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He’d played the game.
He’d lost.
Leo stands upon the stage, head high and proud, that triumphant grin never wavering. If he hadn’t felt the way that Leo shook when they’d grabbed him and tried to hold him back while they squabbled over who was going to be the one to climb the steps to the stage this year, he never would have known how terrified his brother is. Donnie sits where he’d landed when Leo had thrown him to the ground, staring numbly towards the stage. Leo stares back. Meets his eyes. Does that little wrinkle of his nose that’s always meant i’m sorry.
Donnie doesn’t tell him that he forgives him. He sits in the private room in the Justice Hall during their final goodbye and instead runs Leo through the various ways that Tributes have won in the past. There’s been so many Victors, and 23 times as many deaths. Leo knows them all, too. They’d studied the footage together, after all, but he just nods along and lets Donnie ramble until he’s out of breath, and then Leo holds his hand and lets him hide his face in his shoulder and sob for their remaining time together.
The Peacekeepers have to drag him out, hands twisted in his hair, fingers bruising his arms, while Leo watches silently. Donnie understands why he won’t speak out. Even with two past victors in their family, any sign of rebellion from Leo now will mean punishment for the rest of them.
Raph removes him from the Peacekeepers’ grip when Donnie fights and hisses and bites to get back to Leo and they won’t let go on their own. His mass alone is enough to make them back down, but it’s his calm demeanor and that quiet air of authority he’s always carried over himself like a funeral shroud that keeps them from retaliating. He keeps a firm hand on Donnie’s shoulder, and he cradles Mikey close with his other arm. His expression is firm. Determined.
“I’m going with him. Don’t worry, guys. Raph ain’t gonna let him get hurt.”
Mikey buries his face in their big brother’s side to muffle his cries. Donnie stares at the wall and wishes he could feel something besides the burning anger and the frozen terror. It would be nice to remember what hope feels like.
Leo looks stunning during the Chariot Ride. They can all admit it, crowded around the holoscreen, watching with rapt attention for their first glimpse of Leo in days. The stylists had done good this year.
Leo’s long black hair is braided to resemble a net, and beads catch the light and sparkle like fish trapped inside the strands. The deep blue sheen of his costume looks like the sea before a storm, and the gauzy white train that flows behind the chariot is like the foam tipped caps of the tall, dangerous waves their District is known for. The Capitol Citizens cheer when he waves, his smile bright, charm practically leaking from his pores. Leo was always meant for the spotlight. It makes Donnie feel sick.
“Do you think this will be enough to get him sponsors?” April asks, chewing at her nails nervously. Mikey leans his head on her shoulder, watching the holoscreen with wide eyes. Donnie keeps his distance. He wishes their father was here, but he hasn’t left his room since The Reaping.
“He’ll be fine,” Donnie intones, eyes not leaving the screen. He doesn’t want to miss a single moment. His twin’s absence feels like a hole in his chest, and seeing him in the Capitol just rips that wound further. He watches because he deserves that pain.
The next three days they only get glimpses of any of the tributes. Paparazzi shots of them going back and forth from the apartments to the training grounds, and replays of the Reaping and the Chariot Ride. It’s not enough. It will never be enough.
By the time the tribute interviews come around, papa still hasn’t emerged from his room. Mikey has bags beneath his eyes. Donnie hears him crying at night. He wants to invite him into his room so neither of them have to face the silence of their usually shared rooms alone, but it feels wrong. He’s tried so hard to keep himself distant so that something like this wouldn’t hurt. He was supposed to be the one to go, not Leo.
Mikey must hate him for failing.
Leo dazzles during his interview, of course. He’s all smiles and easy jokes, making the host laugh, charming the audience, endearing himself to all but the tributes who watch from the shadows and dream of the fastest ways to kill him. To them, Leo is a threat.
The Game begins. Leo stands upon his platform, eyes narrowed, expression harder than Donnie’s ever seen. Mikey is curled up in Donnie’s lap, shaking all over, his breaths coming hard and fast. April stands behind them both, her arms wrapped around Donnie’s shoulders and hands clutching Mikey’s between them. Her breaths gust along his neck, raising goosebumps. Leo tenses, his eyes darting between the Cornucopia and the arena around him. Trying to decide what to do.
“Run,” Donnie breathes, leaning forward, wrapping Mikey tighter. He knows Leo can’t hear him, but the words tumble out regardless. “You can find a weapon later. Don’t risk the Bloodbath.”
4
Leo’s muscles go taut. His eyes dart between the other Tributes, assessing, planning, picking them apart in a way only he can.
3
Donnie knows the moment he’s made his decision. He recognizes the calm determination that sweeps over his twin, wiping the fear from his face, leaving only resolve behind. April’s quiet no, no, no echoes like a heartbeat in his ear.
2
“Please,” Mikey whimpers. One last, futile attempt. A plea to the universe gone unheard. Donnie wishes Raph was here. He doesn’t know what to do with the quivering mass of terrified little brother in his arms, besides hold him tighter and pray he won’t break him.
1
Leo risks the Bloodbath.
He doesn’t die, not like they had all feared he might, but there is blood on his hands when the dust clears and a haunted expression on his face. He holds twin swords, and he wields them with a confidence and grace that no other Tribute can hope to match. It’s a good start. Impressive. Showy. It gets the attention of sponsors and of the Gamemakers.
It gets the attention of the other Tributes, too.
They come for him over and over again over the next few days, converging on him from different parts of the labyrinth this year’s arena resembles. A group of tributes have teamed up, forming an alliance for one purpose only.
They’re hunting him. Like a pack of rabid dogs defending their dwindling territory, their focus is on taking out the biggest threat in between picking off the weaker stragglers. It’s coordinated, as much as such an attack plan formulated by children can be. Leo is strong, though. He doesn’t go down without a fight. Even on the run, with no sleep and no time to eat, he never lets them see him break.
Donnie hasn’t slept in days. He can’t bear to look away from the holoscreen, even when Leo isn’t on it. The thought of missing even one second, of not being there to see his twin, even if the sight is ugly. He hopes Leo knows he is watching; this is as close to being there for him that Donnie can be. He wishes that he’d been there for him when he was still safe at home, too.
He doesn’t stop even when one of the volunteers from Two gets in a lucky shot. He limps along, sword still clutched in his one remaining hand, the stump of the other one wrapped hastily in the windbreaker he’d been sent into the arena with. He leaves a trail of blood behind him. Donnie’s arm throbs. His fingernails are biting into his palm hard enough to draw blood.
They find him quickly. He’s slowing down. His face is twisted in pain and in terror and in fury. Donnie feels like he’s going to be sick. Mikey takes his hand. Uncurls his fingers. Squishes himself into Donnie’s side as he silently cries. His voice is gone by now, throat torn to shreds after days of sobbing and screaming and cursing the Capitol.
A slash at the back of Leo’s knee grounds him. His brother still fights on, but his movements are lagging. Blood loss and shock have made him slow. Someone gets another lucky swipe in. They lose their head for it, but the gash across Leo’s face is something that will never heal.
Donnie doesn’t look away.
The cannon fires.
It should have been him.
.
(When he shudders awake, gasping and choking on his own garbled sobs and bloodied tongue, it takes him a moment to remember where he is. The silk sheets of the massive bed twist around him, clinging to his sweaty skin, holding tight like chains binding him to the Capitol. Reminding him of his fate inside the arena.
Donnie buries his face in his hands and sobs until the first light of dawn filters through the window. He’s never been happier.)