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FIFTEEN
ᴛᴏɢᴇᴛʜᴇʀ ɪɴ ᴛʀᴀɢᴇᴅʏ

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On the third day, the sky of the arena was encompassed in a dense, black cloud. It hung low and menacing, obscuring the miles of land that was ripped apart by lava. One girl- a young, slight thing from District Eight- had already succumbed to the rivers of red, made invisible by the smoke. Another had suffocated in a cave, a fate Freyja had only narrowly escaped.

The District Seven tribute lay choking on the stone, her hands gripped around her throat. Her brown skin was chipped and worn from the dangerous heat, her hands dry and bloody from scrambling up rock faces. Cillian felt Johanna's hand grip his arm as they watched.

She tried to stifle her coughing, holding her breath and placing a hand over her mouth as the sound of tumbling rocks alerted her to a new presence. But as a splutter left her lips, Freyja stood and took off running, hopping over the thin veins of lava that led to chasms of heat below.

Cillian felt as if his heart was in his throat. Johanna's nails bit deep into his skin, but the pressure was a comfort- at least he knew she was there.

All it would take was one stumble to go crashing into fire hot enough to melt skin. She would disappear in seconds, never to be seen again. But the alternative was not much better. The District One girl pursued her with quick, careful feet, skipping over the lava veins as if she'd memorised a map. As Freyja skidded down the side of slope, hoping to gain metres in front, the girl jumped, landing on her shoulders, forcing her to the ground.

Victoria- the girl from one with the gleaming green eyes and bright blonde hair. Even after running for miles through the stifling arena, she looked clean and careful.

Freyja kicked and shuffled, clawing to be released from her hole, but Victoria held a hand over Freyja's lips, muffling a scream.

"Truce, truce," she rushed out, making Freyja's eyes widen. "I want to be allies."

The Capitol watched as chaos ensued in the arena.

Reaching high above the shouts on the screen and the murmur of excitement in the thin crowd, Eirlys' voice pierced his ears. "You really must be trying harder, Cillian, if you want this to go anywhere worthy. The President only ever picks a few victors to join the winner's celebrations each year."

She was wholly serious, dividing her attention between him and Freyja's face on the screen. Johanna had long left their side, standing with Giselle by the back of the hall, their varying shades of red hair the only thing visible amongst the bright colours of the Capitol people. It was good that she was gone. Johanna wasn't as good at dealing with the Capitol escorts as he was. Cillian had longer to practise.

"Is this really what you want to talk about right now?"

"What else would we talk about?" Eirlys said, bringing the drink flute to her lips, sipping only a drop. "We have nothing to worry about. Nothing but your participation in this competition. Caesar hasn't talked about you in days. Days, Cillian, while he's had mountains to talk about Finnick. The man is practically in love. Days!"

She had never been quiet about her dislike of Caesar Flickerman- it was something about their families, and his taking something from her, but Cillian had never paid much attention to their histories.

"He can wait a few more."

"Caesar can wait, but we can't," Eirlys said, placing her glass down with a high-pitched slam.

She glanced around, ensuring no one was listening, but no one cared about the District Seven mentor and his escort when the tributes were fighting on screen.

"It wasn't the Capitol citizens who created this competition," she said, her face bright and shiny, lips smiling under purple paint. It was an odd sort of smile, thin but long, inspired. "It was President Snow."

"What?"

Eirlys clasped his hands in hers. "It is an honour, Cillian. An honour that you're wasting. To have the president favour you so, that you have been asked to have such attention is simply exquisite." She spoke so casually that it almost made him feel stupid for having been so ignorant of the true depth of such a rivalry. "Surely you must have known."

"An honour?" Cillian spat, turning to her, pulling his hands from her grasp, his back bumping into the people behind him.

"Don't be like that Cillian." Her eyes darkened severely, the rim of gold around her lashes making her brown eyes look black against the contrast. "You make my job harder than it needs to be."

He shook his head, hands balling at his side. Then, before he could quite realise what was happening, his feet were moving, his shoulders barging through. Only for a moment did Eirlys start after him, eyeing the surrounding people who cast their glances towards them.

"Cillian. I am here to help you. Cillian!"

At some point, she stopped trying, and Cillian was far past the blinding screens of the Games.

But Finnick always seemed to know where to find him.

"That was a fine outburst you gave there," he said. "Johanna must be impressed."

'I'm not in the mood, Finnick,' he wanted to say, but that would have been a lie. When he looked up, the boy was smiling- the soft sort of smile that spoke of empathy. It might've annoyed him, a year ago, but instead, it now brought him a sense of peace.

"It was for good reason," he said.

"I'm sure it was."

"This rivalry is all anyone wants to talk about, all anyone can talk about," he said, shaking his head, and then placing it in his hands. "Me included, apparently."

"We don't have to talk about it."

Cillian looked up. "What else is there to say?"

He'd grown so used to being in the Capitol that their way of life had consumed him. It devoured every fibre of his being until it was all he could function on.

"Sometimes too much," Finnick said. "Sometimes not enough, but I find I manage."

"I don't. This place... it swallows me," he said, facing out upon the vast city below. The large and numerous buildings were enough to feel suffocating, and yet Cillian felt numb. "I don't want to be here, but I don't think I could live anywhere else anymore."

"You're managing pretty well now," Finnick said, nodding down at him as he talked.

Finnick still stood and from the angle, he looked taller, his body leaner beneath the usual white, linen shirt. He looked thinner, his stomach with less muscle and more taunt, flat skin. Cillian noticed.

"This isn't a conversation," he said, leaning his chin on his shoulder. "This is me oversharing."

"You speak and I speak, isn't that a conversation?"

"Only if you give something back."

Finnick sighed and finally sat, crossing his legs until his knees touched the window that reached the floor.

"Okay," Finnick breathed. The look on his face was wholly serious. The type of seriousness that Cillian was used to seeing in the mirror, but never on the other Victor. It was startling- so much so that Cillian couldn't look away. "I drag myself out of nightmares and there's no relief in waking up. But... it's better not to give in to it."

"We're alive but our fight's not up yet. That's a good thing, isn't it?"

"Maybe," Cillian supposed, eyes meeting his. Simultaneously he felt both too weak and too strong to look away. "But I don't know how to fight anymore. I thought I was, at the start. Then the favours began, and I lost myself. I've lost myself. I don't know how I can help anyone when I can't even help myself."

Despite his words, there was no emotion in his voice. The Capitol had bled it out of him. He was used to speaking impassively.

"You don't have to fight alone. It takes ten times as long to put yourself back together as it does to fall apart, but we'll get there. We can get there."

"Together?" He said, head lifting and his words were almost held out in front of him like an offering. Finnick took it.

"Yeah, yeah. Together," Finnick said. "We can work this to our advantage."

Cillian nodded along with him, picturing the glittering faces and the dark, lustful clothing that had filled the rooms of Oberyn's home. Felix had told him of another party.

"I know exactly where to start."

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