Chapter Text
Ivan has never been very good at showing how he felt.
It’s not that he didn’t know how to feel, it’s that he never knew how to convey them to others in a way that would make them understand.
While it came easy to the other kids in district twelve, he found that it was actually quite the struggle for him. He’s never led a normal life, he knows that. He’s been alone for as long as he can remember, isolated from any true compassion and warmth, forced to live in an empty cottage, an empty home. How would he know what it’s like to be open about such emotions, when no one’s ever there to bear witness, anyway? When no one’s there to treat him with the same tenderness the other kids had gotten growing up?
For that reason, he liked to observe how other people interacted. Not that he has any problems fitting into a crowd or making friends, no, he’s actually very well-adjusted. It’s just that he finds it admirable—how animated the other kids his age were in comparison to him, how being expressive and free came naturally to them.
But he had to admit that he was a little bit envious, because none of those expressions ever looked authentic when he tried to copy how they looked on other people. It never felt real enough. No matter how much emotion wracked his body, he couldn’t express it in ways that didn’t feel fake—in ways that didn’t feel forced.
He remembers being nine and staring into his own reflection bouncing off the surface of the lake, attempting to imitate the expressions that would pass over the faces of his classmates.
It’s difficult, because he never seems to get it right, and the most he could ever do was a scrunch of his nose in annoyance, or an uninterested look that Till had bluntly interpreted as: “the stare of a dead fish.” He vaguely remembers frowning and replying: “Well, at least I don’t look angry all the time.” He came home with a split lip and a bruised cheek that day.
He remembers being nine, when Mizi had smiled brilliantly at Till and Ivan for the first time, and Till had turned an interesting shade of pink and started babbling like a toddler.
Ivan had been so fascinated by the look on his face (which was very pretty, by the way) that the next day at the lake, he used his small fingers to hook into the corners of his mouth in a poor attempt to copy the smile on Mizi’s face. And then he wonders: could this smile provoke Till into reacting the way he did when Mizi had smiled at him too?
Later on, he realized that the feeling he had—the one where he wanted to see Till blushing and flustered because of him—was an intimate sort of fondness. He had asked Mizi what it meant when all three of them were still clueless children, and she had squealed in his face and told him to describe “his crush on Till” in explicit detail, and that brought another set of unfamiliar, complicated emotions he didn’t know how to cope with.
But as he grew older, he grew to understand how those feelings worked for Till, the same way he grew to understand the many different functions of his face and how to get his expressions to look a little bit more natural, even if none of them seemed real to him, still.
He also grew to understand that those feelings he had for Till were feelings the other boy had for Mizi, if the redness of his cheeks, or the slew of incoherent words that flew out of his mouth whenever he spoke to her were anything to go by.
Of course, there was an ache in his chest where his affection for Till sat, but there was an even bigger part of him that admired Till’s love for Mizi. He loved how intensely Till adored her, how he’d talk about her so passionately, and how he’d spend so much time creating things for her; the flower crowns, the songs, and the little sketches hidden away in the back of his notebook.
Till was so devoted.
And Ivan began to intimately understand that sort of devotion as time crawled forward, too, and he came to realize that his love- his devotion to Till was scarily similar.
And with that realization, came the epiphany that he’d do anything to protect that kind of adoration, because emotions—feeling them, being able to express them in a way that could be understood so easily—was not a privilege many people had.
It was something to be treasured, something so painfully human, something Ivan felt like he wasn’t, on most days. Ivan knew love wasn’t something he had much of himself, and yet, he’s compelled to give, and give, and give to those who are already so full of it.
So when Till’s name had been yelled into deafening silence that had fallen upon the entire district, Ivan’s instinctive reaction was to call out: “I volunteer!”
Because he understood, better than anyone in district twelve, just how sacred love and devotion were.
“Why the fuck did you do that?!” Till shoves him, forcing him to stumble into the wooden furniture behind him. He looks enraged, face twisting into something unpleasant. Ivan can’t help but stare, gut lurching with an ugly, ugly feeling.
Mizi, who’s been crying since Till’s name had been reaped, since Ivan had volunteered in his stead, calls out weakly, “Till-“
“Why would you take my place?!” He’s trembling, his fingers curling into the collar of Ivan’s shirt. “You fucking idiot. You’re such an asshole- you- fuck. You absolute douchebag, what the hell is wrong with you?!”
“Till,” Ivan begins evenly, “I’m doing it to protect you, both you and Mizi.”
“But it’s your life on the line too, Ivan,” Mizi cries, inching closer to them, tears spilling down her reddened cheeks. “What about you? You’re- you can’t-“
“I didn’t have a choice,” Ivan argues helplessly.
Till needs Mizi, Till won’t survive out there, not like this, not when he’s so full of love and emotion and life. Here in district twelve, Till is free to love, free to be loved. Ivan can’t ever handle watching them take that away from him. But they have little to nothing left to take from Ivan.
And they won’t have anything anymore, not if he’s the one in Anakt Garden instead of Till.
“Like fuck you didn’t,” There’s a crack in Till’s voice when he jostles Ivan. “I wasn’t asking for your protection—“
—But I’d give it to you in a heartbeat, I’d give anything to you, even if you didn’t ask, is what Ivan wanted to say—
“—Why didn’t you stay quiet?”
—But what comes out is a defeated: “You know I can’t do that, Till.”
Then, Till’s face crumples up, and oh, Ivan hates that look on his face, it’s gut-wrenching. And it’s awful when he breaks down into tears and his shoulders begin to shake with the intensity of his sobs. That ugly feeling in Ivan’s gut doubles over, and he suddenly feels nauseous, listening to both of his friends cry for him, as if he’s already dead.
“You stupid, selfless idiot,” Till grits, fingers loosening on Ivan’s collar, and then Till is pulling him into a fierce hug, heaving into his chest.
“I’m sorry,” Ivan repeats, but he doesn’t regret his decision, not one bit, and squeezes Till back with just as much intensity, because as far as he knows, this might be the last time he’ll ever get to.
And when Till pulls away, he’s dragged into another fierce hug by Mizi. He wraps his arms around her, burying his face into tufts of pink and inhaling deeply, and she squeezes him so hard he thinks he might suffocate.
That’s when the drones walk in, ripping Mizi away from Ivan’s grasp and grabbing Till by his upper arms, dragging them out of the room.
“No, no, wait- no- Ivan!” Mizi wails, chest heaving with every shrill cry and desperate call. Till isn’t faring better, kicking and spitting insults at the drones as they forcefully tug him past the door.
“You better come back alive, you dickhead! Or I’ll never fucking forgive you-“ Till threatens, and it’s the last thing Ivan hears before the door slams shut and he’s left to stand in the middle of an empty room.
The sound of Till and Mizi’s cries from the other side of the door fade into the distance, solidifying Ivan’s fate, and for the first time in years, he allows himself to cry with them.
“I’m so sorry this happened to you,” Is the first thing that comes out of the Segyein escort’s mouth as she guides Ivan through the train. It’s an unexpected thing, because people like her—people from Anakt Garden—don’t normally apologize for the reaping. In fact, they find great joy in the selection, congratulating the tributes as if they weren’t chosen to die, as if they weren’t chosen to kill.
“That was brave of you, to volunteer for a close friend like that… I know it’s- it’s not an easy decision to make.”
Ivan doesn’t know how to respond to her, so he stays quiet.
They stop in front of a door, and that’s when she turns to him, a solemn expression dawning on her tired features as she bows lightly. That comes as another shock to Ivan, because people of her class typically don’t bow down to people from the districts.
“Please wait here for a moment while I fetch your mentor,” She mumbles, kind purple eyes meeting Ivan’s. “My name is Sua. I’m your escort for this year’s Hunger Games, and I promise to help you in any way I can.”
“Ivan,” He introduces himself carefully. The response brings a tiny, pleased smile to Sua’s lips, and he has a feeling that every word she says carries the same level of sincerity as the look on her face.
”Make yourself as comfortable as possible,” She responds politely. “I’ll be back when I find Hyuna.”
Hyuna, the victor of the 66th annual Hunger Games, Ivan recalls.
He had been fourteen when she won. She was seventeen, one of the youngest to ever compete in the arena. Her games lasted a total of five days, and it had to be one of the most brutal things broadcasted to the districts. Ivan doesn’t recall most of what happened, having been dragged away by his friends due to their inability to stomach the sight of dead bodies, but what he can remember, beyond the fact that she was absolutely lethal with a bow, is that she was a volunteer like him.
It had been for her brother—who was reaped before she was. She volunteered to go into the arena with him, Ivan thinks.
There’d been a lot of screaming, crying, drone-intervention and the like. Ivan and the other residents of district twelve had to be ushered away from the scene of the reaping for the drones to “deal with the situation accordingly.” The last thing Ivan vividly remembers hearing that day was the sound of gunshots.
It was gut-wrenching, to say the least, even though he was just a mere observer. He can’t possibly imagine what that must have been like for the both of them, how painful it must have been, how terrifying…
He lets that train of thought derail itself, nodding half-heartedly at Sua’s words as she opens the door for him, and he wanders into the cart.
The lounge is, as Ivan expected, luxurious.
Diamonds drip from the chandelier hanging above them, a lengthy table filled with all sorts of finger foods and pastries stretching from one end of the room to the other. A velvet couch sits further in the back with a coffee table, two doors bracketing each arm of the long, comfy seat, and a patterned carpet covers the entire floor of the cart. Beyond that, there are normal train seats parallel to the entrance of the room, right where Ivan is standing.
To his left, facing away from the door, sits the other tribute, a boy a few years his senior.
He’s worryingly short for someone his age, with pale skin and pale yellow hair to match. His eyes are droopy, lashes fluttering against his cheeks as he watches district twelve disappear from their line of sight in the windows. He’s got an elbow propped up on the windowsill, fingers drumming lightly against his cheek, half-bored, half-lost in thought.
His name is Luka, Ivan had learned earlier during the reaping. Unlike Till, no one had objected when his name had been called, the crowd parting for him with ease as he took his place next to Ivan on the platform.
Ivan swears he’s seen him around the district from time to time, carrying firewood back to wherever he’s living, and occasionally, at the trade market he and Mizi frequent.
There’s an air of familiarity that sits cloudily in the forefront of Ivan's brain when he settles into the chair to Luka’s right, directly on the other end of the door.
He’s very quiet, curling against the train seat as he waits for their mentor and Sua, seemingly uninterested in starting a conversation with Ivan. Ivan shares the same sentiment, emotionally exhausted from his earlier breakdown, opting to stay silent in his own corner of the train.
No more than a few minutes later, Hyuna chooses to stroll in from the other end of the cart, long brown hair cascading behind her tanned shoulders, a cigarette in her mouth, half a bottle of what seems to be liquor in the other, and Sua in tow.
She takes one look at Ivan, then huffs through her nose before she plops down at the head of the table, a fair distance away from the tributes.
What Ivan immediately notices is how she pays little to no mind to the other boy in the room, sparing a glance towards the short figure hunched over the train seat, only to promptly return her focus on Ivan, as if Luka isn’t there at all. It’s a subtle, odd gesture, Ivan thinks.
There’s a quiet moment where Ivan just watches her down the remains of the bottle in one go, while Sua moves around the train cart to organize her belongings. The other three members of the room sit in silence.
When Hyuna finally finishes the bottle with a loud gulp and an obscenely drawn-out ‘ahh’, she allows it to drop to the floor with a clamor, forcing a barely-visible flinch out of Sua as she crouches down to pick the bottle up, well-concealed irritation in her movements.
Then Hyuna’s eyes are trained on Ivan again, sizing him up, as if she’s already picking him apart from the inside-out.
“You Ivan?” Her voice comes out in a low, relaxed drawl when she uses the back of the chair to support her weight.
“Yes,” He answers politely.
“I was a volunteer like you, y’know.”
“Yeah. I watched you that year.”
Hyuna nods slowly, taking a long drag from her cigarette before quietly letting the smoke expel from her nostrils. Then, she tilts her head back and stares into the ceiling of the train cart, in deep thought. She was… incredibly laid back for someone who’s supposed to make sure they survive the games.
Or maybe, a sinister thought makes itself known from the very back of Ivan’s head, She doesn’t expect you to live. After all, no one has returned alive from district twelve in the last eight years, what makes her think you’re any different from the other fallen tributes?
There’s another round of tense, awkward silence that blankets over all of them, and Ivan feels a little out of place like this, aimlessly observing his surroundings as he leaves his companions to their own devices, the soft whirring of wheels against the train tracks below them providing a soothing background noise.
That’s when he hears a soft voice hum from his left.
“So, are you just gonna sit there, or are you gonna teach us how to win?”
Ivan grants Luka a curious sideways glance. He’s still staring out the window, watching the trees pass by with a hand on his lap and the other still drumming against his pale cheek.
Hyuna’s jaw ticks, and Ivan feels as if the ice had been broken, somehow.
“I might not if you keep that attitude up.”
“Professionalism, noona,” Comes the dry, almost taunting reminder that thoroughly piques Ivan's curiosity. “I just want to know how we’re approaching this.”
Hyuna almost crumples the cigarette in her hand at the response, a hardened look passing over her face before it quickly disappears, features smoothing into something more neutral, voice distant and cold to Ivan’s ears.
“You don’t get to call me that.”
“Says who?” Luka snipes. Sua shifts uncomfortably in Ivan’s peripheral vision.
”Fine,” She spits.
Oh.
Ivan rapidly connects the dots, watching the scene before him unravel.
“You wanna know how to win this year’s games?” Hyuna leans forward on the chair, agitation evident as she uses her cigarette to point at Luka, the smoke steadily drifting upwards.
“You get sponsors. And to get sponsors, you get people to like you,” They lock eyes, but Luka doesn’t waver under her the harshness of her gaze. “But right now? You’re not off to a very good start.”
Luka raises a brow, lip twitching in a faint gesture of amusement, “Do you happen to be speaking from experience?”
Oh, Ivan thinks again, watching Hyuna’s face twist into something hateful.
They know each other.
Ivan looks between them, and sees people who have a long, long history with one another. Presumably. Classmates, maybe? Friends who ended on terrible terms? Or maybe, friends that drifted apart? Ivan doesn’t get to dwell on that thought for long, because he’s left hanging onto Hyuna’s words with anticipation and interest, instead.
“That’s enough,” Sua intervenes softly before Hyuna can rebut. “There’s no need to fight at a time like this.”
And then, Luka’s gaze flicks toward her, his fingers stopping their soothing motions against his cheek.
Any trace of amusement on his features are gone, replaced by a careful mask of blankness. Although his tone remains deceptively calm, the sheer malice carried by each word that leaves him rings loud and clear to everyone in the room.
There’s familiarity there too when he talks to Sua, oddly enough.
Ivan gnaws on the inside of his cheek.
“A Segyein escort? Telling us there’s no need to resort to fighting?” He cocks his head. “I don’t think you have any right to be telling us to ‘stop fighting’ when it was you reaping the names to make us do just that.”
It looks like a thoughtless jab on the surface, but Ivan hears his words for what they actually are. Hyuna’s features crack into an ugly scowl, and Sua’s shoulders tense as her entire face crumbles into something inconsolable.
Sua exhales, visibly shaken as she rises from her position on the couch, smoothing a hand down the front of her dress.
“Excuse me,” She breathes, turning swiftly on her heels and exiting the room all at once, leaving the door open behind her, swinging uselessly in her wake. Hyuna doesn’t stop scowling, gaze filled with undisguised hate that speaks volumes of her relationship with Luka, before she follows the other girl out of the cart, leaving Ivan with his fellow tribute alone once more.
There’s another drawn-out period of awkward silence.
He blinks at the door, spares another glance at Luka, then finds himself slumping against the seat, forcing his muscles to relax as the tension slowly dissipates from the air. Curiosity sits in its wake.
“That could have gone worse,” Ivan jokes dryly.
“So he talks,” Luka hums, voice devoid of any previous hostility. “I would’ve assumed you were mute with how silent you’d gone back there.”
He shrugs, “Didn’t wanna get caught in the crossfire.”
“Fair point.”
“I’m Ivan,” He introduces himself, shifting his body to properly address Luka, but when he turns to fully look at him, Luka’s already facing him, pale irises fixated on Ivan with thinly veiled intrigue.
“I know,” He says. “Luka. I saw you volunteer for that Till boy this morning.”
“He’s my best friend,” Ivan easily responds, putting on a practiced, polite smile. Luka nods in understanding, although the other boy can’t quite see through the carefully crafted expression on his soft features.
“Ah,” He begins, then bluntly points out, “that was very idiotic of you.”
Ivan can’t help the way that pulls a snort out of him, not as offended as he should probably be, “I’m aware.”
“But you don’t seem to regret your choice?” Luka tilts his head inquisitively, and for an abrupt second, Ivan thinks of comparing him to a cat examining a new toy.
He shakes his head no, “I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”
“Why?”
”Because he’s my best friend,” Ivan repeats, “I care for him.”
A beat passes.
”…No,” Luka says, carefully decisive. “That’s not it.”
Ivan tilts his head back.
“No?”
“You have feelings for him,” Luka concludes so swiftly that it gives Ivan whiplash.
He doesn’t let his surprise show, but the politeness in his expression falters.
”Isn’t a decade of friendship enough of a reason to volunteer?” Ivan argues, instead, outwardly unaffected by the assessment, “I grew up with him, you know.”
”Sure,” Luka argues back, “but growing up together and falling in love isn’t mutually exclusive.”
“For others, maybe,” Ivan deflects smoothly, “But it’s different.”
“How?” Luka presses, unconvinced.
Ivan feels annoyance bubbling in his chest when he realizes that Luka is trying to corner him with all these questions. He shrugs, “I’d volunteer if it were any of my other childhood friends too.”
(And yeah, that’s true. He cares for Mizi a whole lot, too. Except, deep down, he knows he’d volunteer for an entirely different reason, because he thinks that if Mizi were to be chosen—it would ruin Till. He wouldn’t- be himself anymore.
Ivan couldn’t handle that thought too.)
“I see,” Luka concedes, shrugging, “I guess love, no matter what form it takes, justifies acting out so stupidly. But I still don’t believe you.”
The annoyance in Ivan’s chest doubles over. Seriously?
He doesn’t know what annoys him more, the fact that Luka had just referred to his sacrifice as stupid, or that Luka doesn’t even skip a damn beat, so sure of his own deduction, like he can see right through Ivan.
Except Ivan isn’t an open book. He spent his whole life mastering the art of blending in, of protecting himself with the many faces he learned to copy from his peers. He’s never allowed himself to be careless like that.
So for this guy to come to such a conclusion, which also happens to be the correct conclusion, with so much ease…
Ivan leans back against the window, crossing one leg over the other and mirroring the curiosity that sits in Luka’s eyes.
…Just who the fuck does this guy think he is?
“Has anyone told you that you lack a brain-to-mouth filter?” Ivan says.
“You’re deflecting again,” Luka points out again. “You wouldn’t do that if I wasn’t right.”
“Well, you don’t seem the type to have friends,” Ivan says in response, unable contain his irritation, “So I wouldn’t expect you to know the importance of sacrifice.”
“If you think insulting me will stir me away from making my point,” Luka drawls, seemingly amused by the sudden attitude thrown at him, “then you’d be wrong.”
Ivan barely manages to conceal the irritated twitch of his eyelid, his pride wounded ever so slightly, much to his disdain and to Luka’s enjoyment.
“…Okay,” Ivan shrugs instead, letting Luka have his little victory while simultaneously denying him the pleasure of watching Ivan make an idiot of himself.
His head lolls back until it softly hits the window. Irritation simmers beneath his skin.
“So what if I do have feelings? It doesn’t matter if I’m already headed to my grave.”
“You dug that grave yourself,” Comes the obvious jab.
“Again, I’m well aware.”
“And is your plan to just… lie in it?”
“Well. I’m an idiot, not a coward.”
“Obviously,” Luka’s lip twitches at that, a stark contrast to the blankness he’d been projecting. He presses on, “But I think people like you won’t survive very long in the arena.”
Ivan shifts, “People like me?”
“You’re very… self-sacrificing. Soft,” Luka assesses, and Ivan doesn’t want to admit how that singular statement gets under his skin even more. “There’s no place for vulnerability like that in Anakt.”
…
…
…Ah.
Something clicks in Ivan’s head, eyes narrowing.
“I don’t plan on bringing it into Anakt,” Ivan allows his face to fall into something more blank, something more natural and familiar to him. There’s no irritation, no politeness, no anything. It’s a look of vacancy that he wears like a second-skin.
Which is a bit odd. He’s not used to doing something he rarely does in front of others, but he cares more about getting a point across, really.
(And, immaturely enough, one-upping Luka. Because he’s starting to really annoy Ivan, now. But Ivan won’t admit that, because he likes to think he’s above falling for obvious bait).
“I suggest you do the same. Whatever it is that’s going on between you and Hyuna? Whatever grudge you have against her, you should leave it here, because people like you won’t be so lucky out there either.”
Clearly, Ivan had struck a nerve.
Luka schools his features into something akin to indifference, mirroring Ivan’s expression with practiced ease, “And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” Ivan carries on, successfully maintaining the neutrality of his words, “that you’re a hypocrite. You call me an idiot for volunteering, for being soft, and yet, you go out of your way to antagonize the people who are meant to be helping us. I’m vulnerable and that makes me a target, sure, but that arrogance? You’re practically asking to be killed. You have nothing to gain by acting up, so save that energy for the arena, when we have actual enemies to worry about.”
Luka studies Ivan as he seemingly ponders the other man’s words. The two tributes are locked in a competition of wits, neither of them willing to step down.
It drags out for an uncomfortably long time.
That is, until Luka looks away, humming thoughtfully.
His face is totally unreadable to Ivan, now, and while that’s probably a good indicator of Ivan’s victory in whatever game they’d been engaged in—it kind of just pisses him off even more.
“Hmm..” Luka nods to himself, “You’re not as stupid as I thought, then.”
Ivan’s jaw ticks. What the hell is this guy’s deal?
“You were the one making assumptions.”
Luka nods again, in respect to Ivan.
“Touché.”
Ivan observes him for a second longer. Luka lets him.
Then there’s a quiet, reluctant acceptance that passes over Ivan as the initial annoyance slowly tapers from his mind.
There’s another round of silence that follows the conversation, and after a long while of sitting across from each other, Ivan begins to feel the drowsiness sink into his system, the adrenaline coursing through his veins that morning seeping out of his body, leaving him a tired puddle on the seat.
His eyelids feel heavy when he crosses his arms over his chest, facing away from Luka to smush the side of his head against the window, reflection bouncing off the glass.
He lets the quiet whirring of the train wash over him, lets the sunlight peek through the gaps between his lashes, and lets the comfortable silence sit in his tired bones.
It felt like a fever dream to Ivan—the rest of the day.
At some point during the long, never-ending train ride, he had fallen asleep in an uncomfortable position in the lounge.
The only reason he woke up was because Sua had been calling them for dinner. Ivan, barely awake and tired beyond belief, had politely declined, asking for the directions to his room instead and trudging there like a zombie before promptly passing out.
All this is physically taxing to him, and the severity of their situation still hasn’t settled into his system, not fully anyway.
He still feels like a part of him had been left in district twelve, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with Mizi by the dock while Till serenades them with an original song on the makeshift guitar Ivan had gifted him.
It’s surreal, how Ivan went from throwing rocks at Till’s window that morning, to sitting in a train far, far away from home in a span of a few hours.
Still, he soldiers on, and when he drags himself out of bed the next morning, he finds Luka, Hyuna and Sua talking—well, more like Hyuna and Sua chatting, while Luka listens without any input—over a hefty serving of breakfast. It’s more food than what Ivan’s used to seeing back home.
“-plants, what’s poisonous and what isn’t, whatever source of food you can get your hands on, you have to have it memorized to a T,” He hears Hyuna lazily drone on as she stabs into a thick strip of bacon. “I witnessed a girl eat poisonous berries once in my arena, she didn’t know what they were and it killed her instantly.”
“Good morning,” Ivan mutters a greeting as he takes his seat to Hyuna’s right, parallel to Luka and beside Sua.
“Good morning, Ivan,” Sua greets, smiling kindly at him as she passes a plate of eggs over.
Her smile sort of reminds Ivan of Mizi, in a way, with the way the corner of her eyes crinkle when her lips twist. But the look on her face is entirely unique too, she’s a little more tired-looking, the bags underneath her concealer a testament to her years of experience as an escort. Ivan sympathizes with her, in a way.
“Hello,” He greets politely, taking the plate from her hands and scraping a gracious serving of food onto his plate, “What are we talking about?”
“Survival strategies an’ shit,” Hyuna chews loudly. She waves her fork around. “It can make a lot of difference if you know how to study your surroundings, especially if you know what to look for. A hiding spot that doubles as shelter, water sources, food… even shortcuts to the cornucopia can save your life.”
“Do we get the chance to know what the layout for the arena is before the games?” Ivan questions.
“No,” Hyuna answers, “you find out on the spot. So I suggest doing early research on anything you can get your hands on when we get to Anakt. The arena layouts are never the same throughout the years.”
Ivan nods, digesting the information provided to them.
“Sure, but what I really want to know about—” Luka slices into a crumbling hash brown on his plate, effectively interrupting the conversation, “—are the sponsors. You said we’d need them yesterday. How do they work?”
‘Is he always this straight forward? ‘ Ivan thinks.
Hyuna’s eye twitches in annoyance, but she’s quick to bounce back from the sudden change of topic. Although, it’s kind of obvious how she’s holding herself back from saying something rude.
He watches the exchange silently, piling his plate with more food than he’s used to eating, the lack of dinner the night before causing him to feel hungrier than usual.
“Sponsorships almost always come from rich families in Anakt, but occasionally, the game organizers who visit during training periods for scoring can also be sponsors,” Sua answers in Hyuna’s stead, sensing the slight shift in her demeanor.
“Scoring?” Ivan asks this time.
She explains, “Sponsorships are based on a score-system, and just… your performance outside of the arena overall. You have to make yourself appeal to the public eye.”
Ivan opens his mouth to respond, but the words die on his tongue when something huge passes by in his peripheral vision, and the only thing he’s able to get out is a quiet little: “Oh.”
Luka, out of the corner of his eye, follows his gaze, trained on the view beyond their window, and he falls silent too. The soft clattering of utensils against porcelain follows, and everyone is left staring at the tall, looming buildings in the distance, modern and glittering under the sunlight.
It’s a city, protected by concrete walls and flying drones. At the very center of it stands a dome that slopes over everything else in the area, larger than the buildings that surround it, with glass panels that curve deliberately to let light bounce off it. There’s an abundance of greenery, lush, and vibrant, and healthier than anything in the districts.
There’s no doubt that they’re in Anakt Garden now. And as much as Ivan hates to admit it, the city truly is beautiful, grander than anything he’s seen before. And that dome…
“The arena,” Hyuna says quietly. There’s a bitter look on her face that speaks of the horrors she’d been subjected to, lips twisting into something grim, slim fingers twitching where they’re curled around the handles of her utensils.
“That’s where we’ll be in a few days time,” Luka murmurs, and for the first time since he’s set foot in the train, Ivan feels the weight of his choices sit heavily on his shoulders. Dread sits heavily in his stomach, and he’s suddenly lost the appetite to eat at all, burdened by the misfortune that he hadn’t been born a resident of Anakt Garden.
“Yes, well,” Sua begins, clearing her throat, “get ready, we’ll be passing by the Segyeins in a bit…”
Segyeins?
“Why are they here?” Ivan finds himself asking as Luka pushes his seat back to stand.
“For welcoming, or somethin’,” Hyuna snorts softly. “The moment your names were called out in the reaping, you stopped being just citizens of district twelve. You’re tributes, which means you’re practically celebrities now, and all these people? They already have someone they’re betting on. They want to see you.”
That’s when Ivan hears it— the deafening cheers, the Segyeins, the locals.
They’re yelling and squealing, and when Ivan looks past the windows again, he sees a crowd clumping by the side of the train, clad in all sorts of colorful, peculiar garments that hurt Ivan’s eyes. They’re waving all sorts of memorabilia; flags, banners, and handkerchiefs, so disconnected from the reality of their tributes, so far removed from it all.
Ivan feels a little sick, staring at all the people cheering for them, realizing that he’d probably have to deal with this for the rest of their stay. Then, his gaze shifts to Luka…
And he promptly realizes that Luka is smiling.
It looks wrong on his face. Heavily fabricated. So obviously practiced. Fake.
Fake, in the exact way he had been yesterday, quietly masking his true emotions while he throws around ridiculous accusations. Fake, in the exact same way Ivan has lived for most of his life.
Luka’s got a hand up, waving sweetly at everyone with a sugary look on his face, as if there’s nothing fucked up about any of this, seamlessly slipping into the role he’s been forced into. It’s familiar. It’s horrible, dystopian, and almost mechanical in nature—but it’s achingly familiar.
Ivan doesn’t know what to make of that, or what bothers him more in this situation, now.
“You should join him, Ivan,” Sua says, the tired sadness clinging to her shoulders becoming even more evident now as she wearily looks past the glass. “I know it’s- ridiculous, but it’s a necessity. If you want to survive….”
“I get it,” Ivan mumbles, tearing his eyes away from Luka.
And he does get it, really. He’s been playing the same damned game his entire life, putting on an act of humanity to blend in with everyone else.
The only difference now is he has to pretend for the sake of surviving.
If he wants to make his sacrifice mean something, if he wants to make it back home to the people he’s fighting for— to Till, to Mizi, he has to play the part they want him to play.
Numbly, Ivan rises from where he’s seated, and he moves to stand next to Luka in front of the crowd. Because clearly, he seems to understand what has to be done, too.
“Smile, Ivan,” Luka says, his own expression never faltering, although Ivan can see the agitation well-hidden deep beneath his skin, barely visible to anyone who doesn’t look close enough.
He doesn’t take his eyes off the crowd, but he lets his gaze flick towards Ivan for a split second as he says, “They’re watching.”