Chapter Text
‘William Byers!”
Will Byers has never claimed to be lucky for a single day of his life, but being reaped twice in a span of five years? That has to be a joke, even for someone as unlucky as he is.
He was 12 when he was first reaped, and he remembered freezing. He couldn’t even make out in his head what was happening before hearing his mom’s desperate cries and feeling his brother’s warm arms around him, shouting something awfully similar to ‘I volunteer. I volunteer as tribute.”
Jonathan was 16. And Will wished he could tell you he saw a hero when he looked up to meet his eyes, but Jonathan looked just as terrified as he was. Eyes wide and tears threatening to fall and all Will felt was guilt.
The time when Jonathan was away was a blur. Will remembers bits and pieces of rocking himself while watching the lifestream alone, being berated by other kids for ‘killing his brother’ and hearing everyone around him cheer as his brother emerged as the first winner from district 12 for decades.
Jonathan didn’t come out unscathed. He tries to smile as much as he can in front of Will, but he couldn’t hide the darkness under his eyes from the number of sleepless nights he suffered, he couldn’t muffle the screams that rattle their house in the dead of night, he couldn’t stop himself from jumping whenever someone catches him by surprise.
All this just to save this pathetic excuse of a little brother, and even that was in vain. Because Will Byers, 16 now, is being sent to his death once again. And nobody can save him this time.
Will couldn’t move, fear creeping up on him and slithering all over his body like vines. But above all that, he is angry. It’s as if President Creel and the capitol are targeting him specifically, him and his family. His mother had gone and survived, his brother had volunteered for him, and now he’s reaped again? Why? Why me? He wanted to yell. This is ridiculous. If Will didn’t know better, he’d think the reaping was rigged.
Will forces himself to move, before the crowd starts parting around him like the red sea, like his touch would be contagious or something.
The crowd pressed in around him, a living, shifting wall of eyes. Faces blurred together, all of them streaked with soot and worry. The air smelled of sweat and dust and something faintly metallic, like blood that hadn’t spilled yet. Every footstep echoed against the concrete, bouncing off the bleachers, making his chest tighten. He could feel the heat of the sun on his neck, harsh and heavy, trying to push him down. He’d rather be pushed down, to be sent sinking into the soil until he’s nothing but rotting flesh and worms in his brain.
Instead he climbs the stairs, one step at a time, until his gaze reaches Jonathan’s.
And oh, Will Byers broke.
Sobs rattle through his body as Jonathan wrapped his arms around him, like those years ago. He whispers reassurances into his ears, saying Will is strong, he could make it, and it’ll be okay. But Will knows better. He would never stand a chance.
He glanced at the female tribute next to him, her big, doe eyes wide and horrified and she looked away from the crowd, where a big man with a moustache shouted out desperately.
Will knows the girl. Growing up with playdates with her because his mom has been close friends with Jim Hopper since they were teenagers. He had her over for dinner, and they spent hours making daisy chains together when they were little.
There were rumours about her, back in school, that her parents died and that’s why Hopper took her in, and raised her as his own. Will always thought he was an angry man, always getting into fights with people who pissed him off; he was strong, so he’d always win. But now, he looks so weak, so helpless, tears streaming down his face as he screams. No matter how strong he is, he couldn’t do anything to protect his own daughter.
Jane Hopper was the other tribute for the 83rd Hunger Games.
Jonathan has always wanted to die. But this moment? This probably gets the top award for worst moment in his life.
He stood in the corner of the room, and watched as his mother fussed over his little brother.
“Oh Will. My boy, my sweet boy,” she cried, and Jonathan really wasn’t sure if she was trying to reassure herself or Will. “You’ll be okay. You’ll make it out alive. You’re strong, and you know how to fight. Jon’s gonna help you as much as he can.”
“Mom,” Will whimpered, and Jonathan could die. He felt so helpless. His brother is being sent to the very games that haunt his nightmares and plague his thoughts, and there is absolutely nothing he could do to stop it.
“Don’t. Oh baby, you’ll be okay,” Joyce whispered. And Jonathan wanted to believe her. She did win the 59th Hunger Games, surviving off nothing but pure wit and intuition, and Jonathan did believe everything his mother says, but this time, it really feels unlikely.
It’s not like he doesn’t want to believe in Will, he does, he does so desperately, it’s just that he’s so gentle natured and so kind, he’s not even sure if he can kill a single person at all.
Sometimes Jonathan wishes he never even survived the arena. He’s done dirty, horrible things to survive in it, just so he could go home and take care of his mom and baby brother, but god, he could still hear the screams of his victims and he killed them all in ridiculously creative ways.
He’s never felt more like his father than he was in the arena. A gun in hand and red bodies around him, he wondered if Lonnie Byers was out there somewhere in the capitol watching him, and he wondered if he felt proud. The thought twisted his gut, and shame drowned his lungs.
And Will. His sweet, baby brother Will. Ever since Lonnie left, Jonathan took on the role of the father figure in his family. He loves Will, so, so desperately much, he would die a thousand deaths to keep him safe and happy. But now Jonathan Byers doesn’t know what to do.
He could put an axe in his hands, teach him how to swing and aim it at people. He could teach him how to run the fastest, how to hide, how to find food... He can teach him every tip and trick in the book but ultimately, he cannot save him. Will’s life will be in his own hands, and tributes only win when they desperately want to.
Jonathan has never brought a tribute home. How on earth is he supposed to bring Will home?
He wants to scream, he wants to cry and punch the walls until his knuckles turn black and red. He wants to smoke until his lungs are covered in soot. He wants to get so high he passes out, and when he wakes up he realises this is all nothing but a bad dream.
Jonathan doesn’t remember sitting down, but at some point he’s slumped into one of the hard plastic chairs bolted to the floor, elbows on his knees, hands laced together so tightly his fingers ache.
The room is too clean, too bright, all pale walls and humming lights, like the Capitol scrubbed away anything human on purpose. The walls were an antiseptic white, so bright it made his eyes ache. The fluorescent lights hummed constantly, like a reminder of the President’s watchful presence, vibrating just below the threshold of comfort. The chairs were bolted to the floor, cold against his thighs, and the air smelled faintly of sanitizer and despair. It was a waiting room for grief, and every second stretched longer than the last.
Their mother moves back and forth between them, like if she keeps moving, the world won’t catch up. She smooths Will’s hair with trembling fingers, cups his cheeks, presses her forehead to his. She smells like cigarette smoke and cheap soap and home, and Jonathan feels something crack open in his chest.
“Both of my boys are the strongest people ever, okay?” She says, trying to sound less panicked now. “Once Will survives, we’ll have a whole family of tributes, yeah? Isn’t that cool?”
Will nods, biting his lip. His eyes are red-rimmed, lashes clumped together. Jonathan can tell he’s trying so hard not to cry, like crying would make this real.
Jonathan wants to say No! It’s not cool actually. The fact that his entire family had to suffer through this whole bullshit is not cool! And he wants to just grab both their hands and dash out of the building and hide into the woods forever. But there are guards outside, and they would never make it out of District 12 alive. People have tried. People have died.
“Once Will survives,” Jonathan agrees, and the word tastes wrong. He stands, crosses the room in two steps, and rests a hand on Will’s shoulder. He can feel how tense he is, wound tight like a spring.
Will finally sobs then, a soft, broken sound slipping out of him as he twists in his chair and buries his face in Jonathan’s jacket. Jonathan wraps his arms around him automatically, pulling him close, pressing his chin into Will’s hair.
“I don’t want to go,” Will whispers. “Jon, I don’t- I can’t-”
“I know,” Jonathan murmurs, over and over, like a prayer that’s lost all meaning. “I know, I know, I know.” His throat burns. His hands shake. He forces them to be steady anyway. He has to be steady. He’s always been steady. It was his job.
Joyce watches them, arms wrapped around herself, tears slipping down her face unchecked. She looks older than Jonathan remembers. Smaller, somehow. Like the Games have been carving pieces out of her for decades and there’s barely anything left to take.
“Listen to your brother,” she says softly, when Will pulls back just enough to breathe. “Jonathan knows how to survive. He knows what to do.”
Jonathan flinches.
Does he? He knows all the tricks and he knows how to kill and how to run and how to not starve to death. But does he know how to live?
He pulls back, crouching in front of Will so they’re eye to eye. He takes Will’s hands in his, thumbs brushing over his knuckles, cold and trembling, and he realized how small his brother’s hands still were. Will leaned against him, barely moving, yet every tiny shiver that ran through his frame sent a stab of fear through Jonathan. His own chest ached with the memory of all the times he had failed to protect him, all the sleepless nights, all the whispers of danger that had always come too late. He opens his mouth to speak.
“Just remember,” Joyce interrupts his thoughts, crouching next to Will now. “Always watch the ground. Step lightly. Don’t let them hear you before you see them. Trees, rocks, shadows… they’re your friends, understand? You hide if you need to. You run if you can. You’re good at that stuff. Remember hide and seek when you were small? It’s exactly like that. You always win. Do you remember? It’s because you’re smart.”
Jonathan wants to cut her off, wants to tell her he’ll teach Will all those things, and she doesn’t have to worry. But he knows, she’s just trying her best, they all are.
“And food! You can’t just eat whatever- look for the things that won’t make you sick. Jonathan will teach you. And water, you always need water. If you get thirsty, don’t wait. I know you forget. Don’t let it go too long.”
“And people, Will,” she continued, voice cracking. “Not everyone is… what they seem. I know people will smile, they will pretend to be nice, okay? And then, bam! They stab you in the back. You don’t trust anyone too fast. Even if they say they’ll help, even if it looks like you can believe them.”
She cupped his face, forcing Will to look at her. Her eyes were wide and bright, red from crying, but there was fire in them, a fierce determination that has always made Jonathan’s chest ache. “You have your brother. You have yourself. You have your instincts. Use them. Don’t let the Capitol trick you, Will. You’re strong, you’re clever, you’re my boy. And you survive. No excuses. Promise me you will survive.”
Will nods, eyes wide, soaking in every word like it might be the difference between life and death. It does.
“And you remember,” she continues, voice cracking despite his efforts, “that none of this is your fault. Not me. Not Jon. Not-” Not the people Jonathan killed. Not the people I killed. She swallows hard. “None of it.”
Will’s lips tremble. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.
Jonathan feels something ugly and sharp rise in his chest. “Don’t,” he says immediately, fiercer than he means to, squeezing his hand a little too hard. He softens his tone. “Don’t you ever be sorry for existing, okay? You hear me?”
Will shakes his head, tears spilling over. “You just wanted to save me,” he cries. “You had to do horrible things because you wanted to save me, and for what? For me to die again?”
“You’re not going to die, Will,” Joyce sniffs, grabbing him desperately. “You’re strong. I promise. You’ll make it.”
A sharp knock sounds at the door.
The Peacekeeper doesn’t look at them when he opens it. “Time,” he says flatly.
Joyce moves first, pulling Will into her arms, holding him like she can fuse him to her body if she tries hard enough. Jonathan looks away, jaw clenched, because if he watches too closely he might do something stupid.
“I love you,” Joyce whispers into Will’s hair. “I love you so much. You remember who you are. You are Will Byers, and you have survived so much already, you will survive the hunger games as well, okay? I love you. I love you so much baby.”
“I love you, Mom,” Will says, voice muffled.
“Watch out for him,” Joyce says quietly, looking at Jonathan now.
Jonathan swallows. “Always,” he replies, because there has never been another answer.
He steps forward, wrapping an arm around Will’s shoulders, pulling him close to his side. Will leans into him immediately, like instinct, like muscle memory. Jonathan feels the weight of him, the warmth, the way his brother still fits under his arm just right, and it nearly undoes him.
Joyce presses her hands together, like she’s holding herself upright by sheer will. “I’ll be watching,” she says, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite work. “I’ll be with you, both of you. Every day.”
Jonathan nods, unable to speak.
Will lifts one hand in a small, shaky wave. “Bye, Mom.”
Jonathan squeezes him closer and adds softly, “We love you.”
Joyce breaks then, covering her mouth as they turn away, and Jonathan had to fight every muscle in his body to not turn around and hold her.
Jonathan stepped forward, hand on Will’s shoulder, guiding him through the narrow hallway. The walls were cold and unfeeling, a stark contrast to the warmth of home that still clung faintly to Will’s clothes. Every step echoed, hollow and mocking, as if the building itself knew what was coming. Outside, the wind carried the faint scent of coal smoke from the district, a reminder of the life they were leaving behind. Jonathan tightened his grip slightly. He had no illusions- this wasn’t about bravery or skill, this was about survival, and survival sometimes meant making impossible choices no one sane could possibly make.
Will followed, small and tense, leaning slightly on Jonathan’s side like he always had when danger lurked, even if the danger now was something neither of them could outrun. The crowd beyond the station gates was a muted blur to him, faces and colors indistinct, but Jonathan could feel their stares, hungry and cruel. He kept his eyes forward, focusing on the path, the train, the next step, because if he faltered, Will would too.
The Peacekeeper hands him a tablet as they step toward the door, the list of tributes this year. He never paid them much of a thought, all of them nothing but names to him, and Jonathan barely registers the cool weight of it in his hand until his eyes burn at a familiar last name, breath hitching sharply.
Jonathan Byers does not know Nancy Wheeler that well. But they were both new mentors, so when they needed company during those weeks of torture every year, they make do despite their differences, holding hands and comforting each other as they watched their tributes die one after another.
So you really couldn’t blame him when his heart sinks at the name on his screen.
DISTRICT ONE
MICHAEL WHEELER
Mike Wheeler walks toward the train like he’s walking into another routine drill. He walks, as if he’s walking to school, like it’s just another day for him, and he’s going to come back in a few hours with a cold, boring home waiting for him. There’s a tightness in his jaw, a faint pull of his shoulders, but otherwise… nothing. He’s been trained for this, every maneuver, every strategy, every trick the Capitol thinks will surprise him has already been drilled into muscle memory. He didn’t think he’d have to use these skills, but it is what it is.
The morning air clung to them, hot and sticky, carrying the distant hum of the crowd and the faint metallic tang of the train tracks. Mike’s boots made soft thuds on the concrete, methodical, detached, as if he were already inside the arena. Nancy’s fingers brushed against his sleeve, and he didn’t flinch, but he knew the pressure was radiating in her, pulling at her chest like it might tear her in two.
Nancy walks beside him, trying to meet his eyes, trying to give him words that might anchor him to hope. “Mike… you have to stay alive,” she says, voice sharp, almost frantic. “You can do this. You know how to-”
Mike’s lips twitch, a faint half-smile he doesn’t bother suppressing. “I know,” he says flatly, almost bored. He’s not mocking her, he would never, he’s simply stating a fact. He knows how to survive. He’s been groomed for it. And maybe that’s worse than being scared: he’s so used to this that there’s no room left for fear to really sting.
Nancy’s hand hovers near his arm, hesitant but desperate. “Don’t… don’t just go through the motions, Mike. I know you always act like you don’t care but you have to fight. You have to-”
“I will, Nance, I’ll try, don’t worry,” he says, and his voice carries the same emptiness that life has carried for him lately.
The Games are not exciting, not terrifying, not really, not to him at least, they’re just something he exists for now. He doesn’t want to die, sure, but living in such a boring, repetitive world doesn’t mean much to him anyways. Either way, the outcome won’t surprise him.
The train awaits, humming and gleaming, an iron cage dressed as transport. Mike steps aboard without hesitation, scanning the interior like he’s already mapped it in his mind.
Nancy follows, placing a hand lightly on his shoulder, gripping just enough to transmit her anxiety. “Please… come back to me alive,” she whispers, eyes wide. “I can’t lose you, not like this. Not ever.”
Mike nods, melting into her touch for the first time in what seemed like lifetimes. He loves his sister, he really does, but it doesn’t change anything. He doesn’t comfort her, he can’t comfort her. He’s not cruel, he’s just… numb. Survival is mechanical. Death is mechanical. Fear is mechanical.
He’ll try to come home, of course he will. But that’s that, trying. He can’t guarantee he’ll live, and he’s okay with that.
The train jolts forward. The districts slip by in a blurred wash of gray and green. Mike leans back in his seat, letting the hum of the engine fill the emptiness in his chest. Nancy watches him, silent now, praying and probably planning strategies in that intelligent brain of hers.
Mike just looks at the scenery as he travels towards a place even hell couldn’t compare.