Chapter Text
Prologue
Ilya Rozanov is fifteen when he wins the Hunger Games. He may be the youngest victor in history, but he’s already hit his growth spurt and stands broad-shouldered and tall over the other tributes. It’s no wonder, the Capitol whispers. He’s already so handsome. He’s not even eighteen, and the bids for his company must be astronomical.
A year later, Ilya’s record is broken by a fourteen-year-old from Four named Shane Hollander.
They meet at one of the galas. Hollander has been prettied up by the stylists and is adorned in white and gold. The days outside have darkened his freckles. It makes him look even younger.
“Shane Hollander,” he says, sticking out a hand.
Ilya sets his glass down, taking his time in accepting the handshake. “I know.”
“I watched your Games last year.”
“Everyone did.”
“You’re a good swimmer.”
“Yes.” A rare trait for those from Seven.
Hollander flushes. It’s almost cute. “What was the Victory Tour like?”
“Boring,” Ilya says flatly. He doesn’t want Hollander to think they’re friends simply because they won back-to-back years. Because they’re both children in the grand scheme of the Capitol. “Will be perfect for you."
Surprisingly, the other boy laughs. He ducks his head to disguise the gesture, but not fast enough to hide the way it makes his eyes crinkle. “You’re kind of an asshole.”
“Surprised?”
“Relieved. Everyone here is so formal.”
“It’s the hats,” Ilya says. “They’re too heavy. Kills brain cells.”
“Is that what happened to you?”
“I would die first.” It’s maybe not the best joke to make, given their circumstances, but Ilya would rather laugh than cry.
“I can make that happen.”
He smiles. “You can try.”
“I’m stronger than I look.”
Ilya sweeps his eyes down the length of the other boy’s body. He’s a few inches shorter and not quite as broad through the shoulders, but his thighs are powerful and strong. “I know.”
Hollander’s blush deepens. “I should go,” he says, shuffling in place like a little boy. He extends a hand again, and Ilya takes it. His hands are calloused, probably from helping at the pier. “They’re waiting for me.”
Ilya lingers a little longer than he should, fingertips brushing over Hollander’s pulse. He doesn’t miss the way it kicks up a notch at the contact. “Careful,” he murmurs.
Hollander’s forehead scrunches, but before he can speak, he’s pulled away by one of the Capitol escorts.
The next time they meet is during Hollander’s Victory Tour. Attendance is mandatory, but participation is not. Ilya stands in the back of the crowd and watches as the boy wonder works his magic. District Seven is more amenable after their win the year prior, and they coo over Hollander’s warm brown eyes and freckles. Ilya had flirted his way through his tour, affixing an air of cocky confidence and caustic humor. Hollander is so damn earnest it’s impossible to believe those hands have broken someone’s neck.
“Congratulations,” Ilya says. This time, he’s the one to offer a hand.
“Thanks.” Up close, Hollander looks tired. Dark circles ring his eyes, and his skin looks waxen. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
Ilya hadn’t been a mentor this year, but he’d gone to school with both of the tributes. “They never stood a chance.”
Hollander swallows, throat bobbing above the clean, creased line of his suit. They’re going to eat him alive, Ilya thinks. He doubts Hollander has even kissed another person. Sex might officially be off limits until eighteen, but the occasional grope or drunken kiss have been known to happen. Ilya is well-practiced at playing coy. It’s a skill every tribute has to learn. He shouldn’t feel sorry thinking about a faceless stranger placing a bid on Hollander’s virginity. None of them like it. Hollander’s innocence doesn’t make him special—they were all innocents once, even Ilya.
Hollander’s eyes drop to Ilya’s mouth before darting away, noticeably flustered. Theriault shuffles him along to greet the mayor’s daughter and Ilya goes searching for a slip of paper. He scribbles down his address and presses it into Hollander’s hand when they say their farewells.
He shouldn’t feel sorry for him, but he does.
They run into each other a couple of times over the next year. Never for very long, and always in public, but Ilya notes the way Hollander looks sicker and sicker each time. Ironically, he looked healthier fresh out of the arena. The Capitol must be furious that one of their prized cattle is wasting away.
“You should eat,” Ilya says at one of the president’s dinners.
Hollander shakes his head. “It’s too rich.”
“I think you can use the fat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
Ilya raises a brow. “So you have eaten today?”
“No. I just don’t have much appetite.”
A gamemaker passes by, and Ilya nods in greeting. “It’s not about hunger. You should keep your strength up.”
Hollander looks up at him, and for the first time since the arena, something flashes in his eyes. “What’s the point? It’s over now, isn’t it?”
It’s never over, Ilya doesn’t say. The president calls the room to order and beckons Hollander to the front. Ilya watches him slip away and sips his champagne.
Hollander never writes. He does get selected as a mentor for the next Games.
“All eyes are on the youngest Victors, who will be mentoring their very first tributes.”
The girl from Seven this year is a volunteer. Not unheard of, but certainly rarer than in the career districts. Hollander also has a volunteer, a thirteen-year-old clearly desperate to set a new record. Whenever Ilya sees them, the kid is yelling at Hollander. It would be funny if it weren’t a guarantee he was dead.
Ilya is not a very good mentor. He’s better than his father was, but the bar is in Hell. He drinks his way through the parade and tries to keep his snide commentary to a minimum. District Seven is dressed as trees. At least it covers most of their bodies.
The president has a mentor's dinner to welcome everyone back. Ilya vaguely recognizes some of the other victors, but they're all older and more familiar with playing the Capitol's games. Kent is peacocking around an admiring horde of women, and Stedland and Drapeau cheer him on from the bar. Marlow waves in Ilya’s direction but he’s engaged in a spirited debate with one of the gamemakers. Even Pike has managed to wrangle a stylist into conversation. The only outlier is Shane Hollander. He’s hiding in the corner and clutching his drink like it’s a lifeline. His shirt is unbuttoned a little lower than strictly necessary and shows off his tanned chest. Ilya is familiar with the pattern—he’d graduated to half-undone blouses after his sixteenth birthday.
“You look pretty,” he says, sidling up to him.
“You’re wearing makeup too.” Hollander’s stylists have painted glittery stars in between his freckles.
“But I don’t look pretty. What are you drinking?”
“Ginger ale.”
Ilya snorts into his vodka. “Of course.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
”It suits you.”
Hollander’s nose wrinkles, like he’s deciding whether or not to be offended. He takes a sip of the aforementioned drink and shifts his weight. “How are your tributes?”
“Looking for inside information?” Ilya teases.
“No!” Hollander protests, completely serious.
“Is joke, Hollander. Relax.”
“Oh, right.” The boy’s shoulders slump. “I knew that.”
“They are fine.” At least Monroe is eighteen. She stands a fighting chance, but her age means she doesn’t listen.
“Tomorrow, do not show off.“
“Why not?” Williams asks.
“Too much attention makes you a target. Careers stick together.”
“I’m not scared,” Monroe proclaims.
“You should be,” Ilya says. “If you are not scared, you’re stupid.”
She reddens. “If you’re a kid, maybe.”
“The kid is the one who’s a victor,” Ilya says. “But if you know better, go ahead.”
“How do you deal with it?” Hollander asks. One of the District escorts is approaching them. Ilya has met her before and isn’t keen to repeat the experience.
He tips his glass. “The vodka here is not bad. Have a nice night.” He pats the other boy on the shoulder, letting his hand drag down Hollander’s back.
Ilya likes to stand on the rooftop of the Tribute Center. The forcefield prevents him from getting too close to the edge, but looking up at the sky, he can pretend that there aren’t cameras in every corner. He doubts that he would jump, but now they’ll never have to find out. It's nice to imagine he has the freedom to choose. If he were going to kill himself, he would have let Comeau decapitate him in the arena. Now, it just seems a waste.
Ilya isn’t a betting man, but his money would be on the boy from Two. Seventeen and a volunteer whose father is a peacekeeper. His own father is dead now, but he would’ve agreed with his assessment. He wonders if Alexei placed a bet this year. If there's any money left, probably. He'd bet against Ilya last year. He startles as Hollander storms through the door. His face is flushed and suspiciously damp, but his hands are balled into fists at his side. “Is someone chasing you?”
“Sorry,” Hollander mutters. “I didn’t know anyone was up here.”
Ilya turns back to the view. He has a sneaking suspicion of what has Hollander so upset. If he wants to talk about it, he will.
He doesn’t have to wait very long.
“Do you know what they want me to do?”
”You think you are the only one?”
Hollander’s jaw goes slack. “What, you too?” Ilya inclines his head. Somehow this only fuels Hollander’s indignation. “And the rest of the victors are fine with this? You all just let them—”
“Keep your voice down,” Ilya hisses.
“I don’t give a shit about that right now!” Hollander paces along the length of the perimeter.
Ilya seizes his face, forcing him to a halt. “You should. You are not an idiot,” he says lowly, matching the other boy’s glare. “Stop acting like one.”
Hollander nods jerkily. Ilya releases him, and he staggers back. “What the fuck am I supposed to do?”
“What you have to.” Ilya has a niece. He’s only met her a handful of times—it’s safer if they keep their distance. “You have family?”
“Of course.”
“Then you obey.”
“Have you…”
“Not yet.” Ilya smiles, tight-lipped. “Soon.”
With the confirmation, Hollander deflates. “Fuck.”
“Yes.”
Hollander scrubs his hands over his eyes, smearing his makeup. “I thought the arena would be the worst part.”
“Freezing to death is not so bad, now.”
"I wouldn't go that far."
"At least it’s cozy up here."
"An open roof is cozy to you?"
"It's not to you?"
Hollander huffs a laugh. He rocks back on the heels of his fancy shoes. “Sorry I didn’t write.”
Ilya glances at him in surprise. “I didn’t think you would.”
“I wanted to. I didn’t know what to say,” Hollander says quietly.
“You can send stick drawings. I need help sleeping.”
The back of his hand brushes against Ilya’s. Neither of them moves away.
Ilya does not intend to fall in love. He does not intend to do a lot of things. They have sex before his eighteenth birthday and he whispers I love you into every inch of Shane’s skin. For all the Capitol takes from them, it will never have this.
“I wish we could stay here forever,” Shane says, kissing his forehead.
“Me too.” There’s no future where they could ever be together. Especially being from different Districts. “No matter what happens, you are the only person that counts.”
“Same here. The only one.”
Ilya is twenty-six when he’s sent back to the arena.