Archive of Our Own

Junhui's Reaping Games stirred a large commotion in both the Capitol and District One. Normally only the Eighteens were allowed to participate in the annual Reaping Games, but the Academy Instructors had deemed him so proficient in his training that Junhui was on par, if not better, than the Eighteens. It was the first time in recorded history that a Seventeen had volunteered to be a part of the Reaping Games.

Nobody expected him to win. The Reaping Games, that is.

The Eighteens who had mandatory participation in the Reaping Games in order to graduate from the Academy were all on special tonics to boost their physical strength. Such luxuries were not given to the Thirteens, fresh-faced aspiring victors, nor were they given to the Seventeens, the next batch of prospective victors. Nobody had expected Wen Junhui, arguably the most skilled in combat among the Seventeens, to apply for special consideration so that he could enter the Reaping Games a year before he was ripe.

Yet it did not come as a surprise when the panel of Academy Instructors approved his request.

The Reaping Games, in its own brutish glory, had been Junhui's second shot at gaining the attention of wealthy sponsors in the Capitol who watched these games like scrutinising hawks. The first worked spectacularly; being the first Seventeen to join the Eighteens in the Reaping Games. The second followed suit. 

Each student was given three fine threads: the gold one around their necks, the silver around their left wrist, and the bronze around their right ankle. To win the Reaping Games, one had to ensure that, by the end of the thirty minutes of allocated time, all three threads on their body were intact and they had at least severed one thread from five different students.

Every previous Student Victor only managed to sever either the silver or bronze threads; never the gold, for as long as you injure someone, you will be eliminated without hesitation for harming another district partner.

Junhui worked like a sophisticated machine, surprising the audience with his calculated movements and cat-like agility which allowed him to evade his seniors' thin blades and use the momentum from dodging to his advantage, often stretching a leg out to sweep his opponents off their feet and, in one long movement, sliced the bronze thread as the blade danced diagonally to sever the silver thread too.

However, the action that truly sealed the deal was his ability to sever three gold threads without breaking any skin. Junhui often jumped on his seniors' shock, hooking the flat part of his blade behind the thread through the tiny sliver of space present between his seniors' necks and the shimmery gold whenever they stumbled back, then pulling his blade to him which snapped the threads without breaking a single sweat.

The citizens of District One cheered, and the Capitol swooned.

Wen Junhui had successfully captured the attention of the Capitol. First, by being the only non-Eighteen in recorded history to participate in the Reaping Games, and second, by being the only participant in the Reaping Games to have severed any gold threads at all.

He was the Capitol favourite and the darling of District One.

Everyone had their eyes on him and his district partner, Jeon Wonwoo. High stakes were placed on the two of them; instead of the traditional Reaping ceremonies that were carried out in the other districts, Districts One, Two, and Four—the Career Districts—organised Reaping Games as a last form of preparation for the Hunger Games. The Student Victors were expected to be the victors of the actual Games.

Even though District One never had two consecutive victors in the entire history of the Games, it didn't stop anyone from hoping. Last year's victor had been a huge hit in the Capitol, with his angelic face and soft voice that belied his bloodlust and inclination to the fine art of seduction for ensnaring his prey. Many sponsors had joked that if they were ever killed like that, they would go happily. The Capitol citizens' eyes were now on District One.

And Junhui wasn't there to disappoint. 

As the son of a gold mine owner and a wushu master, Junhui grew up in lavish conditions while also receiving the finest preparation in martial arts from his mother, who happened to own a wushu training centre in the Upper East Side of District One. Jeon Wonwoo was as equally popular as Junhui. His parents worked closely with the Capitol and Junhui wouldn't have been very surprised if it happened that Wonwoo's parents pulled some strings with the Capitol. After all, Wonwoo even got to accompany his parents on business trips to the Capitol, a luxury Junhui hadn't been afforded.

But it didn't matter. His only job was to bring glory to District One.

They always said that the third time's the charm. Junhui succeeded in boosting his position in the watchful eyes of the Capitol twice. When would be the third?

"And the first Seventeen to be offered to the Capitol as a tribute, Wen Junhui!"

He offered his district a blindingly handsome smile.

"To die for District One is the second highest honour there is!"

Their cheers sounded like a murder of crows.

Minghao barely flinched when the government official pricked his finger with some odd contraption. He tried not to look at the cameras; the Reaping was televised to the entire country, including the other Districts. He remembered watching the Reaping in Seven yesterday and instantly felt a surge of pity when he saw two children—they couldn't have been older than fifteen—being herded off to the stage.

"May the odds be ever in your favour," Seven's district escort had chimed before the broadcast ended.

Now he disappeared into the crowd, only to surface again when he was shoved to the front of the stage with the other eighteen-year-olds. A large camera was right in front of him. Minghao gulped.

The mayor was there, and so was Eight's district escort: a svelte woman with long gold eyelashes and a painted face who seemed angry at the heat. There was only one victor from Eight. Minghao remembered his games. They were bloody, and the child won by shoving the girl from Five's face into a sewing machine.

Nobody saw him around much; he seemed to have succumbed to alcoholism.

When the clock struck two, the mayor tottered forward and recited the history of the founding of Panem, the First Rebellion, the implementation and rules for the Hunger Games, and the spoils and riches that come from victory in it. He had heard these words so many times, he could recite it in his sleep. The mayor proceeded to recite the name of the only victor of Eight.

"Kim Mingyu."

The camera panned to him. Despite being an alcoholic, his appeal was obvious. It was no wonder that he had been the Capitol sweetheart three years ago. Minghao tried his best not to let his bored expression show. After all, he was right in front of the camera, and whenever the camera panned to show the crowd his face was in the frame, shown on every screen in the Capitol and District One and the rest of Panem.

When the district escort started speaking, Minghao tuned out. Until she started reaching into the two reaping bowls and starting pulling out entry slips. Minghao didn't care who was reaped. As long as it wasn't him.

As long as it wasn't him.

As long as—

"Xu Minghao," she crowed, and everything collapsed like a thread falling from the eye of a needle.

No. That couldn't be true. He was eighteen. He just had to survive this Reaping, and he would never have to worry about dying in an undignified manner ever again.

He had to be dreaming.

He definitely had to be stuck in a—

"Xu Minghao?" she repeats, and Peacekeepers hauled him over to the stage where his eyes adjusted to the bright lights from the cameras. Everything seemed to have gone silent. Sort of like how the noisy whirring of the sewing machines faded into background noise after a while. His choice of clothes drew whispers from the crowd. Hurriedly put together fabric seemed like an outfit fit for the citizens of District One instead of someone from Eight. He was alluring, and he looked like a dream, and he caught the attention of many. Not like his district partner, faint and forgettable.

"To die for District Eight is the second highest honour there is!"

It was deathly quiet in the town square, like a murder had happened.

In a way, it had.

Junhui appeared on the cover of many Capitol magazines after the Tribute Parade. His stylist, God bless dear whatever-her-name-is, had draped him in golden strings to celebrate his achievement of being the first person to ever cut the golden threads. A silk tunic, also made of gold, covered his groin but left his legs on display to the Capitol. Jewels were studded on his muscles, drawing attention to them, and his makeup made his eyes even more seductive.

His look was claimed to be the most spectacular one in the entire history of the Games even after the events of his Games.

Wonwoo was dressed similarly, but Junhui didn't care much about him. In a few weeks, Wonwoo would be dead anyway. No point caring about a dead person, honestly. Takes away the focus on winning.

Junhui cocked his head at the Threes. Their stylist dressed them up as lightbulbs. The Tens weren't much better either, being decked in what appeared to be hay. But the tributes from Eight were another story. He recognised them from their Reaping. After all, when Minghao was shown on the stage, his choice of outfit had raised intrigued whispers in the Capitol. Minghao wore a long, shimmery tunic that reminded Junhui of the diamonds and crystals in his home. When the boy shifted, the material caught the light and glimmered, and in what Junhui thought was the selling point, it highlighted his slim figure.

He caught himself staring for a second too long. Wonwoo narrowed his eyes at him.

"Don't go around making allies with the wrong people. The last thing we need is some deadbeat weighing us all down," Wonwoo hissed.

"Relax," Junhui replied airily. "I know what to do. Let's go talk to the Twos and Fours. Won't hurt making alliances already." His mentor, Boo Seungkwan, who happened to be last year's victor, was already chatting with the mentors from Two. Beside him was Wonwoo's mentor, the victor from five years ago, Hansol. Junhui remembered Hansol's games better than Seungkwan's. He preferred Hansol to Seungkwan, honestly, because when Junhui was barely twelve-years-old he watched as Hansol kneed his district partner in the groin.

Her mouth had opened in a strangled gasp, and Hansol gripped her jaw and forced his thumb into her mouth, pushing down on her lower teeth. Despite her feeble attempts to bite Hansol's thumb clean off, he quickly shoved his other thumb into her mouth as well, except the pad of his thumbs were then pressing down so hard on her upper and lower teeth the audio receivers captured the crack of her teeth as they were forced back into her gums. Everyone had thought that that would be the end of it, but what he did next shocked everyone.

Hansol had pried her mouth open so impossibly wide that something cracked loudly, blood spurting from her broken teeth and bleeding gums. Then, before the Capitol citizens had any time to react at all, he picked up his trident and slammed it down her open throat, ripping her cheeks in the process.

Every tribute Hansol mentored emerged as the victor of their games, like Seungkwan. Junhui wondered if the mentor pairing had anything to do with Wonwoo's parents.

Junhui noted that the pretty boy from Eight headed straight for the survival station in the training centre. Shrugging, he looped his arm around Wonwoo's shoulders as they walked towards the Twos and Fours.

"Jihoon, Soonyoung," Junhui nodded. Soonyoung offered him a small quirk of his lips; Jihoon grunted. The Twos were always brooding in silence. At least Soonyoung seemed nice enough. "Seokminnie, your outfit during the parade was cute. Seungcheol, yours too."

"Cut the crap. Look at Three-Two. She's going for the gauntlets." Wonwoo angled his head to the gauntlet station and they all tracked her clumsy and uncoordinated moments. Three-Two stumbled like a drunkard before she fell and sprained her ankle.

"I call dibs," Seokmin snickered. "Easy goal."

Junhui rolled his eyes and flashed them a smile. Sharp canines out, reminding them that every part of his body was trained to be a weapon. None of them genuinely enjoyed the others' company. They were all thirsty bloodhounds, sniffing out their competition and determining who would pose the biggest threat in the arena. Wonwoo pulled him aside during lunch, warning him not to trust the Fours.

"They're dangerous. I wouldn't trust them if I were you. The moment we break free from the pack, the first people we're going after are the Fours."

"Unless we get killed first," Junhui replied.

"We won't."

Junhui never liked how Wonwoo's tone always carried an air of finality, but he supposed that it was the one comforting thing in this training centre. Aside from Minghao, of course.

"Eight-One looks promising," Jihoon murmured. Junhui's head snapped up to watch Minghao stride over to the sword station, cleanly slicing off the limbs of the dummies with a wave-like form of calmness. Minghao felt the heat of Junhui's gaze and whipped his face around to stare back at Junhui. With a lick of his lips, Minghao lopped off the dummy's head while keeping his eyes on Junhui the entire time. Junhui felt his face heat up. "And he seems to like you."

The glint of the harsh centre lights reflecting off the blade of the sword pulled Junhui out of his reverie. Annoyed by the pretty boy's effect on him, Junhui picked up a spear and hurled it at the target, sending it straight to its heart. He repeated it again, and again, and again, until he could hit two targets at once with a very well-thrown spear. Wonwoo patted him on the back.

Over dinner, Seungkwan decided to break the awkward silence, something Junhui was immensely grateful for.

"Anyone who caught your eye today?" he asked over sips of champagne.

"Eight-One. He was good with swords and stitching up wounds. Caught him at the survival stations," Junhui answered.

"Kim Mingyu's boy. Good. That's the kind of people you want around you in the arena. People that can fight, but can also save your life when it comes down to it," Vernon said gruffly, spearing his fish with his fork. "Anyone else?"

"Seven-One's not bad with axes. Still a bit fumbly, but nothing too major. He could be useful in the arena as like, I don't know, leverage or something," Wonwoo supplied.

"Don't trust Four. Both of them. Four-One seems a little unhinged, and Four-Two just puts me off. Sollie and I thought that Four-Two reminded us of—what's his name again?— Chan, I think, from my Games. You remember him, don't you? One of the Twelves from last year. He was fucking insane, managed to kill off the entire Career pack except me, ripped their eyes from their sockets and had a penchant for cutting off their tongues and mutilating them and he was a damn stalker, and he almost killed me too—"

Hansol hushed him gently. The left side of Seungkwan's neck was horribly scarred from his fight with his own district partner who had tried to kill him with his own bare hands. Their fight had moved to the acid lake and his district partner had put up a valiant fight before it took just a fatal moment of hesitation—Seungkwan's pants tore in the middle of their brawl—for Seungkwan to gain the upper hand and push him into the bubbling acid. Of course, that didn't come without its consequences: the scorching acid had splashed onto Seungkwan's neck as his district partner floundered in the acid, scarring him forever. Then as he stumbled back to the camp, disoriented, he saw Chan murder the Twos and Fours in their sleep. Junhui still remembered the insanity radiating from Twelve-Two as he chased after Seungkwan. Junhui's breath had caught in his throat as he prayed for Seungkwan, lovely, beautiful Seungkwan who always gave him extra cake in the Academy, to escape from Chan. Seungkwan had, in a move that greatly impressed the Capitol and dramatically increased his number of sponsors, climbed up a tree and waited for Chan to be directly underneath the tree before swinging down and wrapping his thighs around Twelve-Two's neck, cutting off his oxygen supply and strangling him. Twelve-Two blindly stabbed Seungkwan's thigh to loosen the tightening vice around his neck.

"The both of you are on to a good start. For the next two days, make sure to go to the more physically demanding stations too, like the gauntlets, spears, swords, and knives. It'd do you both good to go to the survival stations too. Won't hurt learning a few survival skills for the worst-case scenario. Continue scouting out potential allies outside of Two and Four, like Seven-One and Eight-One. Junhui, I know that I'm not your mentor, but I'm rooting for the both of you," Hansol gave them a small smile and winked—or blinked; Junhui couldn't tell. His game left him blind in one eye from evading the mace from Eleven-One.

"Oh, and Junhui, Eight-One can be a very valuable asset if handled correctly. You should've seen the crowd; the Tribute Parade became the Parade for Xu Minghao the moment he tossed off his robe and winked," Seungkwan advised. 

Wonwoo, who had remained relatively silent throughout dinner, suddenly piped up, "Between Seven-One and Eight-One, who would be a better tool?"

Hansol and Seungkwan exchanged glances and had a silent conversation with their eyes.

"Who do you want more?"

Junhui stared at his plate. He stabbed his knife through his steak, red juice splattering messily. It looked like blood.

"I don't know," Junhui answered truthfully.

"I don't know, I've never had proper training before. I worked under a seamstress before I got, y'know, reaped. The sword thing came from watching the Games, I guess, like, a lot of the victors were good with weapons so I practised with a bamboo pole for years. Didn't know it'd work that well, actually, but maybe it's because bamboo poles are a lot heavier than swords," Minghao shrugged.

"Is that so? The Academy back home was nice," Junhui sighed, trying to identify edible plants. "It was basically a school, just that you learn how to fight. How to survive. How to make alliances, how to hold a spear properly, all that bullshit. Anyway, we've seen you and we want you to join our alliance. You're good with weapons, you know how to stitch wounds, you know how to start a fire. We want you."

"I just told you I'm not good at stitching wounds. I can sew clothes but not human skin," Minghao grumbled. There was something endearing to him, just that Junhui couldn't put a finger on it.

"Mm, don't care. It's about the same anyway. Just let me know, okay? There's no guarantee the rest won't kill you if you refuse," Junhui chirped and finished the test in record speed. Junhui skulked back to the rest and shrugged. "I told him to let me know."

It's after lunch when Minghao cornered Junhui in the archery station. "I accept the alliance. But I want to ask you something."

"Yeah, qīnqīn?" Junhui replied without missing a beat. He continued aiming at the target, squinting and releasing the arrow.

"Are you afraid of dying?"

That made Junhui lower his bow and arrow for a while to look at Minghao. "What?"

"I said, are you afraid of dying? Because God forbid I join someone who doesn't care if he's alive or dead at all."

"To die for District One is the second highest honour there is," Junhui repeated whatever he was taught in the Academy like a parrot or one of his parents' fancy recorders back home.

"No. Are you scared to die? Are you okay with leaving everything behind?"

Junhui searched Minghao's face like an adventurer would his map, looking for any signs that might have hinted towards Minghao's slyness. But what he found instead was pure, unadulterated curiosity, like Minghao was genuinely interested in him. In his beliefs. For the first time in his life, Junhui found himself physically incapable of giving a witty remark right off the bat. Minghao was a swirling wind that took his breath away. There was nothing he could say to answer Minghao, because he genuinely did not know whether he was afraid of dying.

Was he more afraid of dying, or was he more afraid of not bringing glory to his district?

What would you choose?

Junhui didn't know if he wanted to know the answer to that question.

"I— I don't—" Junhui stuttered, flustered. He stared at Minghao who, despite being shorter than him, towered over him. Junhui could feel the blood pumping in his ears; the low thrumming rang like an alarm and his heart quickened. Minghao took a cautious step closer, and Junhui instinctively turned away to aim at the moving targets again. And yet no matter how much he willed his fingers to release the arrow, he just couldn't. But he could still feel the heat radiating off the pretty boy who placed his small, skilled hands on his back. A feather-light touch, and yet it still felt like one of the medicine balls in the training centre. 

"Are you afraid of dying?" Minghao whispered again, closer than ever.

"Maybe," Junhui said in a voice that trembled more than it should have. He turned away from the targets in favour of pressing his lips against the soft, pink ones of the pretty boy, closing his eyes and revelling in the faint sweetness of pomegranate.

Junhui released the arrow.

Bullseye.

Seungkwan padded over to hug Junhui before Junhui was herded off to the hovercraft. "You did so well for your interview. Especially when you said that the biggest thing you want to achieve in the Games is to 'protect the one person I want to protect'. Who were you referring to? It was beautiful—so touching, I almost teared up—and you're a definite Capitol favourite now. First you get a training score of 11, then your odds of winning are 3-1, and oh, I am just so proud of you, Junhui. I know you were supposed to have a more experienced mentor, but I begged Sollie to let me mentor you because you were—still are, actually—my favourite junior."

"You're my favourite senior too, Seungkwan," Junhui reassured. "I promise I'll make you proud."

"Before I forget." Seungkwan pressed something into Junhui's palm. "It's the bracelet every Academy student gets when they graduate, made with the strings they cut off during the Reaping Games. Mentors make a bracelet for their tributes themselves. I put a lot of effort into making sure yours was pretty. There's a charm for every year of the Academy you complete."

Junhui didn't need to look at the bracelet to know that the most intricately designed charm wasn't there.

"For luck," Seungkwan breathed. "I'll see you when you get out." When, not if. "You remember what I taught you, don't you?"

"For luck," Junhui repeated. "For luck. I remember, don't worry."

Junhui stepped into the hovercraft and found his eyes drawn to Minghao, who gave him a small smile in return. Junhui fiddled with the bracelet as the tracker was injected into his arm. It was pretty indeed, gold woven with silver and bronze, with charms that reminded him of home. It smelled like home too, expensive perfume and black dahlia.

Don't trust Four.

Eight-One is a useful weapon.

Don't trust Four.

Get yourself together, Junhui. You're here for glory.

In retrospect, Junhui should have expected the arena to be different from the previous years. He had predicted a forest or a desert, but an abandoned port?

Only the best for the youngest Career.

He was warned by Academy trainers and the mentors alike that the first fifteen to twenty seconds were going to be disorienting. Disorienting turned out to be a severe understatement, however.

"Fifty-nine," read the announcer. 

Junhui searched for Wonwoo, who gave him a grim nod when they both saw each other. Wonwoo was three podiums right of Junhui. In between them, Five-Two, Three-One, and Eleven-One. Jihoon was directly opposite him, and he silently angled his head towards Seven-One. Junhui gave him a quick, silent nod. Soonyoung's podium was right beside Jihoon's. Junhui tried to find the Fours as the robotic voice chimed happily, "Forty-seven."

Seokmin was barely a few people to Junhui's left. Seungcheol was next to Minghao, who looked at Junhui. Junhui winked at Minghao; he didn't know if Minghao could see it, but it was still an action that didn't amount to nothing. 

The podiums were in the sea (what an unfair advantage for the Fours, Junhui thought dismissively), the Cornucopia on a small platform right in the middle. An abandoned port was behind Junhui.

"Fifteen." Junhui squinted at the Cornucopia. He could see a few bows and arrows, tridents, maces, an array of swords that he believed suited Minghao, and some spears. Much lesser than he expected.

He would take the liberty of killing Seven-One for refusing to join the Careers. Junhui dived into the sea the moment the gong sounded, swimming towards the Cornucopia and desperately thanking the gods that he was one of the Academy's strongest swimmers. By the time he reached the Cornucopia, the Fours were already there, to his annoyance. A handful of the other tributes swam to the port. The one who couldn't struggled to make it back. He did, eventually, but Junhui took a mental note of him. Easy game.

"One, catch!" Seokmin tossed a spear at Junhui, who immediately hurled it at the head of one of the girls coming up for air. She dodged, and it hit her shoulder instead. Wonwoo yanked the spear out of her arm and forced it through her throat.

"Hey, cutie," Junhui purred when Minghao finally rose to the surface of the water and clambered onto the platform. "Would you duck for me?"

"What?"

"Duck," Junhui said firmly, and flung one of the throwing knives straight at one of the other tributes' hearts. He watched Seokmin let Three-Two escape from right under his nose with a backpack—to give her some semblance of false hope, perhaps? As Junhui saved the weaker, slower tributes from a more painful death at the hands of the rest of the Careers by snapping their necks or stabbing them straight through the heart, he watched, allured, as Minghao swung a sickle at Nine-Two, a lethal dancer on an empty stage. He invited Junhui to an elegant dance of life and death. Two lone dancers occupied the entirety of the stage. The spotlights shone on them like the stars would an angel. Minghao almost forgot the thrill of killing but when he was thrusted into the arena, everything melted away until the only people left were him and Junhui. No one mattered. Somewhere out there, in the midst of the luxuries and magnificence of the Capitol, Mingyu was watching. Eight was watching him. And somewhere out there, Seungkwan was watching Junhui too. 

"You look nice with blood dripping all over you," Minghao blurted out the moment the Careers had killed off most of the tributes on the platform.

"Yeah?" Junhui smirked. He tossed his knife in the air, catching it by the handle and thrusted it backwards, instantly killing the girl from Twelve who was stupid enough to try and launch a sneak attack on Junhui. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Soonyoung drown one of the scrawny tributes.

Horrible way to die, if Junhui had to say so himself.

"I got two," Wonwoo said.

"Three," Junhui said proudly.

"One," Soonyoung whined. "Jihoon stole the rest from me!"

"Should've worked faster, then. Two." 

"One," Minghao shrugged.

"One," Seungcheol and Seokmin spat bitterly.

"Well, that's eleven of them. Not a bad start, I'd say," Junhui chimed brightly. "Almost half!" 

"The Tens were supposed to be mine," Soonyoung rolled his eyes.

"Not my fault you left them there to bleed, man. Anyone alive on the ground is free game," Seungcheol whistled. "You got a problem with that?"

"Will you all shut up? It hasn't even been a day and you're at each other's throats again."

Junhui let Minghao curl up next to him in the fire. The fire Minghao had started lit up the sea, but Junhui supposed that it was the one thing good about being a Career: he didn't have to worry about rogue tributes sneaking an attack on him, because no one alive was stupid enough to attack seven Careers. No, the only enemies were those around him. Every one of them sly serpents hiding behind the disguise of an innocent flower.

"Mm, what are you thinking about?" Minghao murmured sleepily.

"Nothing much. Are you tired?" Junhui asked, stroking Minghao's hair.

"A bit," Minghao yawned.

Junhui gave him a soft smile and patted his head until Minghao fell asleep on his shoulder. Since Wonwoo was taking the first shift, Junhui allowed himself to enter a dreamless slumber too. During his shift, Junhui made sure the fire kept burning. Only the Careers could enjoy the luxury of starting a fire, for no one would ever dare to attack the Careers despite knowing their location. For the tributes out there, starting a fire only signalled a death wish. The fire was a symbol of the Careers' combined prowess. Junhui stole a glance at Minghao.

Despite being a year older than him, Minghao looked more youthful. He had a softer edge to him, pouty lips and doe eyes. The stereotypical hardness of a Career was not drilled into him. There was a strange type of curiosity in Minghao's eyes whenever he watched Junhui, wonder but not quite it too. Minghao didn't belong in the arena. He deserved to be free.

Junhui would set him free.

Junhui brushed a stray lock of hair from Minghao's face. It truly was a shame that they would never have the chance to become something more. They will always, always, remain as tributes, temporary allies, sacrifices. It would have been nice if Minghao was simply Junhui's boyfriend back in District One, someone Junhui could go home to. If Junhui could go home, Minghao wouldn't be there. Junhui supposed that it would be the same case if their roles were reversed. If Minghao could go home, Junhui wouldn't be there. He felt a wave of something unrecognisable wash over him the same way the gentle waves lapped at the jetty.

"I would have liked to go home with you," Junhui admitted quietly to no one in particular.

"Me too," a voice tinged with sleepiness replied. "Is it my turn to keep watch?"

"Yeah," Junhui ruffled Minghao's hair affectionately. "It's almost sunrise, though. Care to watch the sun rise with me?"

Minghao hummed and got comfortable next to Junhui. It felt selfish to indulge himself like that, considering how at least one of them would be dead in the next few days. But Junhui forced himself to focus on the sun rising over the horizon, on Minghao's lithe figure next to him, on the way he could feel Minghao's heartbeat with every breath he took in.

"What did you do back in Eight?"

"Well, you already know that I worked under a seamstress. I think I was one of the luckier ones who wasn't shipped off to those awful factories. And as the only Chinese family in Eight, the Peacekeepers probably liked the 'exotic beauty' vibe—" Minghao's nose wrinkled cutely, "—so we were treated a little nicer. They were less strict on us."

"Oh, yeah, me too. I haven't seen any other Chinese people in One aside from my family. People never understand our traditions, but thankfully it's a lot more lax in One. Like, my family still gets to burn offerings for my ancestors and the people we love."

"For prayers and so they have materialistic objects in the afterlife, right? I never got the chance to partake in such traditions in Eight."

"Mhm. Do you like to read?"

"Oh, definitely. I only wish that I could've read more." Minghao didn't explicitly say anything, but the both of them understood. Junhui understood the way he needed Minghao so badly too. He kissed Minghao like he would die without the addictive feeling of feeling Minghao gasp into the kiss, as he always did, before relaxing and moving his lips in tandem with Junhui's.

It's the dying wish of someone who cannot be saved even by the Gods. Something about that fact compelled Junhui to be greedier. The rocky surface of the platform was incomparable to the goose down duvets of Capitol apartments, but he let Minghao push him down anyway, wrapping his arms around him to cage him in as they devoured each other. Their teeth clashed like a needle on a bow, velvet over steel. A sword that wouldn't cut.

Every inhibition Junhui might have ever had was stripped down and tossed to the side as Junhui consumed Minghao the way Minghao consumed him: full of hunger, greed, and selfish indulgence.

When they finally pulled away from each other, Junhui tightened his arms around Minghao.

"I don't want to let you go yet," Junhui mumbled petulantly.

"Then I'll stay. I'll stay for as long as you don't want me to go."

A pointless lie that they both knew would never come true, but Junhui never had a penchant for calling people out on their lies.

The Gamemakers probably thought that the Games needed more action, which would explain the large wave heading straight for the Cornucopia.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, wake up!" Junhui yelled frantically. "Wake up! There's a huge fucking wave coming! Grab all the supplies you can get, and swim for the port!" The Careers all jolted awake, cursing loudly as they shoved any supplies they could reach into the backpacks and dived into the sea, desperately swimming towards land. Junhui didn't bother checking if Minghao was still on the platform before he jumped and swam for his life. It was only when he climbed onto the jetty and sprinted towards one of the larger container ships that he looked around for Minghao.

Up close, there were so many abandoned ships with crates still on them, and at eye level it was hard to find the other tributes. He hopped onto the crates and as the wave crashed over the Cornucopia, the sound of a cannon was almost inaudible a minute after the wave had reached the port. Ducking behind the numerous crates, Junhui rummaged through his backpack and was delighted to find water, food that fortunately did not get into contact with the seawater, a set of throwing knives, and some rope. Plus the sword he managed to snag, Junhui deemed himself appropriately armed.

A small tinkle in the air signalled the arrival of a sponsor gift. A silver silk parachute flew down, attached to it a metal thermos flask engraved with the emblem of a castle with two swords on either side of it. He opened it to find hot, piping oxtail soup. Junhui inadvertently shivered; he had forgotten how cold the sea was. A note was stuck on the side of the flask.

The real thing starts now. —BSK

It was only the second day of the Games, and Junhui had already secured himself a sponsor. Somewhere in the Capitol, Seungkwan was watching. The sponsors were watching. One thing Junhui was particularly good at in the Academy was scoping out hidden cameras. In where he assumed the Gamemakers would put a camera, Junhui discreetly angled his body in that direction and took his shirt off, muttering to himself that it needed to dry in the sun. To appeal to the Capitol was his job. 

"Thank you for the soup," Junhui called to the sky. He basked in the midday sun and leaned against the crates, making sure that his abdominal muscles were clearly in frame. Another one of the things Seungkwan had taught him was that as much as the Capitol liked the ruthless and violent tributes, they preferred the more sly, more seductive tributes that pandered to the cameras and, by association, the Capitol's baser instincts. Seungkwan had told Junhui to pick a role.

"The moment you enter the arena is the moment you start treating it like a show. Because that's what the Games are at the end of the day: a show for the Capitol. And just like any other show, you have to pick a character to hide behind. Will you be the tribute that's guaranteed to win? Will you take on the role of the hopeless romantic in a doomed relationship? Will you portray yourself as one who acts for the greater good?" 

"I want to be myself," Junhui had answered then, to which Seungkwan shook his head.

"Never be yourself in the arena. Cut off all the parts of you that still have emotion. Even a split second of hesitation in the arena will determine whether you'll go for the Victory Tour or end up as one of the nameless faces in the sky at night. Tenderness shouldn't exist in us Ones. In the Academy they taught us how to conceal our feelings well. How to shut down every aspect of yourself that could get you killed. The moment you step off the podium—right as the gong sounds—you cannot be Wen Junhui anymore. 

"Craft another persona. Separate Wen Junhui and One-One; from the moment the Games begin, they are two separate beings. Wen Junhui cannot exist in the arena.  Only One-One has a chance of survival."

"Are you saying that I don't even have a chance of winning?"

"No," Seungkwan had retorted, "I'm saying that One-One has a definite chance of survival. One-One is the persona the Academy has gifted you. Cold, ruthless, a sophisticated killing machine, and most importantly, one that knows how to play the cameras. The cameras are the eyes of the Capitol. They miss nothing. One-One is the one they're interested in."

It was honestly amazing how the Career pack only lasted for a day before falling apart. Junhui finished the soup and winked at the almost-invisible camera, tossing his shirt back on and started climbing one of the cranes on his right. 

The crane was rusty. It was falling apart, and if Junhui thumped it with just enough strength the crane mast would crack and crumble. Junhui saved that information for future use. From the top of the crane, Junhui could see the whole arena. It was circular, and he estimated that the diameter of the whole arena was roughly 30 kilometres. Looking at it from his vantage point, he could see the sea and the other ships. 

"The final two will probably battle it out on one of the ships," Junhui mused. "Fighting on the shore would deprive the sponsors of a good show." Nevertheless, Junhui leaped from the crane and manoeuvred his way through the rusty ships and dusty crates.

He heard footsteps from behind one of the crates. Cautious, quiet ones, like their owner didn't want to be heard, but Junhui's sharp ears had never failed him before. Junhui tightened his grip on his sword, a ticking bomb.

He waited for the shuffling of feet to get closer.

The moment the slightest peek of shoes could be seen from the base of the crate, Junhui thrusted his sword forward—

"Woah, are you trying to kill me?" Wonwoo snorted.

"Oh, it's just you," Junhui frowned. "How'd you find me?"

"Probably luck."

"Did you manage to find the rest?"

"No. Eight-One's gone, can't find Two, and Four is somewhere out there."

Junhui's eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "What do you mean, Eight-One's gone? Is he dead?"

"Oh, come on, you heard the cannon too. I wouldn't expect Two and Four to die so soon, you know, as much as I hate all four of them. Eight-One's the most probable option right now.

Junhui huffed.

It came as a huge shock when Soonyoung's beaming face appeared in the sky that evening with the anthem blasting.

"Well," Junhui said mildly.

"Well," Wonwoo responded, bemused.

Minghao was still alive.

The Capitol must have had immense patience and tolerance for slow Games, because another day or two passed without the sound of any cannon. It was already the what, fourth, day? And only half of the tributes were gone. Eleven on the first day, one on the second, and zero on the third and fourth.

"Okay, we have to find Jihoon and Four and Eight-One," Wonwoo ran his fingers through his hair.

"Who else is left? Anyone who poses a large enough threat?"

"Only Seven-One for now. After him, it's the rest of the Careers."

"Including us," Junhui reminded gently. Wonwoo eyeballed him.

A loud scream echoed through the abandoned port. Like vultures to a carcass, Junhui and Wonwoo sprinted towards the source of the scream. It was Three-Two.

"No, I'm sorry, please, don't kill me, I—I want to live," she wailed.

Junhui motioned for Wonwoo to hide behind the crates like him.

"Oh, what a pity," Seokmin's condescending voice cooed. "Why don't you tell me why you deserve to live, hmm? Maybe I'll consider letting you go."

Junhui mouthed a "He's insufferable" to Wonwoo, who made some kind of funny expression in agreement.

"I have five siblings, and I'm the oldest of—of them all. My brother, he's, um, he just got a job at one of the factories, and my parents just died so he's the—he's the only one taking care of them now with his meagre income and, uh, I just, I—" Three-Two took a deep breath, "I don't want to die! They're all waiting for me to win so we can all live in the Victor's Village—"

"Boring," Seokmin droned. The splatter of blood reached their toes.

"Seokmin-ah," Wonwoo waved as he stepped out from behind the crate. A cannon sounded.

"Seokminnie," Junhui chirped.

"I've been looking all over for you two. When did you guys get here?" Seokmin asked.

"Just now," Junhui lied quickly.

"Right before the cannon sounded. Three-Two?" Wonwoo added on.

"Yeah. You would not believe how pathetic she was, begging for me to kill her and end her misery."

Ah, so Lee Seokmin was the lying kind of tribute. Anything to make himself look like he was doing God's work, Junhui supposed. Plus, he didn't know if he was overthinking or if he was just exceptionally perceptive, because the air soured like the mood had shifted. 

"Wasn't she just a sad excuse for a tribute? I mean, who cares about her three siblings, right?"

It took barely a second for Junhui to catch onto what Seokmin was trying to do. But before he could stop Wonwoo from replying, the latter already responded with a, "Three? Didn't she say she had five siblings?"

An uncomfortable silence smothered the three of them like a blanket.

"So you didn't just reach," Seokmin hummed. "You heard. You saw. Do you know what I hate more than anything, One?"

Junhui subconsciously moved closer to Wonwoo and held onto his sleeve.

"It's when people lie to me."

Junhui tugged on it once, twice, a signal.

"And no one has ever lived to tell the truth."

They were prepared when Seokmin stopped in his tracks and spun around with his trident plunging at where they were originally standing; they had already jumped out of Seokmin's reach. Junhui lunged forward to kick his popliteal fossae. Seokmin stumbled forward and dropped his trident, giving Wonwoo the chance to close the distance between them with his sword out. 

"They said not to trust Four," Wonwoo growled. "And they were right."

Seokmin laughed and gripped the blade of the sword with his own bare hands. "Don't underestimate me. I've been trained to win." Uncaring of how his palms were being sliced by the blade, Seokmin even tightened his grip, preventing Wonwoo from thrusting the sword into his chest.

"So have we," Junhui hissed. He took advantage of the fact that Seokmin was preoccupied with fending off Wonwoo and stabbed Seokmin's back with the trident that had fallen to the ground earlier. Junhui forced the trident through Seokmin's abdomen, barely shuddering at the sickening squelch of it cutting through bone, then the crack as it cut through his spine. Seokmin was a dead man at this rate, but Junhui made sure that the trident impaled Seokmin completely for good measure.

Seokmin released his grip on Wonwoo's sword and instead spread his arms wide, dragging Wonwoo in for a hug.

Another squelch rang in the air, and it wasn't the sound of the sword stabbing through Seokmin's heart.

"You will never win against me," Seokmin whispered. His cannon sounded.

"Wonwoo," Junhui gasped, rushing forward. Seokmin had stabbed Wonwoo with the part of the trident protruding from his abdomen as a parting gift. "Wonwoo, no!" As Seokmin's lifeless body slumped to the ground, the weapon was yanked from Wonwoo, tearing the wound apart even more.

"Junhui," the boy called out weakly.

"Yes, I'm here," Junhui fought back a sob.

"I'm a goner already. Leave me. I'll die sooner or later. Go find Minghao and Jihoon."

"No," Junhui responded fiercely. "I'm not leaving you."

"You're always so stubborn," Wonwoo chuckled. "But you should go. Don't waste your time fretting over me."

"I can't do that! We've never really talked back in the Academy, but I'm still not leaving you here alone." Junhui frantically ripped Wonwoo's sleeve off and pressed it on the wound. "What do I do? Am I pressing too hard? Do you need water? I think—I think I still have some in my bag, just—just hold on, okay? I'll get some for you, Wonwoo-ah, just hold on, okay?"

"Mm," Wonwoo hummed in response. Junhui fumbled around in his bag to find his bottle of water. "Has anyone told you how pretty you are?"

Junhui unscrewed the bottle cap and gently supported Wonwoo's head as he fed him the water. "Huh?"

"In the Academy everyone thought you were pretty, but I don't think anyone's ever told you before."

"No, I—I don't think...I don't think anyone's told me that before. You should stop talking and focus on resting."

"I'm glad to be the first, then," Wonwoo said. "Would you pass me my sword?" Junhui wordlessly handed it to him. "This," Wonwoo continued, tracing the delicate carvings on the hilt, "was a sponsor gift from Hansol. And I want you to have it."

"What? Why?"

"Win for me, okay?"

"Wonwoo?"

"Or at least for District One."

At least Junhui had the good courtesy to turn away when the blade of Wonwoo's sword became tipped with blood.

He didn't have time to mourn. But he did give a deep bow when Wonwoo's name flashed in the sky. It was hard to tell how many were left. He only knew that Seungcheol, Jihoon, and Minghao were still out there.

"Psst."

Junhui whirled around, sword out.

"Up here, genius."

Junhui looked up at one of the ships. Jihoon gave him a small wave.

"Fuck are you doing up there?" Junhui hissed.

"Sleeping. Obviously," Jihoon rolled his eyes. "Get your ass up here. You're gonna get the both of us killed any day."

Junhui huffed and climbed the crates, sitting next to Jihoon. "Have you seen the rest?"

"Only Minghao. He's at the sea." Jihoon jerked his head to the side.

"Oh? Who else?"

"Haven't seen Seungcheol. I think Seven-One's still out there, and some from the other districts."

"Hiding, huh."

An awkward silence descended upon the both of them. Junhui rested against one of the many crates, moving some around to cover them.

"So, what happened to Soonyoung?"

"Oh, yeah, he drowned. There were fucking jellyfish in the damn waters, even got a nasty sting myself. He got stung too many times and either cramped or went numb."

The silence returned until the sound of wet feet pattering on the ground interrupted.

"Junhui," Minghao gasped, moving up the ship's hull and running straight to Junhui. "I've missed you."

If he was acting, then Junhui supposed he was too.

"Minghao," Junhui opened his arms and Minghao just ran right into them.

"Missed you so, so much." Minghao's voice was muffled as he buried his face into Junhui's shoulder.

"Me too. But I'm here now, aren't I?"

"Suppose you are."

"Knock it off already," Jihoon groaned. "We're supposed to be sleeping so we can hunt tomorrow. If you don't want to sleep, I do." He grumbled as he lifted some crates in an impressive show of strength and built a fort for himself. "And shut up!"

Junhui snorted.

"There's still blood on you," Minghao reminded gently. "Seokmin?"

"Wonwoo too," Junhui closed his eyes. "He was a good friend. "

"He was," Minghao agreed.

"You don't have a weapon. Here, take my bow and arrows."

"No thanks. I can't use one properly. I've been keeping count."

Aside from the remaining four Careers, only five tributes were left. Excluding Seven-One, whom Junhui knew was the only non-Career to pose a big enough threat. The rest were all meek and terrified prey. Junhui wondered if they would've formed an alliance. But knowing that they were probably all suspicious of everyone else and too scared to even make such an important decision like finding allies, Junhui decided that the other four would probably be on their own.

And it seemed like one had made their way to them.

Junhui instinctively reached for his knife when he heard the soft crunch of gravel under shoes.

"Is Jihoon asleep?"

"Yeah?"

Junhui smirked. "Good. This means that your eyes will be on me." He took off his shirt and put his jacket on, adjusting it so that his upper body would be casted in shadows. Junhui quietly got off the ship and walked right into the tribute.

"You have to help me!" Junhui dramatically cried out.

"Fuck off," the boy shouted. "I know who you are. You're the remaining One."

"Yes," Junhui moulded his face into something more vulnerable. "But, don't you see? That's why they're trying to kill me."

"I don't believe you."

"Please?" Junhui whispered, sounding like he was desperate and broken. "You're the only one I have now. You're the only one who didn't try to kill me the moment you saw me." Seeing that the boy didn't react, Junhui raised both hands in surrender and inched forward. His jacket shifted slightly, revealing his toned chest and abdominal muscles. "I can prove that I'll be loyal, so just please," Junhui rested his hands on the fool's chest and leaned forward as if asking for a kiss, "trust me?"

Junhui knew, from the moment that a flicker of hesitance passed through the boy's eyes as he looked at Junhui's exposed body and the close proximity he was at, that he won.

"Alright, fine. But you have to prove it," the boy sneered.

"Would you put down your weapon first? I don't want to risk being killed right in the middle of my performance," Junhui pouted.

"Alright, alright." He dropped the plank of wood he had been holding. "And if you want me to protect you, you're gonna have to do a small favour for me, kitten."

Junhui cringed inwardly at the pet name. How undignified.

"Yes?" Junhui asked, giving him the best doe eyes he could muster.

"Suck me off."

The boy's smile was ugly and twisted and triumphant, as if he had just scored a big goal. Junhui acquiesced, running his hands down the boy's body slowly as he sank to his knees. 

"Hurry up. We don't have all day, you know."

Right before Junhui's knees hit the ground, he snatched a large rock off the ground and slammed it right into the boy's foot. He rolled away just as the boy began howling in pain and bending down to pick his discarded wooden plank up.

"Nice try, asshole," Junhui cackled, bringing the rock down on the boy's head. He hummed happily as he struck it once, twice, until the boy's legs stopped twitching and the wooden plank fell to the ground again. He bashed the boy's head in one last time, leaving the rock lodged in his skull. "Now you've definitely got rocks in your head, huh? Imbecile."

The cannon that boomed loudly was like music to Junhui's ears as he returned back to the ship where Minghao was waiting.

"Did you see?" Junhui said proudly as he wiped the blood off him.

"Yeah," Minghao replied in awe. "I never knew you were such a good actor."

"Acting's kind of my thing, you know? Act defenceless, and strike when their guard is down."

"Yeah, but it worked so well," Minghao said.

"Some of these idiots just have like, seawater in their brains or something. Nothing ever comes for free here."

They were running again when two cannons boomed successively. Junhui set a quick pace, darting between abandoned crates and rusty ships, sand crunching beneath his feet. This was where he belonged, running with a robbed trident in his right hand and Minghao in his left. Killing came as naturally as breathing; he was born for this. Minghao easily matched Junhui's pace, refusing to let go.

He couldn't stop thinking about Minghao.

He couldn't stop thinking about death dangling right in front of his face in the form of a crazed Seungcheol.

A ship exploded right next to Junhui and he instinctively shielded Minghao from the burning metal that bloomed like roses in the sky. Junhui winced when the scalding, smouldering shrapnel pierced his arms and back.

"Are you fucking crazy?!" Jihoon screamed at Junhui. 

"Just fucking run!" Junhui yelled back, although half his answer was drowned out by a second ship exploding. All the ships in the row went off like fireworks. In a way, the smoke clouds that rose to the sky resembled the fireworks Junhui saw during Capitol festivals. Seungcheol had already torn through one of the runts with his spiked mace, and he turned his attention to the fleeing Careers.

Dehydration, Junhui would later learn, was a far deadlier circumstance than being murdered outright.

The arena was plunged into darkness, blind night that Junhui couldn't peek through, a curtain closing over the stage. Junhui staggered around in pitch blackness, Minghao's warm hand the only anchor he had to ground him. Minghao pulled Junhui insistently like he knew where he was going.

"Night vision goggles," Minghao explained when they ducked behind a crane. "Here, put this on. I won't have you die on me."

Junhui quickly put the goggles on and, as his eyes slowly adjusted to his vision returning, watched in horror as Jihoon tripped over a charred piece of ship—no, it was an arm—and lied splayed on the sandy ground. He struggled to get up, feet slipping and sliding on the soft surface beneath him. Unbeknownst to him, Seungcheol was already creeping up on him, dragging his mace on the ground to feel for anyone.

The spikes brushed against Jihoon's foot.

Seungcheol raised the mace with his mouth twisted in a gnarly, twisted grin that only Junhui and Minghao could see. Junhui covered the lenses of Minghao's goggles when Seungcheol brought the mace down with the strength of a deranged ghoul, cutting Jihoon's petrified scream off early.

"My needles," Minghao whispered, tugging on Junhui's sleeve.

"Come out, Junhui. I can smell you," Seungcheol crowed.

"Hurry!" Minghao hissed.

"You know, I was wondering what I would do when I win," Seungcheol continued. The light started to come back in the form of a rising sun. "I think I'll inherit my parents' business. They make fish hooks, you know? Big business back home." Minghao snuck behind the crates as Junhui sat with his back against one, wincing as he applied pressure on his wounds.

The ones on his arm were already beginning to melt. Melting? The damned scraps of metal melted when they came into contact with light. The realisation dawned on Junhui far too late and he scrambled to hide in the shadows.

"I hear you."

Junhui held his breath.

"I grew up around the sea. Do you know what this means, Junhui?"

For a split second Junhui wondered if Minghao had just run away, using him as a distraction so he could escape without incurring the wrath of Seungcheol.

"It means that this arena is my territory. My domain. We're here to give them a show, don't you get it? Did you really think they'd let someone who fits into this arena win? They're here to be entertained, we're here to entertain. Where's the fun if a Four wins in an arena designed for a Four?"

There was a raw sort of vulnerability to Seungcheol's voice; almost like he knew he was being played and still played into the hands of the Gamemakers. When his body flopped to the ground, Junhui inched away from the sunlight reflecting off the silver needle.

"You should have seen Jihoon," Minghao murmured, grimacing as he picked the solid pieces of metal out of Junhui's wounds. "Or, what's left of him."

Junhui screwed his eyes shut. He didn't know which was worse, being able to smell the puddle of Jihoon's blood and flesh (the hovercraft wasn't able to pick his body up because there simply was no body) or the stinging pain of Minghao flushing out the liquid metal with water.

"I didn't know you could clean and stitch up wounds," Junhui joked.

"When you've been around needles as long as I have, it comes naturally," Minghao replied dazedly. "Mingyu sent these as a sponsor gift a few days ago. Before I found you. I never thought I would ever need to use them like this."

"Thank you," Junhui said softly, even though his words bore immeasurable weight.

"There's no need to thank me." Minghao tried to get the thread through the eye of the needle as he spoke. "Although I suppose his gift came in handy. Mingyu always knows what I need."

Junhui winced as his wounds were being stitched up. The threads Minghao used were red, red like blood, but also red like fate. 

"You're pretty," Junhui admitted.

"I know. You've told me that multiple times."

"It will never be enough."

Minghao looked up from his work to see Junhui looking at him. His face steadily grew red. Junhui chuckled weakly at that, huffing out a pained breath as he resumed resting.

"My bracelet broke," Junhui said in horror. "One of the strings must have snapped. The charms—they mustn't drop!" He jerked up and grabbed onto Minghao's shoulders tightly. Minghao jumped—he'd grown skittish after so many days.

"Ow, you're hurting me," Minghao winced.

Junhui released his grip on Minghao's shoulders and blinked, surprised. "Sorry. I don't know what came after me. It's just a tradition. If the charms ever drop, it means that the legacy of that person will come crumbling down."

"It's fine," Minghao smiled. "I'm all done with your wounds anyway. Just try not to do any huge physical movements or anything that might rip the threads apart. I'll fix your bracelet for you. In the meantime, why don't you go catch some fish for us? Sponsor gifts have been running low."

Junhui laughed and pressed a chaste kiss on Minghao's forehead. He waded into the shallow end of the sea and paused.

Were there even any fish here? 

He shook his head and slapped himself mentally. Minghao wouldn't lie to him. The sea seemed to be receding, like it was low tide, revealing some fishes and a silver parachute on the seabed. Junhui triumphantly picked one of the fatter ones up, jogging back to where Minghao was.

"I got a fish."

Minghao jumped. "What? There aren't supposed to—" He caught himself in time, but Junhui's eyes narrowed.

"There aren't supposed to be what?" Junhui asked.

"Nothing. You returned so fast I was wondering why. I mean, the fishes are usually further in," Minghao said quickly. Junhui threw the fish on one of their bags and held the back of Minghao's neck, pushing him forward so their foreheads were touching.

"You wouldn't lie to me, right?"

"Never."

Junhui grinned at Minghao's response, kissing him ferociously.

"I'll go start a fire for the fish."

While Minghao disappeared behind their backpacks to find something to start a fire, Junhui's smile settled into a frown. He hid the crumpled note from the parachute in his fist, watching as Minghao tried to start a fire.

The fishes are poisonous. Kim Mingyu sent his boy a note telling him that yesterday. —BSK

If Minghao was surprised when Junhui cordially refused the fish in favour of drinking some soup Seungkwan had sent him, he didn't show it. The fish lied abandoned on top of the fire, charred beyond recognition. The clouds overhead were beginning to get darker, thunder booming. Junhui elected not to tell Minghao about the receding sea.

After all, when the rain started pouring, the faint roaring of the sea told Minghao everything he needed to know anyway. A large wave was steadily making its way to the shore—Junhui spotted it from afar and immediately grabbed his weapons and bolted. He knew that aside from him, there was only Minghao and Seven-One left in the arena. 

And so he ran without care, keeping hold of his sword and trident. The only weapons left in the pile were the bow and arrows he'd developed a strange liking for.

"Wen Junhui!" Minghao screamed. Junhui ignored him. He expected their lame excuse of an alliance to end soon. But something tugged on his heartstrings when he thought of Minghao, lovely, sweet Minghao from Eight who kissed him in the training centre and on the first day of the Games, fighting a lonely battle.

His steps faltered.

Water washed over his shoes.

Water that was tinted red like pomegranate.

Junhui looked down. 

There was a hand. Upon closer inspection, it was Seven-One. But he was almost unrecognisable at that point, bloody foam spilling from a face so purple Junhui almost laughed. He had probably seen Junhui catch the fish from earlier and assumed that it was safe to eat as well.

In the end, Junhui realised with growing clarity, it still came down to him and Minghao. With nowhere else to go other than forward, Junhui dashed towards the ships. For a moment, Junhui contemplated quitting. But he was still a Career. The only way he knew was to go forward. And he never retreats.

An arrow flew through the air and grazed Junhui's face. The next one would have hit Junhui's heart if he didn't dodge. Yet even when Junhui came to the conclusion that Minghao was more skilled at archery than he ever admitted, the only thing Junhui ever knew was him. He couldn't abandon his duty, but he still thought of Minghao even as he launched an arrow that hit his abdomen.

Adrenaline works in very funny ways. Junhui didn't register the pain as he chased Minghao up one of the old, rusty cranes, knife at the ready.

But how many times did Minghao lie to him?

"You met me at a very strange time in my life," Junhui shouted over the howling wind. Amidst the sea storm, Junhui could hear Minghao scream as the latter tried to keep his balance on the mast. Minghao climbed up faster with Junhui hot on his heels. "I would have liked to properly love you outside the arena."

"Let me go," Minghao sobbed, blindly kicking Junhui's knife out of his grip. It clattered noisily when it hit the ground tens of metres down below. The seawater and rain splashing in their faces didn't stop them from ascending to the jib of the crane.

Minghao panted as he stumbled onto the jib, gulping nervously when he looked down. The ships that were once huge seemed tiny from that height.

"Minghao," Junhui tried again, shuffling forward. Minghao screamed and shook his head and inched backwards, extending his arms to the side to keep his balance. "Stop running away from me!"

"Stay away! I don't want to die, Junhui, go away! Leave me alone! I don't want to die here!"

Junhui could hear the sheer trepidation in Minghao's voice. A small part of his heart broke.

"I'm not ready," Minghao began as the winds got even stronger. "It's not my time yet! I have people waiting for me back home, don't you see that? I have a boyfriend back in Eight! He's waiting for me!"

"You have someone else?"

"Yes! I'm in a relationship with Mingyu, okay? He said that if I win, we'd get married and we can both live in the Victor's Village! I've gotten so far, I can't stop here! And don't pretend like you're completely innocent too, Junhui. I know that you've been using me too."

Junhui's heart hammered in his chest, pounding so loudly that even the howling of the sea was incomparable.

"I've never used you," Junhui argued, shuffling forward ever so slightly.

"Don't come any closer! I know what you're playing at, One. You were trying to go for the star-crossed lovers act, weren't you?"

"It wasn't an act!" Junhui screamed. "I loved you! I love you!"

"Stop lying!" Minghao's cries were overpowering the wind at that point. Even as the rain got heavier, Junhui could still see the raw, animalistic urge to survive etched on Minghao's face.

"I'm not lying, Minghao."

"Shut your mouth. I've relied on you to get rid of my opponents, but I never expected us to be the last two standing. Now you're the only one still in the way."

It was a stupid decision on Junhui's end, to lunge forward and envelope Minghao in a hug.

"Would things have been any different outside?" Junhui asked, voice wavering, as if he was terrified to hear the answer. "If I were an Eight, or if you were a One, if none of us had been chosen to enter the Games? Would we have become a thing? Would you have loved me back?"

Thunder boomed in the sky as the rain got heavier. Junhui knew that the microphones scattered around the arena were no match for the torrential rain and the seawater threatening to engulf them both.

"It's just the two of us now, Minghao," Junhui urged. "You can be honest."

"Get off!" Minghao screamed, clawing at Junhui's chest to push him away.

"Answer me!"

"No!" Minghao writhed in Junhui's grasp, successfully breaking free only for the momentum of his push to cause him to lose his balance on the jib. At that exact moment, the wave hit the jetty and flooded the arena, sprays of seawater obscuring the lenses. The cameras couldn't capture the magnificence of the showdown for the Capitol. They were blind, and they were blinded.

Junhui watched in abject horror as Minghao's left foot stepped on air, arms flailing around as his entire body leaned to the left. Minghao's hands scrambled for purchase, only grasping nothing but empty air as he slipped off.

He was still as beautiful as that day Junhui watched his Reaping. Even with the cuts on his body and hair stuck to his face, Minghao still looked radiant.

The tiniest sliver of sunlight peeked through the storm clouds. Junhui let out a bloodcurdling shriek as he tried to reach for Minghao. Their fingertips brushed ever so slightly.

Just like the asteroid from years ago, a near-miss.

"Junhui!" Minghao cried out as he fell like an angel descending from the heavens or a damned soul dropping to hell, grasping for Junhui's hand even as he got smaller and smaller, pretty face contorted in fear and in what Junhui found to be most haunting, how acceptance bloomed on Minghao's face.

The charms tinkled on the bracelet that turned red when mended; a token from the only person he wasn't able to protect.

"Would you check the last bit for me?" Junhui sighs, fiddling with his bracelet as he stands up. "I have to go out."

"Sure, Junnie," Seungkwan gives him a pat on his back.

Junhui gives him a small smile in return as he steps out of his mansion in the Victor's Village and to the backyard where a red brazier stands. Junhui carefully lights a flame and drops a copy of his manuscript into the blazing fire, along with some joss paper.

"I'm sorry, Minghao," Junhui murmurs as he burns the offerings. "I hope you manage to read it." Junhui gives him a long and deep bow before he steps back into his house. 

"It's all okay, Junhui, but there's something that doesn't add up."

"Yeah?"

Seungkwan eyes Junhui for a bit as he hands Junhui's manuscript back to him, part of his memoir as the youngest Career victor that's expected to be published in the Capitol in a few months.

"Didn't you tell us that you were the one who pushed Minghao off?"

"I know. But they don't have to."

There's something about the deceased. Your brain can't fully grasp the concept of something ceasing to exist entirely. It tells you that they're away, but it doesn't tell you that they're gone. Six years from now if you were to start a family there wouldn't be any opportunity for you to tell them because they're not here. You could visit every country in the world and hunt for the ghost of their shadow and you still wouldn't find them because they don't exist any more.

You could be the one who loved them the most, or the one whom they loved the most, and it still wouldn't change the fact that they're gone. You'll never see them physically ever again. It would just be like they never existed in the first place because there's hardly anything that can prove that they were alive and real.

It ends up being a small part of your brain that keeps the memory of them alive—not them, but the memory of them—until you die as well. The cycle continues.

Golden Threads and Red Strings, Chapter 8 (Fin.)