for their hospitality. So, forgive me if I'm not exactly thrilled about your offer of assistance."

"That was a necessary precaution, and you know that," the man said, his gaze lifting from the clipboard to fix the boy with a flat, unwavering stare. "You were a danger to yourself and others, all because you couldn't follow simple instructions. We've made advancements since then. We understand you better now."

"Oh, you understand me now?" he scoffed, the sound laced with disbelief and a hint of hysteria. "After all the experiments? The needles? The endless questions? You think you can just waltz in here and pretend like I'm just going to forget?"

Silence descended, broken only by the hum of a machine warming up—a machine Shoyo couldn't see—and the subtle rustling of the people preparing the experiment. In that moment, the man's gaze lingered on the boy, a look of bored calculation that was nonetheless intimidating. It was a look he should have grown accustomed to by now, yet he couldn't shake the fear of what this man was capable of.

The man stepped towards the boy again, and his body gave him away, trembling uncontrollably. He could no longer mask his fear, despite the countless times he'd dealt with this. Despite standing face to face with this monster of a man, the one who always reminded him, “You are going to forget,” he was still tormented by the memories of where he came from. “Just like how you're going to forget about your family. About where you came from,” the man's voice was a low, insidious murmur. “You'll have a new life, and you won't even have to thank me. One day, you'll forget all of this ever happened.”

Shoyo watched the color drain from the kid's face, the way his eyes, glistening with unshed tears, caught the light. Dried tear tracks stained his cheeks, evidence of his captivity, of the endless waiting until he broke—Shoyo didn’t understand. He wanted to understand, but he couldn’t.

He wanted to understand the essence of this dream, even if it was nothing more than just a dream.

Finally, after a stretch of silence, the man retreated a step. "So, I'll ask you the same question I ask every time," he stated, lowering his clipboard as if the query were etched into his very being. He narrowed his eyes, his voice dropping to a dangerous level as he asked, "Who is that boy to you?"

The man wore a peculiar expression, a blend of weary anticipation and lingering hope, as if awaiting an answer he'd heard countless times, yet still wishing for a different outcome. But his expression remained guarded, wary of allowing too much hope to surface, because he could already see it in the boy's face—the furrowed brows, the angry squint of tired eyes, the telltale tremble of his lip. He knew the answer that was coming. He was simply waiting for it.

And then, “My brother.” the boy said.

As the boy trembled with fear, knowing what awaited him because he still couldn't bring himself to surrender to the man's demands—to their collective desires—the man merely watched, the last vestiges of hope crumbling away. Disappointment settled over his features as he issued the command..

"Prepare the infusion."

And in the next instant, the room erupted with screams—agonising and deafening—until, just as suddenly, silence.

…

Shoyo snapped awake.

He bolted upright, slamming against the headboard as if launched from a spring. His breath hitched, turning into loud, desperate gasps that echoed in the darkness. Sweat slicked his skin, and his heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat of terror. He clawed at the tangled sheets, knuckles white, desperate for purchase on reality.

His breath hitched and stuttered in his chest–he could barely breathe, because it was all too vivid, too real. He could almost feel the cold, hard metal of the chair digging into his skin, the rough restraints biting into his wrists. He could almost smell the sterile, metallic scent that permeated the air–could feel the pain coursing through his body when the kid screamed for help.

Too vivid, too real.. he could feel the boy’s fear as if it were his own.

Logically, he knew it was impossible. How could he dream of a past he hadn't witnessed, a reality that wasn't his? Yet, the memory clung to him with suffocating detail, the fear a living thing that pulsed beneath his skin. Shoyo squeezed his eyes shut, desperate to sever the tendrils of the dream, to convince himself it was nothing more than a cruel invention of his mind.

But that seed of doubt, the one he'd carried since the beginning, had finally broken through the surface, its roots sinking deep into the soil of his mind, choking the last vestiges of peace. If there were any left to lose.

Then, a warm hand found his shoulder, a familiar voice whispering, "Hey? You okay?" The simple touch was enough to ground him, to pull him back from the edge of his spiraling thoughts.

Shoyo turned, his gaze snapping from the warmth of Tobio's hand against his cold, sweat-slicked shoulder, to the man himself—the man who had sacrificed his own sleep to check on him, despite knowing this troubled routine all too well.

Looking up at Tobio, Shoyo fought to steady his breathing. "Yeah—yeah, I'm—" still caught in the aftershocks of the dream. "I'm fine."

Tobio, already sitting up beside Shoyo in their bed, knew better. He'd known this redhead for what felt like a lifetime—or from the moment his life truly began. He knew ‘fine’ was a shield, not a truth.

He scooted closer, his hand a gentle slide from shoulder to the base of Shoyo's spine. "Another nightmare?" he murmured. The barely perceptible flinch was all the confirmation he needed. A frown tugged at Tobio's brow, his thumb now drawing slow circles against the tense muscles of Shoyo's back. "You haven't had one of those in a while."

Shoyo's face tightened, the moonlight filtering through the blinds, highlighting the fear that clung to his features. "It's like this every year, Kags, you know that," he said, his voice tight. "Every time the reaping gets close—"

"I know," Tobio interrupted gently, his fingers now kneading the knots in Shoyo's lower back. "I just thought it would be better.. It's been six years."

Shoyo's gaze fell. "I thought it would be better too."

Tobio’s expression softened, a quiet sadness settling over his features. Despite the years that had passed, the weight of what happened remained, a shared trauma neither could escape. Shoyo was trapped in a cycle of nightmares from the arena six years ago, waking in distress, the names of those dead spilling from his lips—Atsumu, Sugawara, Yachi, even Miwa, though her loss hurt Tobio far more.

Six years ago marked the 69th Hunger Games—the Games from which Shoyo and Tobio emerged alive, alongside others who should have died, all rescued by the unexpected intervention of Lev Haiba. It turned out that Lev, a Capitol member and District Three's escort for five years, was secretly the spark of a rebellion. His actions, however, cost him dearly. He was executed as punishment for allowing those four kids to survive when the Capitol intended only Akaashi and Tobio to remain.

Lev was a leader, a rebel, a man transformed by conviction yet ultimately felled by it. His failure, however, doesn't diminish the significance of his actions.

The rebellion was still out there somewhere.

Six years ago, the 69th Hunger Games changed everything. Shoyo and Tobio, barely sixteen, squabbled over scraps of food, their young lives reduced to a pact of mutual death. Little did they know they would emerge from the arena not only alive but alongside four other tributes, an outcome that defied the Capitol's design. The following year brought further chaos. In the 70th Games, Daisho and Mika from District 11, in an act of defiance, threatened a double suicide with nightlock berries, forcing the Capitol's hand. They were declared co-victors, compelling the Capitol to rewrite its own rules in a desperate attempt to maintain control.

Their victory echoed the events of the previous year, exposing the Capitol's waning control and forcing their hand to avoid a complete failure. This blatant defiance ignited the Capitol's anger and, in particular, enraged Ushijima.

Daisho and Mika were still together to this day, but Tobio harbored doubts about the authenticity of their love. Having met Ushijima, the man in charge, Tobio suspected that their survival came with a price. He believed the President expected them to feign their love, knowing that their act of rebellion made them targets. Given the Capitol's reaction to the previous year's events, any further defiance would be met with severe consequences.

Ever since their win, Daisho and Mika had become virtual celebrities. The following year, they embarked on a Victory Tour for the 70th Hunger Games, traveling through each district to celebrate their shared triumph. This year, they were on tour again, perhaps due to the Quarter Quell, or simply because the public adored them and their supposed 'love'—if one could even call it that.

The aftermath of the 69th Games left things tense, but as Shoyo and Tobio matured, a semblance of normalcy began to return. Shoyo's nightmares were particularly vivid when he first moved into his new home, across from Tobio's. He often relived the horrors of the Games in his dreams. However, upon turning eighteen, he moved in with Tobio, and with Tobio by his side each night, the nightmares gradually subsided.

Tobio often feels at a loss when Shoyo awakens from a nightmare. In his younger years, Tobio was the one who sought comfort after dark dreams. His sister would gently hush him in District 12, wipe away his tears, run her fingers through his hair, and hold him until he drifted back to sleep in her arms. Comforting Shoyo became easier when Tobio mirrored his sister's actions, but when Shoyo was in a state like this—shaken and distraught from a dream he couldn't easily shake off—Tobio struggled to find the right way to help him.

Shoyo could still feel the frantic thumping of his heart, trapped in the haunting images of his nightmare. And Tobio could almost sense it, being so close, meticulously studying every detail of his boyfriend's expression, searching for any sign of lingering fear after the torment of the dream.

With a gentle furrow of his brow, he asked softly, "Are you sure you're alright?" not wanting to pressure Shoyo into sharing more than he was ready to.

"Yeah, I'm okay. It was just..." Shoyo paused, taking a shaky breath. "God, this one was just so vivid."

“You say that about every dream you have.”

“Yeah, but this one was different… worse.”

“Worse?” said Tobio. “What do you mean worse?”

Without warning, the images flooded back—the screams, the cries—and Shoyo visibly tensed, his body beginning to tremble once more. Tobio, sensing his distress, gently squeezed his side, grounding him. "Sho, we don't have to talk about this now, it's fine," he reassured softly. "We can talk about it in the morning, alright? You need to rest."

Tobio watched as Shoyo slowly regained his composure. He observed the way Shoyo inhaled deeply through his nose, the loud, shaky exhale that followed, until finally, his voice and entire body stilled. Shoyo sighed, leaning gently against Tobio, and murmured, "I can't sleep now. I'm already awake."

Tobio's fingers slowly slipped beneath the hem of Shoyo's shirt, gently tracing soothing circles against his skin. He leaned close, sighing softly against the redhead's exposed shoulder, the oversized shirt slipping off to reveal the skin beneath. "You're not normal.” Tobio whispered, pressing feather-light kisses against his shoulder.

"You're not normal," Shoyo retorted, playfully bumping his head against Tobio's, earning a low, annoyed grumble in response. Yet, Tobio continued to press kisses against his skin in the darkness of their room. A comfortable silence settled between them, a necessary pause as Shoyo found his equilibrium again, before he finally murmured, "Coffee."

And Tobio understood instantly, replying simply, "No milk."

“What?” Shoyo shot upright, eyes wide. “What do you mean no–oh,” he caught his breath, shaking his head in exasperation. “Oh, Kageyama, you’re unbelievable. I swear, your thirst knows no bounds,” he declared, throwing the bedsheets aside as he stood. “I’m heading to Mom’s. She’ll have some, because she doesn’t guzzle it straight from the carton like some kind of animal.”

“I was thirsty, okay?” Tobio grumbled. “Get off my back.”

“Then drink water like a normal person, you milk obsessed weirdo!”

Shoyo huffed dramatically, pushing himself up from the bed, but his escape was short-lived. Tobio reached out, gently snagging the redhead by the arm and tugging him back onto the mattress, leaning in for a kiss. Shoyo, ever the dramatic one, swiftly slapped a hand over his own mouth, thwarting Tobio's attempt. Tobio made a soft, questioning 'hmph' sound, a mix of confusion and annoyance coloring his tone.

Noticing Tobio's puzzled expression, Shoyo shook his head. "Uh uh," he mumbled through his hand. "Biohazard zone."

Tobio's expression darkened, bordering on a scowl. "I don't care," he stated, reaching out to grasp Shoyo's wrist, attempting to pull his hand away from his mouth. But Shoyo resisted, his hand firmly planted. It seemed like only yesterday the redhead was small and twig-like, but now he was a compact bundle of muscle and determination, forged through relentless hard work. He was nearly as strong as Tobio himself. A fact Tobio could only blame himself for, considering how he'd inadvertently fueled Shoyo's motivation to work out alongside him.

Tobio released Shoyo's wrist, his arms snaking around Shoyo's waist with sudden speed. Shoyo instantly squirmed, a surprised yelp escaping his mouth as he found himself trapped. He writhed and twisted, trying to break free from Tobio's hold, but instead, their struggle devolved into a chaotic tumble across the bed, punctuated by a mix of laughter and screams. Seizing his opportunity, Tobio finally found a clear path and planted a kiss squarely on Shoyo's lips, effectively ending the wrestling match.

The moment Tobio released him, Shoyo tumbled off the bed and hit the floor with a resounding thud. "Jerk.” Shoyo mumbled, the word laced with a playful bitterness as he pushed himself up, rubbing his now-sore shoulder.

As Tobio watched Shoyo turn towards the door, he called out, "Don't forget your jacket." He busied himself with straightening the sheets, smoothing them out after their impromptu wrestling match, and pulling the blankets back into place.

Shoyo rolled his eyes, muttering Tobio’s words back under his breath as he grabbed his jacket from the hook by the door. With a swift motion, he swung the door open, shrugging on his jacket and pulling the hood over his head. Tobio then yelled out an, "I love you," but when met with only silence as Shoyo vanished through the exit, he yelled out again. "Say it back, dumbass!"

And never one to let things linger, Shoyo's voice yelled back, "I love you too!" before he hurried down the stairs and out the front door.

The cold hit him like a wall the second he stepped outside. Closing the door felt wrong, a nagging sense that he shouldn't be willingly plunging into the middle of the night for a caffeine run. Especially considering it was for coffee, of all things. He barely liked the stuff unless it was a sugary, chocolate-infused concoction. But energy was energy, even if it came in a bitter, questionable form.

He grumbled under his breath, a low curse directed at his incredibly annoying—and unfairly handsome—boyfriend and his insatiable milk cravings.

Shoyo stepped off the porch. Each step crunched a path through the snow as Shoyo walked towards the house across the street, a house that held the ghost of breakfast smells and easy mornings. Now, his mornings started with smoke detectors and near-misses. ‘That's what you get for living with a boy who can't cook,’ his mother would say. ‘Did you even think about anything else when you decided to move in with him other than having—‘

Aaaand we won’t get into that conversation.

The wind nipped at Shoyo's cheek, a biting cold that sent him burrowing deeper into his jacket. He shivered, squeezing his eyes shut against the relentless breeze, wishing he could will the warmth back into the air. But the moment he closed them, the vivid memories of his dream flooded back.

His eyes flew open. Nausea clawed at his stomach, that familiar, sickening lurch. He should be used to this. He was used to this. The bad dreams, the memories that wouldn't stay buried. Twenty-two years old, and still... this.

But the dreams... always the past. Always the Games.

They were never anything like this.

Shoyo's knuckles whitened as he gripped the fabric of his hoodie, trying to physically crush the images of the dream. It was stupid. Something that hadn't even happened was haunting him. He wasn't a kid anymore. He shouldn't be this easily shaken.

A plume of frosty air puffed from Shoyo's lips as he reached his mother's front door, his shoulders slumping slightly. Without thinking, his hand went to the familiar hiding place beneath the 'welcome' mat—some of the letters faded with snow, so it cheekily read 'wee'. He turned the key carefully, wincing at the click, and slipped inside, where the air was thick with warmth and the scent of home.

A relieved sigh escaped him as he closed the door, the thought of facing the cold again before morning already banished. He was always welcome here, a comforting certainty that meant his old room was waiting, ready to embrace him for the night.

Shedding his jacket and kicking off his shoes, placing them neatly beside his mother's and sister's near the door, he noticed a warm glow spilling from the kitchen. The light illuminated more than just the small space; it revealed a small figure perched cross-legged on the counter, a forkful of chocolate cake halfway to her mouth.

Shoyo blinked. “Natsu?” he mumbled. “What are you doing?”

Natsu, fork still lodged in her mouth, mumbled back around it, "Midnight snack?” only half the words made it out clearly.

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose—an old habit. “Natsu…” He glanced at the microwave, the red numbers glaring back at him. “It’s three in the morning.”

Natsu shrugged, unfazed. “Couldn’t sleep.” Without shifting her perch, she reached for the utensil drawer, a cacophony of clattering metal announcing her search, ending with her brandishing a fork. “Guess you couldn’t sleep either.”

Shoyo smiled softly. Even six years hadn't dulled Natsu's persuasive charm. She was no longer ten, but with her messy red hair haphazardly thrown into a high ponytail, an oversized shirt for pajamas, and baggy shorts, she still had that uncanny knack for getting her way. In that moment, she wasn't a young woman, but simply Shoyo's cheeky little sister, caught red-handed during a midnight raid on the kitchen.

Shoyo grabbed a stool and settled at the counter, opting for the stool over the bench. He was noticeably much heavier than Natsu and would probably leave the counter with less than ten years left. Plucking the fork from her hand, he dug into the leftover chocolate cake without ceremony. Slices were an afterthought; this was about shared indulgence.

Silence fell over them as they savored their mom's cake, a shared moment of quiet appreciation. The silence broke when Natsu swallowed her bite and asked, "So, what are you doing up?"

"Bad dream," Shoyo admitted, offering no further explanation. "What about you? Or were you just raiding the fridge?"

Natsu's soft snicker faded into a quiet confession. "I had a nightmare too.”

"About?" Shoyo asked gently.

Natsu's gaze met his, a look heavy with meaning. "You know what about.” She said, her voice barely a whisper. And he did. He knew all too well.

Natsu at twelve became a mirror of Shoyo's past, haunted by the same fear. Despite only having her name entered once, the possibility, however remote, terrified her. What if she was chosen, ripped from the life Shoyo's victory had provided? The life where they weren't forced to beg for survival, where her name wasn't a bargaining chip for food. She was now sixteen years old with a mere five entries, and Shoyo didn't see why or how she could be picked.

Reassuring Natsu was hard sometimes. She was certain of her selection, convinced fate was a predator stalking her. Shoyo understood; he'd stood where she stood, but he had also been in the arena and survived. Natsu was strong, yes, full of life, a spark of pure joy. But the arena...

Shoyo's grip tightened around his fork.

...he couldn't picture her surviving a single day.

Shoyo loosened his grip on the fork. He needed to anchor himself, to pull his mind back from the spiraling thoughts that threatened to consume him. Tonight, his mind was a dangerous place to be.

As he reached for another slice of cake, "What was it like for you in the Games?" Natsu decided to ask.

Shoyo's gaze lifted, his eyes settling on Natsu. Her curiosity was clear, but it didn't surprise him. He sighed, a sound heavy with weariness. "Natsu..."

"I'm sixteen now, Shoyo. Shouldn't I be allowed to know what to expect?" she urged, a touch of desperation in her voice. "Especially with the Quarter Quell this year."

“You’re not going to be picked, Natsu,” Shoyo promised. “You only have five entries. You’ve never even had to take tesserae.”

“You don’t know that.”

“This year’s going to be different,” he explained. “It’s a Quarter Quell. Ushiwaka might do something completely insane, and either way, you don’t have to worry, okay?”

The room fell silent, but the prior comfort had dissolved. Now, the silence was a tangible weight, thick with unspoken tension. Natsu's insistent curiosity hung in the air; she craved every detail. Shoyo, on the other hand, was afraid to revisit the past, and even more afraid to imagine Natsu in it.

Shoyo's gaze remained fixed on Natsu, cataloging every flicker of unease, each subtle shift in her expression. "You're not ready to know what I went through, Natsu," he murmured, his tone softening as he registered her discomfort. "Trust me,” he sighed. “You don’t need to know."

It was true. She didn’t need to know. She didn’t need to know of Sakusa’s cruel games, the countless times he and Tobio had narrowly avoided death. She didn't need to bear the agony of Miwa's death, the ache of Atsumu's end—how many friends he had lost. She didn’t need to know of his sleepless nights, the ones tormented by constant memories. Above all, she didn’t need to know because, in his eyes, she was still his innocent little sister, and he would be damned if his past stole her innocence.

Shoyo watched Natsu carefully. Her gaze remained fixed on the table, hidden behind a curtain of messy strands that fell across her face—a face she couldn't fully conceal, not from him. He saw the sadness that lingered there, the disappointment, the stark reality that she yearned for an understanding she might never grasp.

Natsu fidgeted with her fork, her lips parting as if to speak. "I just..." she began, hesitating, her brows furrowing as she finally confessed in a soft murmur, "I just don't want to be powerless."

Shoyo frowned, his gaze fixed on his sister, who refused to meet his eyes. Perhaps she was too embarrassed, too ashamed to face him. He couldn’t entirely blame her; he remembered a time when he felt he’d walked in her shoes. Once deemed too small for his age, and perhaps still too short, he had never been given a fair chance, always looked down upon.

Had Shoyo looked down on her?

Shoyo chewed on his bottom lip, lost in thought, before his expression suddenly brightened. Setting down his fork, the tines clicked softly against the table. “Powerless, huh?” he rested his cheek against his palm. “Well, you’re definitely not powerless against that cake. I see you trying to shove all that in your mouth,” he teased, as Natsu slowly lowered her fork, the oversized piece still perched precariously on top. “Seriously though, Natsu,” he continued, his tone turning earnest. “You’re anything but powerless. You’re stubborn, loud, and you know how to keep Tobio in line, and that’s saying something.”

A soft, proud grin spread across Natsu's face, no doubt replaying the countless moments she'd fearlessly called out Tobio on his bullshit.

Shoyo then pushed himself up from his seat, neatly tucking in his stool. "Besides, if you really want to feel powerful..." Natsu watched him warily, instantly recognising the mischievous glint in his eyes. But she wasn't fast enough to react when he snatched the entire plate of cake, yelling, "Try and catch me!" as he bolted into the living room, knowing full well Natsu would be hot on his heels.

And knowing their usual antics, Shoyo was certain they'd be facing the consequences by morning, when their mom inevitably discovered traces of chocolate cake smeared across the couch.

Chapter Text

The sky over District One was clear, but the air bit with cold. The sun shone brightly, offering no warmth, and no new snow threatened to add to the district's already heavy blanket.

It had been a rough few days in One with all this snow. These storms were more brutal than the last—Oikawa found himself housebound. He spent most of his days sipping Hajime's warm lattes, complete with questionable coffee art, while inwardly contemplating over the carrot Takeru insisted on for his snowman knowing it was long gone until spring, buried deep in the snow.

There was a certain unexpected pleasure in the quiet days spent indoors, watching the snow pile up outside—though even that charm couldn't prevent Hajime's coffee from eventually losing its appeal. Both Oikawa and Hajime thrived on outdoor activity, so being cooped up inside, struggling to fill the time, had been a test of patience. But as the days ticked by, each one bringing them closer to the Reaping, the clouds finally parted.

The sun's efforts had cleared most of the snow, but enough remained to make each step a muffled crunch under Oikawa's boots. The air was frigid, the breeze a constant, cold reminder of the season, just shy of chapping his lips.

The climb to the edge of District One was significantly more challenging, the snow deeper and more treacherous than in the cleared square. It made sense; the area bordering the fence, a boundary citizens were forbidden to cross. It wasn’t a priority for the cleaners.

Oikawa sat nestled in the snow, positioned before a familiar tree that felt like an old friend—a tree he and Hajime had known since childhood. They'd seen it painted in the vibrant hues of every season. The lush greens of summer, the fiery reds and oranges of autumn, the delicate pink blossoms of spring, and, now, the suffocating white of winter clinging to its branches. They'd known this tree for eleven years. Their friendship had started at five, but it was at thirteen that the tree became truly theirs. It was at that age youthful rebellion had led to some questionable acts involving the tree, each followed by a stern lecture from their parents.

Oikawa softly snickered, brushing away snowflakes from the flowers encircling the tree's base—flowers he and Hajime had planted themselves. As he did, a flash of sunlight reflected something back into his eyes. Oikawa knew what it was, but he couldn't resist looking up, still finding it all unbelievable.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you sooner, Suga,” whispered Oikawa, still admiring it carefully. “It happened last week, and I promise, I was gonna come tell you. But then I got stuck inside for the past week. It’s been torture not being able to brag to anyone other than Hajime.”

Oikawa's gaze lingered on the silver a moment longer, captivated. Reluctantly, he turned his attention to the base of the tree, where an array of flowers—blue, pink, yellow—cascaded artfully over the handmade tombstone. The inscription bore the name of the boy who had passed away nearly six years ago, a somber anniversary only weeks away.

Oikawa's expression softened, his fingers lightly brushing away the snow that clung to Sugawara's name carved into the stone. A name he had lost so long ago, yet even now, speaking to him felt like bridging a gap, as if he were still within earshot, despite the silence that met his words.

He drew his hand back from the stone, his eyes tracing the delicate curve of each letter in Sugawara's name, imagining what he would say. Always supportive, always vibrant, even when Oikawa had tried to push him away in that arena. A soft scoff escaped Oikawa's lips, followed by a wistful smile. "Yeah..” he whispered to the imagined voice in his mind, finding solace in the echo rather than succumbing to the void of forgetting Sugawara altogether. "I can't believe it either."

Before he could picture a response, the crunch of snow heralded the approach of heavy boots, trudging in his direction. Then, a tired, relieved huff. “I knew I’d find your ass here,” a familiar, deep voice announced. “What are you two gossiping about?”

Oikawa looked over his shoulder, a smile gracing his lips as he watched Hajime approach, bundled in his winter attire—a dark puffer jacket layered over a grey hoodie. Oikawa's gaze flicked upwards, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Nothing interesting,” he replied with a grin. “Just telling Suga how you manage to make a beanie look like roadkill.”

The cold-induced flush on Hajime's skin deepened as his expression contorted in annoyance. "You're a terrible influence, you know that?" he grumbled, tugging at his beanie, a few strands of hair escaping its confines. “Suga would’ve had some class about roasting my winter gear.”

"That would've been before I corrupted his innocent soul."

"Exactly."

Oikawa stuck his tongue out playfully. Then, Hajime settled behind him, initially draping an arm around Oikawa's neck in a feigned headlock, but quickly loosened his hold, embracing him in a tender hug as he sat, legs extended to either side of Oikawa. Resting his chin on Oikawa's shoulder, Hajime gently kissed his jaw before his gaze settled reverently on the tombstone before them.

Hajime remembered making this with Oikawa six years ago. Though they had the means to purchase a proper tombstone, Oikawa, aware of Hajime's skill in woodwork, had insisted on a handmade one. Ever since, Oikawa made it a point to visit Sugawara, to talk to him, to feel his presence. Even now, six years later, as adults carving out their lives together in the Victors Village, making grown-up decisions and living the life they had always dreamed of, this tradition remained.

Hajime's hold around Oikawa tightened ever so gently. Despite knowing each other since they were five, best friends from the very start and now only a few months away from what promised to be the happiest day of their lives, none of this felt any less real for Hajime than it did for Oikawa.

Hajime lifted his gaze, studying Oikawa's expression with a careful intensity, as if deciphering a complex puzzle that defied easy solution. But Hajime knew Oikawa practically his entire life, intimately familiar with the subtle nuances of his face. He knew the slight scrunch of his nose meant annoyance, the gentle furrow of his brow that signaled deep contemplation. He even knew that when Oikawa scratched the inner corner of his eye while talking to someone, it meant he considered them, in his own words, ‘a waste of perfectly good air.’

Oikawa's expression was soft, his cheeks flushed pink from the cold. Hajime could tell by the tender way Oikawa's brown eyes traced the letters of Sugawara's name that he wasn't quite the overjoyous, overly snarky Tooru he usually was.

So, Hajime responded by gently deepening his hold around Oikawa. "You okay?" He asked, his tone soft and carefully measured.

"Yeah," Oikawa sighed, his gaze still locked on the stone. "It's just one of those days," he then whispered, his voice barely audible, "I miss him.”

And Hajime sighed too, understanding etched in the lines of his face. "I know.”

Ever since the 69th Games six years ago, Hajime and Oikawa's lives hadn’t been the same. When Oikawa was chosen for the Hunger Games, Hajime was a wreck. And when Oikawa was presumed dead in the arena, he was an even bigger one. It took time for Oikawa to settle back down, to find his footing again after his return from the dead—except he hadn't actually died, as Hajime soon found out.

Oikawa had been rescued by the intervention of Lev Haiba and his rebel rescue team, who were strategically positioned undercover as Gamemakers within the very heart of the Control Room. However, just days later, Oikawa and Hajime were struck by the news of Lev's sudden death. They didn't know the precise reason for his death, but having met both the Head Gamemaker and the President, Oikawa had a strong suspicion as to how he had died.

Oikawa never really got the chance to thank Lev. Lev had saved Oikawa and the others, hoping to bring them into the fold of the rebellion, but only Kuroo—that insufferable loudmouth—had shown any interest. Now, six years later, knowing that Lev had gone through so much, only for Oikawa and the others to return to their ordinary lives, and ultimately for him to die, Oikawa had some regrets. After all, Ushijima was still in power, still ruling the world with an iron fist.

The only reason Oikawa didn’t stay with Lev was because of the daunting risks that lay ahead. The potential horrors that could unfold, the unbearable thought of losing Hajime—it was all too much to bear. In that moment, he just wanted to go home and continue living alongside the person he loved.

Oikawa pressed himself close to Hajime, seeking reassurance. Yet, even in the safety of their home in District One, nestled in Hajime's arms, a sense of unease persisted. Despite his disagreement with Lev Haiba in that moment, Oikawa couldn't shake the feeling that Ushijima viewed him as a problem that needed to be dealt with too.

Hajime seemed to sense the tension in Oikawa's body. As if he were uncomfortable or afraid. Hajime's expression softened with concern. “This doesn’t have anything to do with the Reaping coming up, right?” He asked.

Oikawa shifted uneasily. “I dunno.. maybe?” he sighed, his gaze falling to the snow. “With the Quarter Quell this year..”

“You’re not going back in there, Tooru,” Hajime affirmed sternly. “The Games are over, it was six years ago.”

“I know, I know, it’s just.. I still think about it.” He admitted softly.

Hajime gently squeezed Oikawa, drawing him closer, their combined warmth a stark contrast to the cold that surrounded them. “You shouldn’t have to think about it,” he murmured softly into Oikawa's shoulder, his expression shifting, tinged with a sadness that bordered on anger. “You’ve been through enough shit. I just want you to be happy.”

The Games, Sugawara, the separation from Hajime—all had irrevocably broken Oikawa. Haunted him. The tortures endured in the arena, the painful loss of Sugawara and the inability to save him, the sheer fear of never seeing Hajime again—even now, as he lay sleeping beside him—tormented him still. Hajime seethed at the Capitol for the irreparable damage inflicted upon Tooru. His Tooru. He would never forgive them for the memories, the trauma, the endless nightmares that now plagued Oikawa's existence.

It was an injustice that lingered, even six years later, as they stood on the cusp of twenty-four.

But Oikawa just chuckled softly, a sound that seemed to dismiss Hajime's anger as if it were nothing. “I am happy..” he whispered, his voice a gentle reassurance. He turned to Hajime, offering a soft smile, his skin delicate and almost translucent in the cold air, causing a rush of warmth that made Hajime's stomach flip. Oikawa then turned his attention to his outstretched arm, examining his fingers as he quipped, “..even if it means I’m tragically stuck marrying your ass.”

Hajime scoffed lightly, his eyes lingering on the silver ring that graced Oikawa's left ring finger. “You’re the one who said yes, idiot,” he retorted playfully, gently poking Oikawa's side. “Don’t go blaming me for your bad decisions.”

Oikawa tapped his chin thoughtfully, humming in mock contemplation. “I wonder if there’s still time for me to back out of this?” He teased.

Hajime nudged Oikawa's side again, eliciting a laugh and a flinch. Oikawa then drew his hand in closer, his gaze fixed on the ring. He traced its circumference with his finger, captivated by the way it caught the sunlight, sending a cascade of light back into his eyes. Oikawa couldn't help but wonder about the lengths Hajime had gone to for this, especially knowing that grand romantic gestures weren't exactly his forte.

When Oikawa shared the news with his family, his sister eagerly chimed in, proudly declaring herself Hajime's top confidante. She had been instrumental in selecting the ring and offering encouragement. She even steered him towards a simple, heartfelt proposal in a place that held special meaning for them. Apparently, she saved him from an over-the-top display involving red roses, vanilla-scented candles, and an extravagant dinner they couldn't afford. And honestly, Oikawa thanked her for her guidance because the proposal was perfect in every way. Hajime perfect.

Oikawa nestled back comfortably into Hajime's hold, drawing closer as a shiver coursed through him. Hajime immediately noticed, his playful demeanor replaced by a concerned expression. "Tooru, you're shivering.” He said.

Oikawa trembled against Hajime once more. "I'm not sick, Hajime," he reassured him. "I just—" a familiar sigh escaped his lips, as if Hajime already knew what he was about to say from the single, cold breath he took. "I hate winter."

And Hajime frowned, fully aware of the reason behind Oikawa's aversion.

He tightened his embrace, pressing a gentle kiss to Oikawa's cheek in a silent affirmation of understanding and love. "Come on," he said softly. "Your mom made a casserole. Might warm you up a bit."

Oikawa offered Hajime a soft smile, a silent acknowledgment passing between them. As Hajime stood, Oikawa paused, reaching out to gently brush away a lone speck of snow that had dared to settle upon Sugawara's tombstone. He hated winter. He hated it with every fiber of his being. But if there was anything he hated more, it was the Capitol—what they did to Sugawara—the ones who had given him a reason to hate the cold season.

But perhaps one day, he might even learn to love it again. He knew Sugawara wouldn't want him to be burdened by this resentment forever.

Hajime offered Oikawa a steadying hand as he stood, and together they began to make their way back towards the heart of District One. Oikawa instinctively closed the gap between them, a familiar gesture that had once been a playful test of Hajime's tolerance when they were kids. Now, however, Hajime seemed to enjoy the closeness. Perhaps he had never truly disliked it to begin with.

Oikawa smiled at the thought, glancing sideways at Hajime. His cheeks were flushed a delicate pink, reminiscent of the vibrant flowers that had lost half their color beneath the snow's touch. He imagined the tips of Hajime's ears were likely a matching shade of red, if only they weren't hidden beneath the warmth of his beanie.

Oikawa then lightly bumped Hajime with his shoulder. “You know,” he started to say. “I was kidding about your beanie. I actually think you look tolerable. For once.”

Hajime rolled his eyes, a familiar gesture. “Yeah, yeah, say that when Sugawara isn’t around to see you being all soft,” he scoffed, a hint of amusement in his voice. “Bet you wouldn’t admit that in front of him.”

“Don’t be such a baby,” snickered Oikawa. “Try taking a compliment for once in your life.”

“Don’t need them. I already know how good I look anyway.”

“Yeah?” Oikawa responded, suddenly leaning in close, playfully bumping Hajime's shoulder once again as he lowered his voice to a sultry whisper. “But do you know how sexy you look?”

Silence. It was dangerous how quickly Hajime's expression shifted, a flicker of something intense passing across his features.

“Don’t do that.” Hajime muttered, his voice low and warning.

And Oikawa blinked innocently. “Do what?”

Hajime fixed Oikawa with a frustrated glare, his face flushed with a mixture of annoyance and something deeper. Oikawa, in response, merely batted his eyelashes, feigning innocence despite being fully aware of the effect he was having. He was pathetic, Hajime thought. Utterly and completely pathetic.

A grin cracked across Hajime's face before he moved with a speed that caught Oikawa completely off guard. Oikawa yelped in surprise as Hajime effortlessly scooped him up, as if he weighed no more than a handful of snow, and tossed him over his shoulder. Oikawa squirmed and protested, playfully screaming for Hajime to release him, but did he listen? Of course not. He was Hajime—his annoyingly endearing Hajime, who always seemed to find amusement in throwing his boyfriend—no, his fiancé—into the snow.

Oikawa sat up, now covered in a heap of snow, while Hajime stood above him, thoroughly amused and laughing. Oikawa grumbled, momentarily annoyed, before a mischievous smirk crept across his own face. Acting quickly, he scooped up a handful of snow and clumsily shaped it into a ball, which he then hurled directly at Hajime's face. The moment he realised what he'd done, Oikawa scrambled to his feet, his movements clumsy in the snow, and took off running, knowing full well that Hajime would be hot on his heels.

Nothing about his time in One was perfect for Oikawa. Reliving everything that had happened, his nights often haunted by the Games, the memory of losing Sugawara. Most days were good, but on others, Oikawa felt crushed under the weight of his memories and the pain they brought.

But then there were days like this, when he had Hajime by his side, making him laugh—or, more accurately, when he had him chasing him, cursing him, yelling, ‘You'll regret that, shithead!’ On days like these, a profound sense of okayness washed over him; a deep-seated knowing that everything would be okay. Because in just a few months, he'd be marrying his best friend.

And that was enough, because he knew that nothing could ever go wrong from here.

Chapter Text

Kiyoomi Sakusa’s footsteps crashed against the marble, the sound reverberating through the hallway and echoing through the president’s mansion. The sound of his leather shoes hitting the floor was heavy, ponderous, menacing.

Walking the mansion's long hall, always the same route, had become a ritual. That office felt like a second home, a place he was compelled to be because, in Ushijima's eyes, Sakusa was no longer just someone who worked for him. He was a partner, with a mind even more twisted than Ushijima's own, someone who, with each passing year, was eclipsing the president himself.

He was proving his worth, proving the ambition that would one day see him seated in Ushijima's chair.

For eight years, Sakusa had reigned as Head Gamemaker. Under his direction, each Hunger Games evolved, presenting new arenas, new tributes, new champions. Yet, each victor emerged precisely as Sakusa had orchestrated. Ushijima insisted Panem's fervor had reached fever pitch since the 67th, Sakusa's inaugural year, with Terushima's Games.

Terushima's charm sold tickets on his Victor's Tour. Yonezawa's rage was a ratings bonanza. Sakusa's third year introduced a twist—six victors—a novelty that ignited an uprising, swiftly extinguished. The following year, when those kids began their tour, they became unwitting catalysts for chaos.

Then came Daisho and Mika, the victors of the 70th Games. Sakusa and Ushijima, predictably, sought to replicate the previous year's success, twisting the rules to allow two victors, but only if they hailed from the same district. As fate, or perhaps the Gamemakers, would have it, the Cornucopia ran red, leaving only Daisho and Mika. But when Mika presented those nightlock berries, an offering of shared defiance, it was undeniable. Neither would claim victory at the cost of the other.

Their reward for their co-victory was a life under Ushijima's thumb. Forced to play the roles of lovers, enduring the endless Victor's Tours, they were tools to suppress the growing unrest. Because in the eyes of Ushijima, and perhaps all of Panem's elite, their act wasn't love. It was defiance, plain and simple.

Ushijima has learned from the past. He knew how to handle these two. Six years ago, Lev's failed attempt to recruit the victors into his rebellion unleashed hell. Atsumu's death was the spark, District Four the inferno, the resurrected tributes became symbols of defiance, and the whispers of revolution turned into open war. Then came Lev, followed by Daisho and Mika.

The lie of their love, a dangerous act of rebellion, has forced Ushijima into the role of director, molding Daisho and Mika's performance for the past five years. The Capitol demands convincing theater, or the consequences would be severe. Sakusa, though, isn't naive. He believes a rebellion still festers, even if he prefers to imagine it's not directly underfoot, ready to erupt.

From the moment Ushijima compelled Daisho and Mika to embody the role—the picture-perfect, sickeningly sweet couple—the world has bought the lie. The masses are easily swayed by their practiced smiles and the stolen glances that suggest a world shared only between them. Sakusa, forced to analyse their performances, occasionally finds himself questioning the depth of their deception, almost believing in their fabricated love.

But knew that the act was the only thing containing their potential for chaos.

Ushijima was back from District Eleven. He'd been there before, coaching Daisho and Mika through their initial Victor's Tour, drilling into them how to act for the cameras. This year, Ushijima made another unannounced trip to inform the ‘lovebirds’ of their second tour. Sakusa imagined the protests, the complaints, the arguments that the 74th Victor should go instead, but he knew Ushijima had, as always, gotten his way.

Sakusa wasn’t worried about Mika. She was too sharp to argue, but Daisho? He was a loose cannon, acting without thinking. During the 70th Games, it had always been Mika reining him in, preventing him from diving headfirst into disaster.

Sakusa's footsteps echoed to a halt before the President's office. The seven-foot arched door still loomed, just as intimidating as it had been eight years ago. But some things had changed. His heart no longer hammered against his ribs as he reached the end of the hall. And he'd learned to knock unless he was expected—a mistake he'd made more than once when Tendou was on the other side, a lesson learned the hard way.

Ushijima's constant refrain was, ‘Relax, Sakusa. We're friends. You can let your guard down.’ But it was a difficult command to obey. Years passed before Sakusa could truly believe it, battling the persistent fear that Ushijima's offer was a carefully constructed test, a deception waiting to be revealed. But that was just the ever-present anxiety in his own mind.

Now, they were truly friends, the kind Sakusa had once only dreamed of. The fear that had once gripped him so tightly had loosened its hold. He was no longer the boy who'd hesitated at the doorstep, paralysed by anxieties. The small, skin-crawling things held less power. Crowds.. well, crowds were still a work in progress.

But he was Kiyoomi Sakusa, fully realised, powerful—the Head Game Maker.

Sakusa bypassed the formality of a knock. His leather-clad hand simply pressed against the dark wood, and with a familiar ease, he pushed the heavy door inward. After eight years as Head Game Maker, countless visits to the President’s office had made him accustomed to its weight. He was so used to the heft that he sometimes forgot about the automatic opener altogether.

Sakusa entered the large room, the door sighing shut behind him. Immediately, the familiar scent of aged tobacco and oakwood washed over him. The space was dimly lit, as always, a cavernous gloom that held a strange warmth—if you could ignore the figure waiting at the far end.

Sakusa's attention moved to the desk, where Ushijima was already seated, eyes fixed on some crucial document. And then, of course—fuck, of course—there was Tendou. The ever-present host, his smile too wide to be genuine, stood close to Ushijima, one arm draped casually, yet, possessively over his shoulders. He pretended to follow the document's contents, nodding in false understanding as Ushijima read aloud. But Sakusa wasn't fooled. He caught the furtive glances, the almost subtle caress of Tendou's fingers on Ushijima's shoulder. Tendou was never subtle.

Sakusa rolled his eyes, unseen. From the moment Sakusa met Tendou, Tendou's ridiculous, heart-on-his-sleeve crush on Ushijima had been glaringly obvious. Sakusa knew Tendou had started hosting the Games at eighteen, so he couldn't say exactly how long this infatuation had been going on, but it was safe to assume it had been a pretty fucking long time. And Sakusa was so over it. The truly baffling thing was that, even after eight years, they were nothing more than friends with benefits. Ushijima, so careful about who he let in, allowed Tendou close, but never that close.

And does he know that, you ask?

Tendou looked up from the paper, his gaze shifting from Ushijima to Sakusa. He finally acknowledged Sakusa's presence with that signature smile and a subtle wave.

Well, how do you think?

Sakusa ignored Tendou, stepping further into the room. Ushijima's voice echoed, "Hello, Kiyoomi." He didn't look up.

Removing his face mask, Sakusa said, "Welcome back, sir. Was your trip to District Eleven successful?"

"As expected.” Ushijima replied.

Sakusa nodded. "Were you able to speak with Daisho and Mika?"

"Yes, they're confirmed for their second Victor's Tour."

"That's positive news.” Sakusa responded with another nod.

Before Ushijima could get another word in, the sound of a barely suppressed snicker, followed by a snort, broke the silence. Sakusa's expression immediately hardened, a clear sign of his annoyance. His glare fixed on Tendou, who had raised a hand to cover his mouth, his cheeks puffed out as he fought to contain an outburst of laughter.

Realising Sakusa was practically piercing him with an impatient stare, Tendou offered a quick, "Sorry, Omi,” Sakusa knew better than to believe it was sincere. "You're just—way too much sometimes. So serious! It's killing me!"

Sakusa barely suppressed a frustrated grumble. "Perhaps you could stand to learn a thing or two, Satori.” He retorted.

“But Ushijima likes my sparkle!” Tendou exclaimed, the arm draped casually around Ushijima's shoulders tightened, transforming into more of a hug. He pulled Ushijima close, cheek-to-cheek, yet, despite the closeness, Ushijima remained disconcertingly fixed on the document in his hands, like he was used to Tendou’s antics by now. “You’ve been wound tighter than a spring ever since your girlfriend bounced,” Tendou continued, a hint of teasing in his tone. "What was her name again? The one who couldn't quite handle the sheer force of all this?"

With a dramatic flourish, Tendou gestured towards Sakusa with his free hand, the corners of his lips twitching into a wider, knowing smile. He knew that specific mention would elicit a reaction from Sakusa. And, predictably, it did. Sakusa's eyes narrowed, but Tendou remained unfazed, his smile widening even further, as if daring Sakusa to challenge him.

Sakusa tugged his face mask back into place, turning away as he announced, "I'll see myself out.” unable to tolerate Tendou's bullshit any longer.

But then, Ushijima interjected. “Satori, be nice."

"Yes, Boss.” Tendou responded with exaggerated sweetness.

"And Kiyoomi, stay. We still have discussing to do.”

But must the instigator of chaos be present, offering unsolicited commentary during our crucial meeting?

Sakusa bit back his retort, turning back around. "What was it you wanted to discuss?" He asked, stepping forward to the desk and carefully folding his face mask before stowing it in an inside pocket of his jacket.

Ushijima's eyes meticulously scanned the ornate script on the document one final time, absorbing every detail before he gently set it aside, adding it to the precisely organised stack of papers. Finally, raising his eyes, he announced, "The Quarter Quell."

The Quarter Quell. Of course. With the Games waiting just around the corner, Sakusa should have anticipated that the topic would surface eventually. Soon, Daisho and Mika's Victor's Tour would commence, which would pass in a blur, and before they knew it, the time for the Reapings would arrive. And preceding all of that, the announcement of the Quarter Quell.

Tendou exhaled sharply, an excited breath. “Ugh, finally something to sink my teeth into!” he exclaimed, releasing Ushijima but still maintaining their close proximity. “So, Wakatoshi, what crazy ideas are brewing in that brilliant mind of yours?”

Tendou fixed Ushijima with an eager, wide-eyed stare, but the only response he received was a weary sigh and the distinct click of a lighter as Ushijima lit a cigarette.

“Ah, got it,” the redhead mused. “Brain overload. Happens to the best of us.”

Sakusa shook his head. “It doesn’t work like that, Satori,” he said. “There’s a pre-existing list of Quarter Quells that’s been in place for centuries. I assumed someone with your tendencies would have already investigated the parameters.”

"Ah, yes, the infamous list," Tendou said with a flourish of his hand and a theatrical eye roll. “But, does it have everything? I mean, seriously, where’s the thrill if we can’t brainstorm something totally us, y’know? Just blindly nodding along to some dusty old geezer’s idea that was decided like, half a century ago?” he gave Ushijima a pity pat on the shoulder, adding a, “No offence, Ushi, but wouldn’t it be nice to add some personal touches to this thing? Maybe a little Satori flair?”

"Yeah?" Sakusa said, a hint of skepticism in his tone. "And what, pray tell, would you do?"

And the moment Tendou responded with, “Well, since you asked so nicely,” Sakusa already regretted posing the question, because when Tendou made a face like that, there was no getting out of this.

“Picture this,” he splayed his fingers, as if framing the tableau before them. “The arena is a giant buffet. I’m talking mountains of pudding, rivers of ramen, and a chocolate fountain that never ends! But here’s the catch. Everything is slightly off. The pudding is too salty, the ramen is lukewarm, and the chocolate fountain? It’s actually gravy!”

Sakusa buried his face into his hand. “Oh my god..”

“Imagine all the food fights!”

"Let's try to remain grounded in reality here, Satori."

“It’s the Hunger Games, Omi,” he grinned widely. “Anything is possible.”

If people were so inclined to witness a culinary clash, surely there would already be some vapid program dedicated to gastronomic warfare. Sakusa wouldn't have even been surprised if something like that already existed in the world. He didn’t care to know.

Tendou's grin snapped from the unimpressed Sakusa to the unusually quiet Ushijima as he inquired, “What do you think, Ushiwaka?”

And to Sakusa's astonishment, “I think you’re right.” replied Ushijima.

"What?" Sakusa scoffed, incredulous.

“God, I think I’m in love.” Tendou mumbled, captivated.

“I should be able to come up with something of my own,” Ushijima said, his contemplative gaze fixed on a distant point in the room, that same thoughtful expression etched across his face. He then murmured, “Especially with what went down six years ago, this Quarter Quell needs to be big.”

Tendou raised a brow. “The Sixty-Ninth Games?”

“Wow, he knows subtraction.” Sakusa muttered under his breath, though Tendou either failed to register the acerbic insult or perhaps it simply didn't sting as sharply as the barbs Tendou often directed his way.

"Oh, man, that was a good year." Tendou reminisced.

“A good year?” Sakusa scoffed in disbelief. “We had the rebellion practically breathing down our necks, and Lev Haiba somehow managed to produce six victors. How was that a good year?”

“I’m not talking about the rebellion practically nipping out our heels,” Tendou replied as he casually settled onto the edge of the president's desk. Then, he said, “I’m talking about those kids.”

Those kids. Those six, infuriatingly stupid kids—they were the crux of Sakusa's problem. Two of them had managed to emerge from the ordeal as anticipated, owing to Sakusa's alteration of the game's rules to allow for two victors. But the other four? They were supposed to be corpses. Dead. Sakusa, Ushijima, Tendou, everyone—they had all been witnesses to the gruesome deaths of those four kids six years prior. Oikawa had died to an insidious plant toxin. Kuroo and Kenma had been choked by the constricting hold of venomous vines. And Shoyo had been stabbed, the blade piercing his chest with such brutal force that his continued existence defied all reason. A wound that deep, that savage, should have been an absolute death sentence.

It was those kids—those accursed fucking kids who introduced a layer of complication here in the Capitol. They were, in large part, the catalyst for Daisho and Mika's actions, the reason they were compelled to fabricate a relationship and feign allegiance to the Capitol, mirroring the facade adopted by the four. They necessitated heightened vigilance, increased awareness, because they were the spark igniting a rebellion that had been simmering beneath the surface.

Sakusa kept his gaze fixed downwards, his expression twisting into a knot of emotions not even he could decipher. “They were something else, weren’t they?” he registered Tendou's voice, though his mind was elsewhere. “Hinata? Still think about that fiery little redhead,” he continued, before snapping Sakusa back to attention with, “Hey, weren’t you kinda obsessed with that District Eight kiddo? Akaashi, right?”

Sakusa's eyes flickered up to meet Tendou's for a fleeting moment, before swiftly diverting his gaze. He offered no response, no acknowledgment.

“Ah, I miss them,” Tendou said, his voice tinged with wistfulness as he recalled those kids, as if recounting a cherished memory. “They’re still cemented at ‘Best Games to Host’. Forever number one.”

Then, the quietest presence in the room finally spoke up. "That's it.” Ushijima muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

Tendou turned towards Ushijima. “Ah, see, Ushiwaka? We agree on the important stuff!” he declared with a flick of his wrist. “That’s why we’re the dream team!”

Ushijima rose from his seat, his movements deliberate. "I have formulated a plan," he announced, his tone carrying a note of sudden resolve. “While it may not rival the scale of the Twenty-Fifth or the Fiftieth Hunger Games, it will serve to remind every rebel of the Capitol’s authority.”

Sakusa raised a brow. “What do you mean?”

Ushijima remained silent, his attention shifting to Tendou, who still perched atop his desk as if it were the most casual spot in Ushijima's office. Yet, Ushijima refrained from reprimanding him, as he always did. He almost seemed to get away with everything. Tendou smiled up at him, but a hint of inquiry flickered in his mischievous crimson eyes. He sensed something was brewing in Ushijima's mind, something promising, yet potentially unsettling for those who would find themselves entangled in this year's Quarter Quell.

Ushijima made a decision, one that would break with the traditions and expectations that his grandfather and father had carefully established for the Quarter Quells. He would not be bound by their rules, their strategies, their way of thinking. A new path was forming in his mind, one that veered sharply from the well-trodden routes of the past. A plan that was bold, unexpected, and potentially game-changing.

And, of course, there was the matter of the reckoning Ushijima had promised those six kids all those years ago.

So, with that, a hint of a smile playing on his lips, “Perhaps it is time for a little reunion.”

Chapter Text

Daisho and Mika dominated Kuroo's TV viewing after the announcement of their second Victor's Tour.

It began with the announcement—that staged interview in District Eleven, their carefully crafted appearance, and the insufferable Victor's Tour poster the Capitol fawned over as if it were the artistic triumph of the century. The image was simple enough. The two of them in white attire, Mika in a gauzy, flowing dress, and Daisho in a painfully ordinary white blouse, neatly tucked into his trousers like a suburban dad on vacation. It was nothing Kuroo hadn't seen before, really, bearing an uncanny resemblance to their first poster, right down to the insipid smiles.

Then, they left on their tour of the districts, beginning, of course, with District Twelve. Their first visit, five years prior, had been nothing short of a catastrophe. Mika delivered a speech, a hollow attempt to acknowledge the young lives lost in the arena, particularly the twelve-year-old girl they had befriended, only to fail in saving her. During the speech, a man in the crowd dared to raise his hand in the District Twelve salute—a gesture of defiance that quickly morphed into a scene of abject horror right before Daisho and Mika's eyes.

This year, however, was different. Both Daisho and Mika dutifully recited the words their escort had provided, poring over the carefully crafted script to avoid inciting another tragedy. After District Twelve, they moved on to District Ten, pointedly skipping over their own district as they made their way downward, their final stop being District One. When they visited District Two, Kuroo found it almost impossible to mask his irritation at seeing Daisho's vapid face in person once again. The way he spoke, still gushing about the Capitol's 'generosity' even after five years, grated on Kuroo's nerves. Everything about him—his actions, his very being—felt contrived, a performance designed to mask the fear that festered beneath the surface of his lies and bullshit.

If he truly opposed the Capitol, if he genuinely rejected everything they represented, he wouldn't have needed to feign devotion for their approval. Yet, here he was, bending to Ushijima's will like a puppet dancing on strings. Kuroo understood the Capitol's power over them, over everyone, but he had defied them in the arena five years ago, so why couldn't he summon that same defiance now?

During the interviews, Daisho's mid-broadcast proposal to Mika took Panem by surprise, though it hardly fazed Kuroo. The real shocker was that Daisho hadn't proposed sooner, considering how thoroughly Ushijima controlled them. Either Ushijima orchestrated the entire spectacle, or the two concocted the proposal themselves to appease the president. The alternative, that they were genuinely in love, was a notion Kuroo dismissed outright.

Tonight marked the final night of their tour, culminating in a lavish banquet at the president's mansion. The Capitol would celebrate with a grand dinner filled with elaborate dancing and revelry. Kuroo knew this firsthand, having attended the year after his games, where he mingled with interviewers, photographers, Gamemakers, and various high-ranking Capitol elites. He still remembers the food that barely resembled food and the bizarre drinks concocted for purposes that left him questioning his very existence. The Capitol was, without a doubt, a crazy place.

Kuroo, sprawled on his living room couch, grumbled as he watched the president's speech broadcast live. The president stood tall on his balcony, fancy champagne in hand, congratulating Daisho and Mika on their engagement. The camera swiftly panned to the couple, who offered grateful smiles as the surrounding crowd erupted in applause, their enthusiasm so over-the-top it made Kuroo's stomach churn.

The camera leeringly zoomed in on Daisho, that pathetic, saccharine smile stretched across his face, as if the cameraman were personally invested in ratcheting up Kuroo’s annoyance. "God, I can't stand that guy's face.” He muttered, the words a low growl, more to himself until he registered his father's presence, padding into the living room with a steaming cup of hot cocoa.

His dad sighed, "Tets..." immediately recognising that familiar annoyance—the same one Kuroo wore like second skin every time Daisho's face polluted the screen.

“He’s all you ever see on the screen now, it’s pathetic,” he grumbled. “I mean, another tour? Seriously? I thought seeing him hog the spotlight on the first tour was enough.”

"They're Capitol Darlings, you know that, Tetsurou," he said. "Everyone loves them. They're the 'it' couple."

“Yeah, well, everyone loves a good puppet show, pops. Doesn’t mean they know who’s pulling the strings.”

Kuroo offered his dad a fleeting glance as he circled the couch and settled beside him. His father savoured a sip of his warm, liquid chocolate haven, the taste a distant second to his beloved morning coffee. He eyed his son with careful scrutiny, noting the way Kuroo’s eyes narrowed with each lingering shot of Daisho, the way his face twisted into a scowl his father only ever witnessed when his little Tets couldn't tame his unruly bedhead. A problem he'd long since surrendered to.

His lips then curled into a teasing grin, as he mumbled a careful, "You sound jealous.” around the rim of his mug.

That seemed to yank Kuroo's attention from the television screen. "Jealous? Of Discount Snake?" He scoffed, a dismissive sound escaping his lips. "Puh-lease."

"They're getting married.” His father noted.

Kuroo turned to his dad, a cynical edge to his tone, "Doesn't mean they love each other, Dad."

His dad simply nodded, a gesture that said, 'fair enough,' considering he'd already endured Kuroo's lecture on the whole 'fake-relationship' charade. When Kuroo discovered his father had bought into the act, he was quick to dissect the elaborate lengths the Capitol would go to in order to sell the romance, all to keep the simmering rebellion at bay. Of course, Kuroo couldn't be entirely certain the whole thing was a fabrication; perhaps they genuinely were in love, despite their defiant performance in that arena five years ago.

But Kuroo's dad couldn't forget watching his son in the Games all those years ago, the way he'd willingly placed himself in harm's way for someone he cared about, an act that had scared the man half to death.

He knew Tetsurou's actions weren't a mere performance of defiance, but an authentic display of genuine, proper love.

The two of them refocused on the glowing screen in the dimly lit room, the hour far past his father's usual bedtime. But when mandatory broadcasts like this one aired, the poor man was stuck watching the fireworks of a party he wasn't even invited to. A silent observer in his own home, forced to witness a spectacle he had no part in.

After another sip of his hot chocolate, “I’m honestly surprised you haven’t been paraded up there as the next one to tie the knot.” his dad decided to say.

With an exaggerated roll of his eyes, "And what's that supposed to mean?" Kuroo asked.

His dad remained silent, locking him in a stare with that knowing look. The one he'd seen far too many times, and god, was it exhausting.

Kuroo just sighed. “Dad, we’ve been over this.”

“Tets, I know you loved that boy.” He pressed.

“Five years ago.”

“Doesn’t mean you don’t still love him.”

“Five years ago,” Kuroo repeated, exhaustion lacing his tone, as if the words were a well-worn script they'd both recited countless times before. And, of course, they were. “I haven’t spoken to Kenma in nearly five years.”

His dad just shrugged. “So?”

"So," Kuroo emphasised, his voice hinted with slight incredulity. "What makes you think I'm still carrying a torch for Kenma after all this time? After he vanished on me, no goodbye, nothing?”

His dad simply cast another look his way—a subtle expression, yet one Kuroo deciphered instantly from his father's vast repertoire of expressions. This one clearly telegraphed ‘You're not denying you still think about him.’

So, Kuroo met his gaze, a forced finality hardening his tone. "He moved on, Dad," he stated, each word deliberate. “and so did I."

A frown softened his dad's face as he noticed the subtle shift in Kuroo's posture, a familiar unease rippling through his body as he adjusted on the couch cushions. It was the same fidgety movement he'd made since he was a child. Tetsurou had always been a force of nature, a boy who latched onto an idea and stuck to it, diving headfirst into everything, even during his time at the academy. As Tetsurou's dad, his only parental figure, he'd naturally become attuned to the nuances, the small tells that betrayed his son's emotions—the things that made him sad, the things that ignited his anger. Even now, years later, with his little boy all grown up.

It was obvious.

He still thought about Kenma.

He still hurt.

But Kuroo, ever the stoic, simply rose from the couch and moved on, as he always did. Or at least, pretended to.

Kuroo circled the couch, his father's gaze following him with the unwavering attention of a watchful mother cat as he headed out of the living room. "Well," he announced. “with that case closed, I’m gonna go scrub my eyes and pray to whatever gods are listening that I can bleach Daisho’s face from my brain."

His dad propped his feet up on the coffee table, crossing one ankle over the other with a sigh. "It's rude to judge someone you don't even know, Tetsurou.” He called out tiredly.

"Rude?" Kuroo shrugged. "Maybe. Necessary for my sanity?" He clicked his tongue. "Absolutely."

His father just laughed, finishing his warm drink and switching off the television as the program concluded. Meanwhile, Kuroo retreated to his room, where he sprawled on his back across the bed, staring up at the ceiling, lost in thought for what felt like the rest of the night.

It had become a grim routine, a cycle without end. Ever since Kenma went quiet—no returned letters, no calls—Kuroo found himself trapped, night after night, wondering what the hell he had done wrong, even five years later. In the beginning, after that first letter six years ago, once they'd both returned to their respective homes, everything had been fine. Kenma had replied to every letter, returned every call. They talked, and even if they were just friends who lived a district apart, Kuroo couldn't be angry, not when Kenma had worked so hard to stay connected as well.

He hadn't seen Kenma in person since they parted ways, not until the Victor's Tour. Seeing him then and there; it was a balm to a soul that had unknowingly been parched. Perhaps it was there, in that electric moment, that Kuroo's carefully constructed facade of friendship began to crumble. Kenma stood before him, a year etched onto his features, yet still familiar. His hair, stubbornly clinging to its signature length, revealed brown roots that spoke of time and distance, styled in a half-up, half-down, with deliberately messy strands that framed a face that had matured with a quiet, understated grace.

It was in that instant, Kuroo felt the dam break. All those feelings, those affections he had tried to bury, those longings he had attempted to rationalise away, came rushing back full force, and Kuroo realised he would never see Kenma as merely a friend.

It wasn't just everything they went through in that arena together; it was so much more than that.

Kuroo loved him. He loved him more than words could possibly explain. He loved him, he loved him, he loved him. 

It was after the Victor's Tour, after they had separated to return back home, that Kenma began to fade away. At first, letters and calls trickled in, but slowly, inexorably, the once-frequent messages dwindled to nothingness. Kenma went silent. Kuroo, however, wrote every day, attempting calls in the beginning before eventually giving up halfway through. After a year of one-sided correspondence, a year of unanswered pleas, Kuroo finally came to terms with the fact that Kenma was gone.

He vanished without a trace, leaving Kuroo to wonder if he had done something wrong. Had he inadvertently said some unforgivable word during the Victor's Tour? But no matter how relentlessly Kuroo searched his memories, he found nothing but a maddening blankness. Now, nearly five years later, Kuroo still finds himself consumed by grief over what happened. Sometimes he even wonders if Kenma is dead.

Kuroo clasped his hands together, pressing his knuckles hard against his forehead. He squeezed his eyes shut, lost in a maelstrom of imaginings. He imagined if Kenma really was dead, imagined he had just simply grown weary of Kuroo's presence, exhausted by the weekly letters, tired of Kuroo altogether. It sounded about right. Achingly so. Kuroo had been told countless times how frustrating he could be to those around him. So maybe it was all his fault that Kenma had vanished from the face of the Earth, even if he couldn't fathom a single reason why Kenma would disappear from him..

..not when he loved him so much, that even Kenma knew that.

In the hushed stillness of Kuroo's bedroom, a soft meow resonated in his ear, followed by the gentle brush of a furry head nuzzling against his cheek. A smile, unbidden yet welcome, graced Kuroo's face. Ace, as always, seemed to possess an uncanny sense for when the dark thoughts began to devour him from the inside out. He opened his eyes to meet the cat's large, luminous green eyes, the only discernible feature amidst the shadowy expanse of Ace's fur, which blended seamlessly with the darkness of Kuroo's room.

Kuroo scratched the familiar spot behind Ace's ear, the one he knew instinctively was the spot, before the cat curled up beside him, nestling contentedly in the crook of Kuroo's neck. Ace's purrs resonated against Kuroo's skin, a comforting vibration that seemed to gently nudge away the thoughts that made his mind ache.

Yet, even amidst this sudden tranquility, a persistent question gnawed at Kuroo. Was Kenma really dead? And if, against all odds, he was still alive..

..where was he now?

…

District Three felt like a prison.

Kenma traversed the town—the main square, each familiar street, every shadowed alley—and everywhere he went, the oppressive presence of security was heavier than ever. For six long years, ever since his return from the Capitol after the conclusion of the 69th Games, the Peacekeepers had multiplied relentlessly, their numbers swelling until they became an inescapable fixture of the landscape. An endless sea of men clad in stark white uniforms and helmets.

In the wake of Lev Haiba’s death, District Three had transformed into a surveillance state, a place that no longer felt like home. Every movement was scrutinised, every whisper monitored as if by unseen eyes. Kenma had learned of Lev's death just days after his return home. Lev, his once-annoying escort, the man who found humour in his own terrible jokes and delighted in pissing off Kuroo’s fiery fashion designer, Yaku. It was then after Kenma thought he’d died in that arena, then returned from the dead by some miracle, Lev turned out to be so much more than he had originally thought.

Lev had been working for the rebellion, a leader, no less—far more than just an irritating District Three escort in the service of the Capitol, the enemy. The revelation had surprised Kenma, but the news of his death surprised him even more. Maybe he shouldn't have been surprised at all. His death was never explained to the public, but Kenma knew better to know that Lev's secret had been discovered, killed on the spot. Just like that. Whether the rebellion still persisted, whether Lev had divulged their plans under duress, Kenma didn’t know. Six years had passed, and still, no open war. With Daisho and Mika dominating the spotlight, it was difficult to imagine a rebellion brewing beneath the surface, so completely had they captivated the populace with their carefully crafted performance.

Kenma always kept his gaze lowered as he navigated the streets of District Three. He always felt like he was being watched, not just by the ever-present Peacekeepers patrolling the town, but by the very people who lived here. Once upon a time, Kenma had been just another regular kid attending school each day, anonymous in the crowd. Then, he had miraculously lived through death, returned home, and suddenly, everyone knew his name.

Not everyone spoke to him, but they all knew who he was: the boy who had cheated death alongside the boy he loved.

Kenma winced inwardly at the thought. Kuroo. The boy everyone thought he loved. The boy he didn’t even talk to anymore.

He shoved the thoughts aside and made a beeline straight home to the Victor's Village, tracing the familiar path where Peacekeepers couldn’t follow. The house loomed large, far grander than the one he'd shared with his parents years ago before he’d won his games. It was undeniably nicer, a reminder that Kenma could now provide for his family in ways he once couldn't. Yet, it sparked a sickening sense of gratitude towards the Capitol, a feeling he hated to the very bone. He had never liked the Capitol, never wanted to feel indebted to them for the provisions they offered, not after everything they had done. After everything they had put him—put everyone—through.

Kenma quietly pushed open the door to his house, carefully closing it behind him, the silence inside immediately telling him to be quiet. The house was always quiet these days. Though it was ten in the morning, the drawn blinds and absence of light made it feel like three. Kenma slipped off his shoes, placing them neatly beside his father's by the door, before padding down the hall to his bedroom. Finding the man still asleep in bed, he quietly retreated, leaving him alone.

It seemed the old man never stirred from bed until afternoon—a stark contrast to the father who once burst into Kenma’s room as a child, yanking open the blinds and blinding him with sunlight, enthusiastically ordering him to wake up. Kenma never imagined that their roles would be reversed, that he would be the one caring for his dad. Yet, he couldn't bring himself to resent him, not when his mornings were haunted by the sight of an empty bed.

Kenma retraced his steps down the hall, forcefully suppressing the memories of his mom, shoving down what happened to the bottom of his mind. It was hard enough dealing with his dad's grief; he couldn't afford to break down, too.

He decided to let some light in, yanking open the blinds to flood the house with morning sun. He turned on the TV, grabbing a small slice of leftover apple pie from the fridge—he never had much of an appetite. Settling onto the couch, he flipped through channels, finally landing on something. But just as he began to relax and properly dig into his first meal of the day, the screen flickered and switched on its own, as it always did when the Capitol had a mandatory program to announce.

And he was right. Tendou's unnervingly wide smile filled the screen, the ever-present Host of the annual games and Panem’s darling. Kenma had never understood the adoration, not when he had a face that looked like that. Tendou announced a mandatory program for the evening, and Kenma sighed, a weary premonition settling in. It likely had something to do with Daisho and Mika, considering the recent announcement of their engagement. Plus, last night was the infamous 'Party of the Year' at the president’s mansion, an event as gaudy as it was pointless.

But Kenma suspected something more, something bigger, especially with the Reaping just around the corner. But this year felt different, heavier, because this year marked the third Quarter Quell.

…

Shoyo's mom ushered Natsu into the house after she picked her up from school, and the moment Natsu spotted her older brother and Tobio in the living room, her face lit up like a firefly. An unstoppable torrent of words burst from her as she recounted every detail of her day, bubbling over with the news of a mandatory program announced by her teachers for that evening. Shoyo might have interjected with a 'Why so excited?', but she seemed to anticipate his question. She thinks it's going to be about Daisho and Mika, since Ushijima had just recently congratulated their proposal at the Presidential Palace—‘party of the year’.

Shoyo exchanged a knowing glance with Tobio. They both understood that tonight's program was far from a simple celebration of Daisho and Mika's engagement. With the Reaping looming so close, this year would be unlike any other, because this year there was the Quarter Quell. The first Quarter Quell forced districts to vote for their tributes, while the second doubled the number of participants in the Games. Now, as the third Quell approached, Shoyo and Tobio sensed that something far grander and more sinister was about to unfold.

As Natsu registered the palpable tension radiating from Shoyo and Tobio, her earlier exuberance seemed to fizzle and fade. Shoyo hated to see his little sister's vibrant spirit dim, but how could he feign normalcy now? Even if the broadcast were genuinely about Daisho and Mika, a knot of unease tightened in Shoyo's stomach. He couldn't shake the feeling that even their love, if it was real, was merely a pawn in Ushijima's big game.

As the evening deepened, the family coalesced around the television, drawn by the start of the program. Tendou, the devilish Host, materialised on the screen, his unnerving grin stretching the corners of his lips too close to his eyes for Shoyo's comfort. Shoyo's mind flashed back to their interactions, a grudging acknowledgement of Tendou's kindness towards the trembling boy he had been on that stage six years ago, a boy teetering on the edge of nausea. Yet, despite Tendou's attempts to soothe him, Shoyo couldn't shake the image of him as a loyal subject of the Capitol, a devoted servant of President Ushijima.

Tendou stood poised on a stage, addressing a packed audience in front of the Training Center. The crowd erupted in cheers, their enthusiasm a mixture of genuine adoration for Tendou and an unsettling awareness of the situation that eluded Shoyo and his family. To Shoyo's surprise, Natsu's intuition proved right. Tendou introduced Hiroo Koji, District Eleven's celebrated Fashion Designer, who had risen to prominence after designing Mika's costumes for the Games. It was somewhat funny, really, an irony in the fact that someone as seemingly lethargic as this man had become an overnight sensation—a man of few words until recognition found him. Yet, Shoyo suspected that his popularity was merely a reflection of Mika's own fame.

After a brief exchange between Tendou and Hiroo, Tendou directed the audience's attention towards a colossal screen. An image of Mika in a pristine white gown filled the display, prompting cheers and shouts of approval from the crowd. Shoyo knew, however, that this was not the only option. He heard that in the Capitol, citizens were granted the opportunity to vote for their favourite dress—a concept that hadn’t quite sat right with Shoyo. After all, was this not supposed to be Mika's wedding day? Shouldn't she have the right to choose, even if she harbored no desire to marry Daisho?

Each image was met with a resounding reaction from the crowd—screams and cheers for their favourites, boos for those they disliked, and Shoyo found the whole spectacle completely bizarre. He had assumed that this program—this mandatory program—would hold more significance, but when two celebrities were set to marry, who could fault the people for being so engrossed?

Just as Shoyo recognised the program's conclusion, signaled by Tendou's prompting of the crowd into a frenzy of excited cheers, he reached for the remote, poised to switch off the television. Yet, before his thumb could even graze the power button, Tendou urged everyone to stay tuned, as if sensing Shoyo's growing weariness with this wedding crap.

A smile, subtly different from his usual expression, spread across Tendou's slender face. Goosebumps prickled Shoyo's arms, the fine hairs on his neck standing on end, because as Tendou announced another significant event to be discussed that evening, he seemed excited, eager—an enthusiasm that felt wrong, especially for Shoyo, Tobio, and everyone else watching.

"That's right, folks," Tendou announced with a cheerful lilt. "This year marks the seventy-fifth anniversary of the Hunger Games, and that means it's time for the third Quarter Quell!"

Shoyo's stomach clenched, a sensation almost mirrored by Tobio, who sat beside him. Tobio reached out, offering a comforting rub on Shoyo's shoulder, a simple gesture meant to convey reassurance. Though Shoyo appreciated the sentiment, it did little to soothe his fraying nerves.

Shoyo was shaking from the inside out.

Abruptly, the anthem began to play, and a flood of memories washed over Shoyo. He was standing in a crowd of children at the Reaping, watching the same video they watched every year, accompanied by the same haunting music. Shoyo felt a tremor run through him. The nightmares—that sickening look on Ushijima's face.

Shoyo squeezed his hand tightly, fighting to suppress the trembling.

President Ushijima then strode onto the stage, followed by a young boy in a pristine white suit, carrying a simple wooden box. Shoyo could only speculate about the box's contents until Ushijima retrieved an envelope and, speaking into the microphone, announced to the audience the nature of this Quarter Quell.

As the anthem concluded and the applause subsided, Ushijima began to speak. "Ladies and gentlemen, this is the seventy-fifth year of the Hunger Games,” the crowd erupted in cheers once more, but Shoyo could only shift uneasily on his cushioned seat, because how could they be so excited? Ushijima then continued. “And it was written in the charter of the Games that every twenty five years, there would be a Quarter Quell to keep fresh for each new generation the memory of those who died in the uprising against the Capitol.”

Ushijima reminded the world of the Dark Days from which the Hunger Games had emerged—a story universally known. Ever since the war, this spectacle existed. The Quarter Quell—a glorified version of the Games designed to refresh the memory of those who had been killed due to the districts' rebellion.

Ushijima lowered his gaze to his notes and proceeded. “On the twenty-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that their children were dying because of their choice to initiate violence, every district was made to hold an election and vote on the tributes who would represent it.”

Shoyo couldn’t fathom the weight of that decision—selecting the children who would be sent to their doom. It surely felt far worse to be betrayed by one's own neighbors than to have one's name drawn randomly from the reaping ball.

“On the fiftieth anniversary,” the president continued, recounting the events of previous Quarter Quells to the audience. “As a reminder that two rebels died for each Capitol citizen, every district was required to send twice as many tributes.”

Shoyo tried to imagine confronting not just twenty-three, but forty-seven others—a field of despair where hope dwindled and the grim tally of young lives extinguished loomed larger. He stole a glance at Tobio, whose gaze remained transfixed on the screen.

That year had been Ukai's winning year—Tobio’s mentor, the victor who had defied those very odds.

Ushijima's eyes remained fixed on the paper before him. "Each Quarter Quell," he announced, "is marked by Games of particular import. And now on this, the seventy fifth anniversary of our defeat of the rebellion, we celebrate the third Quarter Quell as a reminder that even the strongest cannot overcome the power of the Capitol.”

Then, Ushijima raised his gaze from the paper, his olive eyes meeting the camera's lens, piercing through the screen to lock with the viewers beyond. Shoyo felt a chill as the camera zoomed in, focusing intently as Ushijima said,

“..Including those involved in what happened during the sixty-ninth Games.”

A profound silence fell, stretching, heavy and laden with something unspoken.

"What the hell is he talking about?"

Compared to Tobio, who was frustrated and confused, Shoyo clenched his hands together tightly–nervously–feeling his entire body fall weak as he stared at the screen in front of him. It was as if Ushijima could sense Shoyo’s fear, and the fear of every other victor from the 69th Games.

A glint flashes in Ushijima’s eyes–something almost unrecognisable..

It’s a darkness more menacing than anything Shoyo has ever faced before.

The camera widened its view once again, revealing the small boy in white stepping forward. He held out the wooden box and opened its lid, showcasing neat, upright rows of yellowed envelopes. It was clear that whoever had conceived the Quarter Quell system had planned for centuries of Hunger Games to come.

The President selected an envelope distinctly marked with ‘75.’ He slid his finger under the flap and extracted a small square of paper. Shoyo leaned forward, hands clasped tightly to his lips, his eyes fixated on Ushijima as his gaze meticulously scanned the words on the hidden side of the paper, words the audience was not yet privy to.

And then, at long last, Ushijima broke the silence.

“On this, the third Quarter Quell Games,” the president declared. “I am announcing that tributes are to be reaped from the existing pool of Victors in each district.”

Shoyo stared at the screen for a moment, transfixed. He heard his mother cry out, a faint, strangled scream escaping her throat. Natsu, bewildered, darted her wide, concerned eyes between her trembling, weeping mother and Tobio, who had buried his face in his hands, shaking with what she presumed was a fit of rage. Deep, gut-wrenching rage.

Shoyo was baffled, completely lost—until, in a sudden, sickening click, comprehension dawned, and all colour leached from the boy’s face.

“Victors shall present themselves on Reaping Day, regardless of age, state of health, gender, or situation, and this time, the number of boys and girls reaped need not to be equal, proving that the Capitol has the power to redefine the rules as it sees fit.”

No, he thought, a frantic denial echoing in his mind. No, no, no—because while he understood the words, he couldn't grasp the implications—but he knew what it meant for him.

District Nine had only two victors to choose from..

Two males. Only two.

Shoyo rose from the couch, his legs trembling beneath him. He clapped a hand over his mouth, feeling sweat prickle his skin and his stomach lurch into his throat as his mother’s cries faded into something distant. His legs moved on their own accord, his body reacting before his mind could process, and he bolted out the door, across the manicured lawns of the Victor’s Village, into the enveloping darkness beyond. He had no destination in mind. He just ran, heedless of the wind's icy bite, the snow seeping into his boots—he didn’t care, couldn’t think.

The next thing Shoyo knew, he was on his hands and knees in the snow, collapsing onto the ground. He gasped for air, breathing raggedly through his mouth and nose, watching the cold vapour puff out past his trembling lips.

Six years. Six years had passed since Shoyo had last set foot in that arena, and now, he was expected to go back. This—fucking this, despite the gilded promise of a life steeped in peace and prosperity. A life, he'd been assured, liberated from the reaping, free from the haunting specter of being forced back into that goddamn arena.

Shoyo choked, his cold, numb fingers raking through his damp, snow-covered hair. But now, the fear was back, a suffocating presence. Perhaps it had never truly left, the nightmares serving as constant reminders, maybe even as warnings. He had never stopped being afraid, but now, the fear was a living thing, more intense than ever before.

Shoyo clawed at his hair, his breath hitching in uneven, ragged gasps. And then, a scream tore from his throat, raw and primal. He doesn’t know how long, but when the sound finally died, his throat throbbed with pain. Shakily, he stumbled to his feet and began the long, agonising trek back to the Victor's Village.

But he returned too late to catch the rest of Ushijima's words.

Words that, unbeknownst to Shoyo, would transform his time in the arena into a far more perilous ordeal.

Chapter Text

With every mile closer to District Twelve, the train ride became a physical torment for Tobio. His stomach turned into a knot of nausea.

It wasn't the first time Tobio had been back to his old stomping grounds since the Reaping that flipped his world upside down six years ago. He could still feel the nervous sweat from standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the other kids, each one silently begging not to be picked for a death sentence. Before he got the golden ticket to District Nine with Shoyo, he had to drag himself back to Twelve and pick up the few things he had left. Like his own comb, because let's be real, Shoyo has probably never even touched one in his life with that untamed red hair of his. And the books he actually liked, even if he did get frustrated when his brain tripped over some basic four letter word.

Then there were the other things. The important, yet simple things. His dad's coal mining helmet, bearing a telltale crack that bisected the lamp like a scar. His mom's reading glasses, perpetually perched on her side of the bedside table, a relic from countless nights spent lost in the pages of the same beloved book she read over and over again. And his grandfather's worn playing cards, used for some bizarre game that made perfect sense to no one but the old man himself.

Then there were Miwa's things. The terribly carved bow and arrows she'd made when she was thirteen, a testament to her determination, even if her aim was questionable at the time. Her sketchbook, filled with chaotic drawings of busts sporting hairstyles that were outlandishly peculiar—too avant-garde for the Capitol, yet somehow too strange even for the streets of Twelve. The one thin leather bracelet she always wore, like a second skin. The oversized jumper that was comically large on her, the one that technically should have been Tobio's. Her childhood stuffed animals, worn and loved, that knife she never let Tobio touch—and maybe it was a lot to haul back to Nine, but the thought of leaving those memories behind for good was unbearable.

Stepping off the train and setting foot on District Twelve's soil again was like a jolt, slamming him back into a life he thought he'd escaped. The last time he'd been here for anything other than scavenging for memories was five years ago, during the hollow spectacle of the Victor's Tour. Now, he was back, inhaling that familiar, acrid scent of poverty and despair, the biting cold seeping into his bones. He was here because he was expected to participate in the Reaping again, a barbaric ritual he'd naively believed he'd left behind six years ago. But this wouldn't be the Reaping of old. He wouldn't be standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the kids he grew up with, wouldn't be forced to watch that simpering Capitol escort draw names with a saccharine smile.

No. No, this time, he'd be watching her from a torturous new angle, standing beside Ukai and that girl who'd clawed her way out of the 61st Games, knowing with sickening certainty that only one of them would walk away from this Reaping with the luxury of safety.

As he walked through the eerily familiar streets of his former life, his mind replayed to last night, to Shoyo, and he knew it couldn't be him who walked away unscathed from this Reaping, no matter how desperately he craved it.

Tobio curtly told the Peacekeepers, who clung to him like glue, that he had somewhere to attend to before the Reaping in an hour. But, of course, they remained his ever-present escort, and they followed him. Only when he stepped onto the hallowed ground of District Twelve's Victor's Village did they finally halt, forming a silent barrier at the brick fence. He didn't acknowledge them, his focus solely on the house beside the one he should have been living in, if not for Shoyo.

He approached the front door, hand already raised to knock. But as if his arrival had been foretold, the door swung inward, revealing an older, wearier man. His smile was a tired, barely-there thing, offering little in the way of welcome.

“Kageyama,” Ukai rasped, a half-smoked cigarette dangling precariously from his lips. “Figured you’d be by sooner or later,” he stepped aside in a slow, deliberate movement. “Welcome to the lap of luxury, District Twelve style.”

Tobio sighed, stepping past Ukai into the dimly lit space, the door clicking shut behind them. “Don’t act like this is my first visit,” he said. “My place is right next door.”

“And yet, something tells me you’d rather be glued to that ball of sunshine in District Nine.”

It had been a couple of years since Tobio had last truly seen Ukai, and under different circumstances, perhaps it would have been a welcome reunion—a chance to reminisce with his mentor over shared, albeit terrible, memories. But Tobio was far too aware of the gravity of their situation to indulge in sentimental nostalgia. They both knew better than to hold hands and seek solace in past hardships when a far greater, more immediate threat loomed over them.

Tobio navigated towards the dining table, plopping down on a seat so worn Ukai clearly couldn't be fucked to replace it. He cut straight to the chase. "Speaking of Hinata," he began, his gaze lingering on the ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts. "I don't want you volunteering for me."

Ukai settled into the chair across from Tobio, grinding the lit end of his cigarette into the ashtray until it was nothing more than a pathetic stub. “And what makes you think I’m gonna do that?” He asked, the question dripping with a false innocence that didn't fool Tobio for a second.

“Don’t play dumb. I overheard you and Hinata on the phone last night,” Tobio said, the memory of Shoyo's desperate, late-night plea echoing in his mind from their shared living room. He lifted his gaze, meeting Ukai's head-on. “I know he wants you to volunteer if my name gets called.”

“Eavedropping now, are we?” rasped his mentor. “That’s a new low, even for you.”

“Ukai,” Tobio said, tone serious. “Promise me you won’t.”

A heavy silence descended, broken only by the intensity of their locked gazes. And then, voice as rough as sandpaper, “You know damn well I can’t promise that.”

And of course. Fuck, of course.

“So you want to go back?” Tobio scoffed. “After everything? All the shit you went through?”

“Nobody wants to go back, Kageyama.”

“So you’re just going to whatever Shoyo tells you?”

“I’m going to do what I think is right,” Ukai corrected. “It may have been hell, but I made it out of a game with forty-seven other tributes. With me in that arena with Ginger, you know I can save him.”

Save him. The words fell so casually from Ukai's lips, as if they were discussing the morning's coffee or the latest gossip. It made Tobio mad. It wasn't just the audacity, but the infuriating ease with which Ukai was willing to throw himself into the path of danger to save a boy Tobio loved.

So, his voice dropping, “I can’t let you do that.” Tobio said firmly, because he couldn’t. He just couldn’t.

“So what’s your plan then? Huh?” Ukai shot back, his voice gaining an edge but never breaking. “You gonna volunteer in my place? Play the martyr?”

“What do you expect me to do when you’re willing to make the same sacrifice for me?”

“I expect you to sit back, Kageyama, and let me do this,” then, lowering his voice, a deliberate attempt to inject calm into the escalating tension, he said, “I’ve got nothing waiting for me back home. You do.”

And Tobio's frustration only spiked more at those words, because how could Ukai say that? Maybe Ukai had carved out a solitary life, unburdened by the ties that bind, save for the grim duty of returning to the Capitol each year. There, he was forced to shepherd his tributes, knowing full well they were lambs to the slaughter, sacrifices to a twisted game. But Ukai shouldn't even think like that, let alone voice them aloud for Tobio to hear, crystal clear, that he was deemed purposeless in this shit world.

Tobio's mind flashed back to his first encounter with Ukai, years ago—a mentor in name only. Ukai had seemed to regard the task of imparting survival skills as utterly futile, as if he could see right through Tobio and his sister, knowing their fate was sealed in that arena. It was a rough start, but Ukai had proven to be.. tolerable, in his own gruff way. He wasn't malicious or incompetent, but a man haunted by too much, scarred by suffering endured too early in life—a nightmare he could never truly escape.

So, how could Tobio just stand idly by and watch Ukai sacrifice himself for him, when they were, in essence, mirror images of each other, bound by shared pain and understanding?

The silence hung heavy, drawn out to an unbearable length. Finally, Tobio broke it, his voice a low, resolute declaration, "You can't stop me, Ukai." He said, serious.

And Ukai sighed. "Kageyama.." He murmured, his eyes closing as his shoulders slumped in defeat.

“I’m going back in.”

“You haven’t thought this through, not even for a second,” he said, the weariness in his voice clear. “There are only two victors from District Nine, and Hinata is one of them. And if you know how this Quarter Quell works, then you should also know that there’s no backing out for Red,” he opened his tired eyes again, pinning Tobio with a gaze that demanded answers. “You charge back into that arena, Hinata’s there–you know that–so what then? What’s your plan?”

Tobio paused, considering his words carefully before settling on a simple, "We'll win." Ukai's response was a sigh, this time heavier and more burdened than before.

“It’s not going to be as simple as it was six years ago, Kageyama,” he explained. “This is a Quarter Quell. They won’t show any mercy–not after you, Akaashi, and those four other supposed dead kids broke the whole damn system and walked out as victors. There’s only going to be one winner this year, and you know it.”

Of course, Tobio knew Ukai was right. He had met the architect of their suffering, the Head who orchestrated the events that had thrown Tobio and so many others into that arena. He knew that escaping with Shoyo would be a monumental task, perhaps even impossible. But then, his mind conjured an image of Shoyo in the arena, his Shoyo, isolated and vulnerable without Tobio by his side, as he always had been. He pictured the emotional wreckage Shoyo would become if Tobio wasn't there to anchor him. He had always been there, a constant presence from their tumultuous beginning six years ago, to the endless nightmares that still haunted Shoyo in their shared bedroom. Nightmares that he was now expected to confront all over again.

Maybe they wouldn't walk out of this arena together, free and triumphant as they had before. But even if that was the inevitable outcome, Tobio couldn't bear the thought of Shoyo facing that arena alone, not when it scared him so, so much.

The silence was so profound that Tobio hadn't even registered it until Ukai's exhausted sigh cut through his spiraling thoughts. "You and that Ginger are two sides of the same coin. You'd both jump in front of a train for each other," Ukai observed, as if he had somehow plucked the thoughts straight from Tobio's mind. “You’re both thinking you’re doing the other one a favour, and it’s reckless. Only one of you is walking out of there, and worse case?” he paused, letting the unspoken answer linger in the air for a moment before spelling it out anyway. “Maybe neither of you.”

Tobio shifted uneasily in his chair, his gaze darting away from Ukai's piercing stare. If he met Ukai's eyes now, he knew he would only see the unspoken warning in his eyes. The 'You'll both lose each other if you do this.' And Tobio knew that Ukai was right; volunteering would likely result in one of them dying in that arena, leaving the other to grapple with the loss. But despite the logic, the haunting image of Shoyo persisted in his mind—alone, helpless, scared. And in that image, Tobio saw a reflection of his own deepest fears, feeling just as alone, helpless, and scared.

Ukai seemed to grasp the turmoil raging within Tobio's mind. “I know I can’t stop you if they call my name,” he conceded, his voice momentarily deflating before regaining its serious edge. “but just know it doesn’t stop from there. Hinata won’t stop until he’s torn the arena apart to keep you safe. He’ll do anything, everything, if it means you’re the one who makes it out alive.”

Tobio tried to imagine it. Shoyo, throwing himself in front of Tobio at every conceivable threat, absorbing each blow like a human shield. It was hard to imagine, because how could that ball of boundless energy and light, the boy who was more often kept awake at night by fear of the games, tear the arena apart piece by piece, all for the sake of Tobio's survival?

Though it was hard to imagine, it wasn't hard to believe that Shoyo wouldn't do everything in his power for Tobio. He may have been haunted by fear, helpless against the weight of memories and nightmares, but he wasn’t powerless.

So, Tobio offered a curt nod, a silent acknowledgment passing between them. "I know," he breathed out, the understanding settling deep within him before he met Ukai's gaze. "Which just means I'll have to do the same, then."

Shoyo had given Tobio everything when he was at his absolute lowest point. After Miwa's desth, Tobio was a complete mess, pushing Shoyo away in the misguided belief that he should be alone. But then, Shoyo gave him a home, a sanctuary where he was loved and belonged, not just by Shoyo himself, but by his entire family, despite all the things that made Tobio so difficult.

And Tobio loved him. He loved that idiot so, so much, even if he didn’t know how to properly load the dishwasher without creating a precarious tower of dishes destined to collapse. He loved him even if he couldn’t ever seem to remember to replace the toilet paper roll when it was empty. He loved him even if he didn’t understand that 'a pinch of salt' didn't mean emptying half the shaker into the pot.

And he loved him, because Shoyo loved him too.

So, if Shoyo was prepared to tear the arena apart for him, then Tobio would just have to annihilate it.

…

Shoyo kept his gaze fixed on the ground as he walked, Tenma a step ahead. The Peacekeepers flanked them, a silent escort to the square. As they moved, Shoyo could feel the weight of eyes on him. District Nine's kids and parents stood in rigid rows, their faces a blur of fear and resignation. He didn't need to look up to know what they were thinking, what they all knew. They knew that this was it. That their hope, their luck, their lives, had run out.

Ever since Tobio left that morning for District Twelve, Shoyo found it hard to focus on his own situation. The thought of Tobio potentially being thrown back into the arena was a constant, gnawing worry. Last night's phone call with Ukai, Tobio's mentor, replayed in his head. He'd begged, pleaded that it couldn't be Tobio. Wouldn’t be Tobio. But a cold certainty settled in his stomach, a relentless mix of unease and frustration, because he knew, deep down, that Tobio would never let Ukai volunteer in his place. Not a chance.

Tobio had a reckless streak, maybe even more than Shoyo himself. He always seemed to be one step ahead, anticipating Shoyo's every move. It was the little things, the everyday moments. Tobio already half-undressed in the bathroom when Shoyo mentioned taking a shower. Tobio up before dawn, blending a protein shake in the kitchen, ready for a morning run that Shoyo had only just suggested the night before. Tobio, despite being exhausted, already walking Natsu to school when Shoyo said he'd take her.

He was just there, before Shoyo even realised he needed him.

But this was different, so much bigger than their usual antics. This was the Hunger Games, a brutal arena where it was kill or be killed, a far cry from the life they'd walked away from years ago. If Tobio's name was drawn, Ukai would volunteer without hesitation. And if Ukai's name was called, Tobio would do the same. Shoyo wasn't stupid; he knew that's exactly what Tobio would do, because that's just the kind of reckless, stubborn idiot he was.

No matter how hard Shoyo tried to picture it—Tobio's name echoing through the square, Ukai stepping forward to take his place, Shoyo meeting Ukai's eyes in the Capitol knowing Tobio was safe back in Nine—the image just wouldn't materialise. It was like his mind refused to accept it as a possibility.

All Shoyo could do was cling to the hope that Tobio's name would be drawn, that Ukai would be there, ready to fulfill the promise he'd made.

Shoyo felt the weight of every gaze as he and Tenma walked towards the stage. He caught a fleeting glimpse of Natsu and his mother, their eyes filled with a sadness they tried to mask with forced bravery. If Shoyo died in that arena, his family would be plunged back into the desperate life they'd once known—stuck in that dilapidated house, constantly fighting for money and food. They might even trade Natsu's name to be entered more times than she ever had before, all for a year's supply of grain and oil. It was a pittance compared to the wealth Shoyo had provided for them over the past six years.

Shoyo averted his gaze, his eyes drawn to the escort who stood in rare silence beside the enormous bowl. It held only two slips of paper. He already knew what was written on them, knew there was no chance for either him or Tenma to escape the Reaping.

As Shoyo and Tenma stood side-by-side on the stage, a heavy silence hanging between them, Shoyo stared blankly into the distance. The escort's scripted speech droned on—the forced welcomes, the hollow ‘wonderfuls’—but Shoyo barely registered her words. His mind kept drifting back to Tobio. He imagined Tobio standing on a similar stage in District Twelve, listening to the same empty platitudes, and he wondered what thoughts were swirling in Tobio's head at that very moment.

Before Shoyo could fully grasp the moment, the escort plunged her hand into the singular bowl. This Quarter Quell was unlike others; the genders of those reaped didn't need to be equal. There was no need for separate bowls for girls and boys when anyone could be chosen this time.

With a flourish, she plucked a single slip from the bowl and waltzed back to the microphone, already knowing she'd return for the other. She unfolded the paper, pretending to read it carefully, though she knew it wouldn't bear the name of some anonymous face from the crowd.

She cleared her throat, the sound amplified through the square, hanging heavy in the air. "Our first tribute from District Twelve..” her gaze drifted over to Tenma and Shoyo, and for the first time, a flicker of genuine sympathy crossed her face. "Shoyo Hinata."

Shoyo expected to react—a flinch, a tremble, something—but he remained frozen, staring straight ahead. Then, his legs moved without his conscious command, carrying him to the escort's side. Her brows pinched for a fleeting moment, and the hand she'd initially extended to guide the redhead transformed into a soft pat on his shoulder, a quiet ‘I’m sorry’.

The escort plastered on a smile, the effort evident. "Wonderful!" she exclaimed, the enthusiasm ringing hollow. "And now, for our second tribute." She returned to the glass bowl, her gloved hand disappearing into the opening before emerging with the final slip. Back at the microphone, she announced, "Our second tribute from District Twelve.." the rustle of paper echoed through the square as she unfolded it. Shoyo braced himself, waiting to hear Tenma's name. "Is.." he waited. "Is.." waited..

Shoyo risked a glance at the escort, and what he saw made his blood run cold. Confusion warred with something akin to horror on her face as she stammered, tripping over words that seemed determined to fail her. It was as if the name she held in her hand was a joke, a mistake that defied reason. An almost desperate urge seized Shoyo—he had to see that paper, to understand why the woman's face had turned the colour of bone.

She cleared her throat, the sound raw and strained, as if forcing the words past a lump of dread. Her eyes fluttered shut for a fleeting moment, a desperate attempt to delay the inevitable. When they snapped back open, a grim resolve settled over her features. She knew that once the name left her lips, all hell would break loose.

“Natsu Hinata.”

Everything exploded at once.

One moment, Shoyo was a vortex of tears, shouts, and bewilderment, his screams amplified by the microphone and swallowed by the roar of District Nine's crowd. The next, he was being hauled inside the Justice Building by Peacekeepers, Natsu struggling beside him, her small face contorted in fear. Tenma, a figure of frantic desperation, chased after them, his voice lost in the pandemonium. The escort, meanwhile, stood frozen, stammering apologies, as if this catastrophic unraveling was the furthest thing from her desired conclusion to the Reaping.

The Peacekeepers' grip on Shoyo and Natsu was a vise, brutal. But once Tenma, managed to wrestle them free in a form of ‘pleas’, he dragged the Hinata siblings into the nearest empty room, slamming the door shut behind them with a resounding crash that echoed their shared panic.

Tenma took a hesitant step towards Shoyo, raising his hands up carefully. "Shoyo," he began, his voice firm, yet laced with confusion, because not even he, the seasoned mentor, could make sense of the chaos that had just erupted. "Shoyo," he repeated. "Just breathe, just calm down—"

Shoyo's eyes snapped wide, his breath hitching in his throat. "Calm down?" he choked out in disbelief. "What in the hell is this, Tenma? What is Ushiwaka doing?!"

"Shoyo—"

"He announced the Quarter Quell," he interrupted, his voice rising in hysteria. "It—it's supposed to be me and you!" He gestured wildly between them, his arms flailing. "Not my—" he broke off, gasping for air, his face contorted in anguish. "Not my sister!"

“Listen to me, Shoyo,” Tenma pleaded. “Ushiwaka announced the Quarter Quell, said that tributes were to be reaped from the existing pool of Victor’s, girls and boys reaped don’t need to be equal, I know,” he rushed out, his gaze shifting from Shoyo to the pale-faced girl, who stood frozen in terror, looking more lost and confused than either of them. “But he also said there was something else. A singular twist, but he never specified what that meant.”

“So you're saying that the twist was Natsu?”

“Yeah,” answered his mentor. “Maybe it's even punishment.”

“Punishemnt for what?!” Shoyo cried. “Isn’t going back in the arena again punishment enough?!”

Tenma cast a wary glance over his shoulder, his eyes darting to the door as if to ensure that they weren't being overheard. Then, he turned back to Shoyo, his voice dropping to a bare whisper. "It's punishment for surviving all those years ago, Shoyo."

Shoyo shook his head. “But why me?” he questioned, so mad, so frustrated that he could barely breathe. “Why not Oikawa, or–or Kenma?!”

“I don’t know,” Tenma said truthfully, because how could he know? “But look at me, both of you,” he implored, his gaze locking onto Natsu, snapping her out of the daze that had enveloped her. “You two have to keep your eyes open in that arena. Clearly Ushiwaka has it out for you, and he’s using Natsu to do it.”

“What in the hell could he have against me?!” Shoyo’s voice cracked.

“I don’t know,” Tenma repeated, his voice firm this time, laced with urgency. He reached out, gripping Shoyo's shoulders, feeling the tremor that ran through his body beneath his tight grasp. “but you’re going to listen to me, Shoyo. You’re going back in that arena and you’re going to do everything you can to survive. Ushiwaka will stop at nothing to break, to make your life a living hell–and Shoyo,” he shook him gently when he felt Shoyo's gaze drifting, his mind wandering into dangerous territory. “Shoyo. Don’t you even think about doing anything reckless. That’s exactly what he wants. Because if you do, it will get you, and your sister killed. Do you understand me?”

Shoyo couldn't bring himself to look at Tenma—not even Natsu. He was a wreck, a gasping, panicking mess of frayed nerves and spiraling thoughts. And now Natsu was here to witness his unraveling, and god, Tenma was losing him.

So, Tenma tightened his grip on Shoyo's shoulders, shaking him with a controlled force until Shoyo's eyes snapped up, meeting Tenma's. "Do you understand?" He demanded.

Shoyo remained visibly shaken, barely able to stand, his body convulsing from the inside out as the brutal reality crashed over him. Natsu was District Nine's tribute. He couldn't fathom how or why, and perhaps it was a twisted form of punishment, but it still defied all reason. Why Shoyo? Why did Ushijima have to sink so low as to use Natsu as a pawn, a tactic to make surviving these games an unbearable hell?

His shoulders hitched with each ragged, uncontrolled breath, his chest heaving as he fought to regain a semblance of composure. Slowly, painstakingly, the storm within him began to subside, leaving behind a residue of exhaustion and fear. His weary, haunted eyes finally met Tenma's, and because he had to, because he desperately needed to, Shoyo managed a slow, understanding nod.

And Tenma returned the nod slowly, his brow furrowed as if he, too, were still grappling with the weight of the situation. "Good," he whispered, the single word laced with relief. "Good,” he then loosened his grip on Shoyo's shoulders, adopting a calmer, more reassuring approach. "Now, you two are going to get on that train, and you're not going to give Ushiwaka the satisfaction of seeing you break. Not when he's watching, not when he knows this has already shaken you."

There was then a sigh. Tenma let his own head hang low, strands of black hair falling forward to conceal the guilt that burned in his eyes. It was supposed to be him. It was supposed to be him and Shoyo, not innocent little Natsu, who remained blissfully unaware of her big brother's harrowing games—the games he deliberately kept his mouth shut about all because it terrified Shoyo to bits and pieces imagining Natsu having to witness what he went through. And now, Natsu would have to go through the same thing.

Tenma sighed again. It should have been him. But he was powerless to undo what had already happened.

So, he lifted his gaze, meeting both Shoyo's and Natsu's eyes, his own now a mask of controlled resolve. He couldn't afford to show remorse, not now. That would be selfish. "This is his game," Tenma continued, his voice steady. "and you can't afford to play by his rules."

The only way he could truly atone was to channel his remorse into action, dedicating every fiber of his being to ensuring their survival. He would become their shield, their sword, their beacon, even if it meant providing Ushijima with another reason to kill them.