Chapter Text
When Oliver wakes early in the morning, he spends thirty minutes lying still in bed, staring at his ceiling blankly, listening to the sound of the crashing waves.
The salty scent of the ocean and dead seaweed wafts in through the open window. Somewhere in the distance, a flock of seagulls screech in unison, and it sounds like the screams of people dying. Oliver is sure his mother would interpret that as a bad omen.
Every year since he became eligible for the Hunger Games, his mornings usually start like this, with him paralysed by dread, sinking into his bed. It gnaws on him like a rabid animal, its teeth sinking deeper into his skin.
Logically, he knows that there's a very small chance that his name will get picked. He has only seven entries. There's kids out here with more than twenty. By all means, the odds are, decidedly, in his favour and yet, that does little to reassure him.
But this is the last year he'll ever have to enter his name, and then he'll age out. Just this year.
His mother knocks on his door and his stomach sinks.
“Oliver, get up. It's time for breakfast,” she tells him. Her voice is quiet, even more than it usually is.
Oliver stares at the door as he listens to the sound of her retreating footsteps, wishing he could run away, but ultimately, he gets up.
Just get through today, he tells himself. You'll be safe once it’s done.
He picks up his towel and throws it over his shoulder. He drags himself to the kitchen to take water his mother boiled for his bath, and he finds her stock still in front of the stove, her back to him.
She's wearing a faded green dress with white stripes, which she saves every year for reaping day. It's the same one she wore as a girl when she still had to enter her name in the draw.
When Oliver asked her why she always wears that dress, she told him it was for luck. Every year she wore that dress, her name was never drawn. She hoped the luck would pass over to him if she continued the tradition.
“Morning, Mama,” he says to her.
Her shoulders tense only slightly, but she only hums in reply as if hearing his voice hasn't unsettled her.
“Your water is already in the bathroom. Bathe quickly,” she says. Her voice may be quiet, but it remains stern and commanding. She never asks him to do things, she simply orders him and expects him to obey. He knows better than not to.
Oliver takes his bath quickly, as ordered, and goes back to his room to get dressed.
He wears a pair of loose grey pants that cinch at his waist and a white collared shirt that belonged to his father when he was younger. The collar has weathered with years of careful washing, but it remains presentable enough.
He smooths down the front of the shirt out of habit to steady himself. District Four is known for pumping out Careers most of the time, along with One and Two, but in the past four years or so, there haven't been any from Four.
When he stands in front of the mirror, he knows he doesn't look like much. If Oliver's name does get drawn, and no one volunteers in his place, he knows what people will think. He's not tall, not strong nor is he exceptionally beautiful. He's of average height. He's scrawny and weak. He's got crooked teeth, floppy black hair, dull brown eyes and a scar on his left cheekbone gained from a fishing accident when he was ten. The only thing he's got going for him is that he can swim swiftly, run fast and think on his feet. He's smart, but he doubts that would get him very far in the Arena.
Don't think about it, he admonishes himself. Don't think about it.
He smooths down his shirt again. He joins his mother in the kitchen for breakfast.
The meal is simple, but delicious all the same. Rice, stewed fish, seaweed soup and rolls of bread. On normal days, they usually have seaweed bread and hot tea for breakfast, but ever since Oliver turned twelve, his mother made a point to make something special on the morning of Reaping Day just in case his name got drawn.
Oliver eats despite the protests of his stomach. It's queasy, but he knows the hunger will make it worse so he forces the food down his throat. His mother barely touches her own food. She just takes occasional sips of her tea and picks disinterestedly at the rice.
Oliver gently reaches out to touch the top of her hand. “Mama,” he calls, and she jolts out of whatever thought she was trapper in. “You need to eat. You've barely touched your food.”
When she looks at him, her eyes are pained, tightened at the corners. She sighs, reaching for her tea cup with her other hand.
“The last year is always the worst,” she says. “You're always thinking that you’ll make it out, because you haven't been picked all those other years but then–”
She pauses, choking up on emotion.
Oliver knows what she means. During her last year, before she aged out, her name got drawn from the bowl. And she would have gone, too, if her twin sister hadn't volunteered to go in her place. Then her sister died, and she was left carrying that guilt for the rest of her life.
The year she got reaped is, incidentally, also the year she didn't wear the green dress because it disappeared in the washing. It solidified her belief of that particular piece of clothing being good luck.
The hand holding the teacup trembles as she brings it up to her lips to take a sip. Oliver slips his hand underneath hers and grips it tightly, reassuringly.
“It's going to be okay, Mama,” he tells her, his voice gentle. “I only have seven entries this year. There's other kids with tens of entries. The chances of my name getting picked are slim to none. And you've got your dress on. You shouldn't worry.”
His mother shakes her head. “I know, I know, but…I can't help but worry. Slim or not, I would worry less if the chances were non-existent.
She's saying exactly what he's thinking, and the teeth sink in another inch. He doesn’t let it show, for her benefit.
“It'll be over soon, Mama. Don't worry yourself sick. You need to eat,” he coaxes her.
She grips his hand back, just as tightly, as if to reassure herself that Oliver is still there. Then she nods, relenting. She eats, forcing herself to, just like Oliver does.
It'll be over soon, Oliver thinks as he goes back to his meal. Just this year and it'll be over soon.
The teeth sink in deeper, and he convinces himself that it's all in his head.
Up on the stage, before the Justice Building, District Four's living victors are lined up, seated in chairs of velvet. Mags Flanagan, winner of the 11th Games, is first as the eldest living victor. Her gray hair is loose around her shoulders, and despite her age, she sits up with her back straight, supported by the cane in front of her legs. Like she does so every year, Mags sweeps her saddened eyes across the crowd of children waiting to be reaped, as if trying to memorise each and everyone of their faces. When he was younger, Mags used to pass through their street on her way to the Victor's Village and give candy to any kids she found on the way. Most kids on that side of town used to call her Nana Mags just for that, Oliver included.
Next to her is Killian Cresta, the Victor of the 45th Games that took the life of Oliver's aunt. His face is weathered, making him look far older than his forty-two years. He could have been Oliver's uncle because he was supposed to marry Kira the following year once they both turned eighteen, but Killian got reaped and Kira volunteered to save her sister.
Next to Killian is Alana Reef, winner of the 63rd Games, leaning into her chair like she wishes she could sink into it and disappear. She's wearing sunglasses, an impractical choice for this time of day. Oliver suspects she has them on to help dampen the effects of her hangover. She drinks a lot. In fact, he saw her stumble a little as she climbed up the stage.
And then there's Finnick Odair, the youngest ever victor in District Four's history, who won his games just five years ago when he was fourteen. Most people don't know much about Finnick because he never stayed in the District long enough. Oliver was good friends with him once, but even he barely knows anything about Finnick anymore considering the last time they ever spoke properly was the day he was shipped off to the Capitol for his Games.
The mayor comes up to the stage first and reads the speech, a reminder of why the games came into being, how many there have been until today, marking the 69th games this year. The Capitol escort, Janus Soddenberry, comes up next.
Her outfit and makeup is all blues and greens, as if it's a representation of the District she's in charge of. The dress is ruffled, shimmering like scales under the glare of the sun, and it has tiny sea shells dangling from the hem of the skirt. She smiles at the crowd sagely, her delicate gloved hands clasped to her front elegantly.
“Welcome, all! Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favour,” she says, her gentle voice thick with the standard Capitol accent.
As always, she starts with the girls. While she dips her hand into the bowl containing the names, a couple of girls in the line up whisper to each other. Oliver catches the material on the side of his pants tightly in his hands. He gulps and waits.
Janus flips the card open and announces the name written on it.
“Clara Tallow,” she says into the microphone.
Oliver knows who that is. He's pretty sure everyone in the district knows who she is.
Clara Tallow, first born daughter of Sierra and Lyle Tallow, one of the richer families in the district. Oliver shares most of his classes with her at the school, where she runs among the more popular crowd.
As she walks onto the stage, there's murmurs of approval and loud applause. Clara is the poster image of what people expect a Career to be. She's tall, strong, confident, beautiful with green yes and flowing blonde hair and a charming smile to boot.
When she stands next to Janus on the stage, she smiles like she has already won the games. Most likely, she will.
“Oh, beautiful, absolutely beautiful! We have a strong contender for the Victor's crown with our girl here. Excellent,” Janus coos, and Clara positively preens, waving a hand towards the crowd, her expression all bashful. “Now. Onto the gentlemen.”
Here it goes, Oliver thinks as Janus dips her hand into the bowl, his fists clenching. Here it goes.
Janus pulls out a card, and Oliver holds his breath.
“And the male tribute is…” says Janus as she flips the card open.
“Oliver Kawamoto.”
At first, Oliver thinks he has misheard, and he freezes in place, replaying the moment in his mind.
But every head in the square slowly turns to look at him is enough proof. His name really has been drawn.
The boys part slowly like the sea for him. Their faces are painted with either pity or relief. Relief that it's not them. Others scoff, disdain written all over their faces, already deciding that he was going to bring disgrace to their District's good name.
Oliver's first thought as he begins to walk to the stage is of his mother. He can hear whispers from the other people that tell him they're thinking the same thing he is.
“Oh, God. Poor Saori-”
“First her sister, now her son-”
“Didn't she lose her husband a few years back, too–”
“What bad luck that poor woman has-”
And then, of course there's the whispers about him.
“Poor guy won't make it-”
“Eighteen? And he's that small-?”
“I don't think I've ever heard him speak in class-”
“He's smart though, isn't he? Maybe that could help him-”
“Maybe someone should volunteer in his place. He's going to embarrass us-”
“Didn't you hear? Parents have been telling their kids not to volunteer anymore-”
-so on and so forth.
His trek to the stage feels like it takes a million years. His fists are still clenched around the fabric of his pants.
Mama, I'm so sorry, he thinks. I'm so, so sorry.
When he stands on the stage, Janus smiles at him like one would smile at a particularly dim person, and then turns to the crowd. “Any volunteers for this one?”
The fact that she asks that when she didn't do the same thing for Clara is proof that he's already been written off as dead, and it stings quite a bit. He can't blame them for thinking that way. He's not impressive. Tributes like him are the ones who usually die first in the arena.
Predictably, no one volunteers for him. He locks eyes with his mother from her place in the crowd of adults. Her head is held high and her face is stony, refusing to put on a show for the Capitol, but even from here, Oliver can see the tremble in her chin, the heartbreak in her eyes. One of the other mothers standing next to her holds her hands as she whispers condolences to her, a saddened look on her face.
Oliver quickly looks down when a painful lump forms in his throat.
“Well, then. There we have it,” Janus announces finally. “Shake hands, dear tributes.”
Oliver swallows and slowly turns to Clara. She's already facing him, her hand outstretched and a friendly smile on her face, like they're just two friends being introduced to each other and not two kids who will pitted against each other in a death match.
Oliver takes her hand, hoping that his face is stoic enough to fool everyone that he's not affected by this.
Clara's grip is strong, he notices. Her posture is straight but she puts more weight on her left side, her dominant side, likely. She has the face and personality that could charm thousands, so she'll have no problem getting sponsors. It's likely she'll team up with the Career pack, if there will be one this year. She will fit right in with them. Oliver bets that their current mentors will focus more on her because she has a higher chance of winning than he does. He saw the looks on their faces when he climbed up the stage. Mags, saddened. Killian, watching him as if he could see the ghost of Kira in him. Alana, giggling drunkenly behind her hands. Finnick, almost disappointed–whether it's Oliver or the draw he's disappointed in remains to be seen. He's going to be on his own if he doesn't figure out a way to gain their faith.
As their hands shake, Oliver makes his decision.
It's fine if people here think he doesn't have a chance. He has to prove his worth to the mentors first and foremost before worrying about anyone else because mentors with faith in him means access to sponsors, and sponsors are key to his survival. In fact, he can use his unassuming stature to his advantage. No one will target him if he doesn't show himself as a threat before the arena. If he does this, the most he would worry about is the Gamemakers tricks, starvation and thirst.
The mayor comes forward again, interrupting his train of thought. He reads the Treaty of Treason monotonously, the anthem plays and the Peacekeepers take them into the Justice Building once it's over.
When his mother comes to see him, he almost wishes she hadn't.
“Don't give up hope yet. I can still win,” he declares, taking her hands into his when she stands still without doing anything for too long. “I won't leave you.”
His mother's eyes fill with tears, but they don't fall. “Oliver. That's not what I'm worried about,” she says.
Startled, Oliver reels back. “What?” He breathes. He's always thought that her biggest fear was that he would die in the arena if he ever got reaped. That's probably every parent’s worst fear. What else could she be afraid of if not this?
His mother shakes her head. “You are my son, Oliver. I know you, inside and out. I know how your mind works. You are smart and you have the potential to be absolutely ruthless when need be. Winning the Games won't be a problem, but the aftermath-”
She almost chokes on her words. “It's going to change you. It will break you. You've seen what happened to Killian, Alana, Mags. And Finnick–that poor boy–you two used to be so close. He was so young. You're still so young. You're my baby. My only one. I don't know what I would do if the same happened to you."
Oliver blinks. “Are you telling me that I shouldn't win?”
His mother shakes her head quickly, her tears finally falling, and she takes her face between her hands. “No, baby. Of course not. I'm just afraid. Do what you have to do, and we'll figure out the rest later. I don't know how, but we will.”
She draws him down to her height and kisses his forehead, then pulls him into her arms, holding onto him tightly like this is the last chance she'll ever get to do that.
Oliver hugs her just as tightly. Maybe the so-called good luck of her dress would rub off on him.
“Promise me one thing,” she says. “Promise me you will hold on to your humanity.”
Oliver hesitates. He can't promise her that. The Arenas are usually designed in such a specific way that losing one's humanity is the only way to survive. “Mama,” he replies, voice cracking just the slightest bit. “You know I can't.”
His mother backs up and holds his face again, her gaze imploring, pleading. “You can try, Oliver. I don't want to lose you.”
The Peacekeepers barge in. “Time's up,” one of them announces while the others file in to grab his mother.
“I promise!” Oliver tells her quickly as she's dragged out.
Her eyes are the last thing he sees before the door shuts behind her.
Surprisingly, Oliver gets more visitors after that. Greg and Andrea from school, Helena the sweet shop owner he used to buy candy from when he was younger, Tabby and her two kids, both whom he used to babysit, Idris from two houses down on their street. Unlike his mother, they all speak to him like he's already dead. Their eyes are sad, almost mournful.
Helena sniffles as she presses a pack of salt water taffy in his hand, Greg and Andrea smile and tell him that they'll be rooting for him but he can see the doubt in their eyes, Tabby's kids hug him and burst out crying, and Idris just punches his shoulders playfully, tears in his eyes and a wobbly smile on his face. Oliver is sixty-percent sure that Idris has romantic feelings for him and he's actually surprised when the boy doesn't mention it.
Oliver wonders how many people went to see Clara. He wonders whether they mourn her or express their confidence that she would bring the crown home. He can't help but feel somewhat bitter about it.
He starts a catalogue in his head, specifically for Clara Tallow, of her strengths and weaknesses.
When Oliver boards the train, Clara tries speaking to him, like he's a potential friend and not the competition.
“Oliver, right?” She says, her hand stuck out and a bright smile on her face. “I'm Clara, obviously. Nice to officially meet you.”
Oliver just gives her a confused look as he passes her by without replying, and instead of finding offense in his dismissive demeanour, she just laughs.
She must be already assessing him for weakness, like he is, but she expertly disguises it as an attempt at camaraderie. That's likely her strategy and it would work because aside from the Careers, most of the other tributes are going to be scared out of their minds. A friendly, beautiful face, like Clara's, would bring them some comfort.
Oliver has to give it to her, it's a solid plan and it might just work. If he had the same social capabilities as her, he would have done the same.
He heads straight for the dining car. He heard someone mentioning that's where the T.V is. It's around this time that the Capitol begins broadcasting a recap of the reaping ceremonies from various Districts and Oliver needs to start assessing the rest of the competition as soon as possible.
The dining car is as lavish as the rest of this train, piled high with fancy utensils, furniture and upholstery. The T.V is high up on the wall above the entrance to the next car. Oliver finds a booth that gives a direct view of the T.V and sits himself in it. He's the only one there, but the broadcast is already starting. Caesar Flickerman's hair is green this year, like the colour of moss. Besides him in the studio, Claudius Templesmith sports his typical platinum blonde hair.
“...interesting tributes this year, folks,” Caesar says, a wide smile on his face. He chuckles. “And yes, I know I say that every year, and it's always with good reason! All you good people will just have to take my word for it, isn't that right, Claudius?”
Claudius nods agreeably. “Indeed, Caesar. We've received word that the 69th Hunger Games tribute pool is filled with noteworthy contenders. I think we can safely say that this year's Games will have every single person in Panem on the edge of their seats.”
The hosts exchange smiles. “Alright, then,” Caesar says. “Let's see what the districts have to offer us this year.”
The screen shifts from the two hosts in their studio and cuts to the stage in District One, as always.
The Escort is already up there, pick up a card from the girls’ bowl. He opens the card to read the name. “Tara Mad-”
Before he even finishes reading the name, a hand shoots up from the crowd of girls. “I volunteer!”
The girl immediately starts for the stage before anyone else can volunteer. Her head is held high as she walks onto the stage, a cocky grin on her face and her singular braid swishing elegantly behind her back.
“What's your name, dear? ” The escort asks.
The girl stands in front of the microphone, her eyes sweeping over the crowd like she thinks they're all beneath her. “My name is Andromeda Storm,” she says, her voice clear and steady. “And I'm going to win the 69th Hunger Games.”
The crowd erupts into cheer almost violently. The people scream and shout her name and Andromeda revels in it. She raises her fist in the air with the confidence of someone who has already won.
Then it's the boys’ turn. “Luke Ga-”
“I volunteer as tribute!”
A hulking figure steps out of the crowd and practically runs to the stage, both his hands held up high like he’s running a victory lap.
He's tall and holds himself up with all the arrogance in the world. This boy introduces himself. “Indigo Skyler,” he booms into the microphone. “And I'll be the one to bring the crown home!”
The District One residents burst into thundering applause while the two tributes face each other. They don't even shake hands, just size each other up intensely.
As the screen switches back to the cameras in the studio, Oliver's chest fills with dread. This is already off to a bad start.
“This already is off to a great start!” Caesar laughs. “District One opens up with a bang, as usual!”
“Now, Caesar, is it just me or did those two seem to have some kind of history?” Claudius questions cheekily.
“Oh, it's not just you, Claudius. It could be history, or perhaps it's just a little bit of friendly competition,” Caesar replies. “Whatever the case, there's a lot of tension going on there.”
Claudius chuckles. “Well, then folks. Keep watching to find out. Now, onto District Two.”
The volunteers from District Two are numerous. From the girls’ side alone, Oliver counts about fourteen hands, and from the boys, almost twenty.
The girl who makes the final cut is a tiny thing but she carries herself like her presence takes up the space of the entire square. Lethal eyes, lips painted blood-red. She doesn't smile or grin, rather, she laughs menacingly, clutching the microphone like a weapon. “Ruby Louise!” She announces, like her mere name is a promise of death and the crowd stomps their feet rhythmically to applaud her.
The boy who makes the final cut is tall and solemn. He doesn’t smile or laugh. He just leans into the microphone to say his name. “Mars Prior”
He receives the same treatment as Ruby from the crowd.
And so on it goes.
District Three produces Titania Sound, a tall, serious, somewhat athletic girl, and Mason Sleeve, an equally tall, brown haired boy.
District Four, of course, is Clara and Oliver.
“Well, Caesar, I can't say I'd be pleased to be in young Oliver's shoes,” Claudius comments.
Caesar agrees with him. “I wouldn't either, Claudius. Clara Tallow is obviously a bright young thing, definitely Career material. And Oliver Kawamoto–well, it couldn't be more obvious that he's the type that goes down during the Bloodbath.”
“What a contrast from District Four this year, ladies and gentlemen.”
Oliver huffs, but he doesn't say anything. He intertwines his fingers beneath the table and continued watching.
From District Five, they get Melody Lane, a sharp looking girl with frizzy hair and her brother, River Lane who looks like an almost exact copy of her, but with freckles.
From District Six, Harriet Flowers and Jonathan Jackson.
From District Seven, Sammy Coulson and Hatchet Flint.
District Eight, Suzanne Thorne and Kristoff Weatherbee.
District Nine, Krystal Road– she volunteered for her physically disabled sister–and Livingstone Davis.
District Ten, Tamlyn Pike and Tempest Grey.
District Eleven, Wren Wicket and Briar Stone.
District Twelve, Clairanne Hawthorne and Saffron Fairlock.
Most of these tributes seem like formidable threats at first glance, even the ones from the outlying Districts. Oliver isn't quick to write off the non-threatening looking ones, either. After all, he's in the same category as them. So, he quietly catalogues all of those names in his mind, leaving ample space for their strengths and weaknesses.
“You've been staring at this screen so long I'm surprised your eyes haven't popped out yet.”
Oliver startles at the sudden intrusion, his hands flying out instinctively to grab the front of Clara Tallow's fancy, embroidered blouse.
For one moment, she seems surprised but she quickly recovers and holds up her hands in mock surrender. “Easy there, sunshine,” she says, grinning. “We're not in the arena yet.”
Oliver scowls at her, releasing her shirt once he registers that he's not in any immediate danger. Ever since his name got drawn, his mind and body entered survival mode. He used to get bullied a lot when he was younger, so the transition to this state was almost seamless.
“Don't ever do that again,” he tells her, the warning quiet but clear in his voice.
Clara snorts. “What, sneak up on you? I was just testing your awareness of your surroundings but you failed spectacularly. I've been next to you for ten minutes now. If we're going to be allies, you really need to step up your game.”
Oliver looks at her like she's grown a second head. “Where did you get the idea that we're going to be allies?”
Clara blinks, then she makes an ‘obviously’ gesture with her hands. “District Four partners always team up. You know this.”
Oliver stares at her for a long time.
“Are you making fun of me?” He asks. “If you're trying to play some kind of long game here, Clara, it won't work. Save that energy for the other tributes.”
For a moment, Clara looks stricken. “Are you being serious?”
Oliver tilts his head. “Are you? Look, you've trained in the Academy, so obviously you'll be joining the Career Pack. You have to know there's no way they'll let me join, so I really don't understand what you're trying to accomplish here.”
Clara rolls her eyes. “I'm trying to get an ally that won't try and stab me in the back the second I close my eyes to sleep. I mean, did you even see those Careers? Most of them look like psychos. Especially the girls. If I team up with them I need someone to watch my back in case things go south.”
Oliver scans her face again. She seems genuine, but there’s no way he's buying that. “How sure are you that I won't stab you while you sleep?”
Clara smiles at him like he's particularly dim. “Because, Oliver, we've been in the same class for practically our whole lives and I'd like to think that I can trust you a whole lot more than a squad of Capitol kiss-asses.”
Oliver regards her silently for a moment and despite the heavy sarcasm dripping from her voice, he can tell that she's being sincere. But Oliver is, by nature, a deeply mistrusting person so he doesn't accept her offer right away.
So, he hums lightly. “I suppose,” he replies shortly, offering nothing more.
Clara sighs, exasperated. “Well, at least think about it. We're District Four. We need to stick together and watch each other's backs so at least one of us wins.”
Oliver gestures at the T.V with his chin. “What did you think of them?”
Clara brightens, taking this as a sign of progress. “Like I said, most of them seem totally insane, especially the Careers. I'm all for teaming up with them, but they've clearly go a couple of screws loose up here.”
Oliver doesn't reply. His eyes drift to the window, watching the palm trees and mountains flitting past the train. “We'll get more information about them soon. They seem like the type to do a lot of posturing to intimidate people they deem lesser than them. With people like that, it's easy to figure out their tells, strengths, weaknesses.”
“Really?” Clara asks. She sounds both fascinated and amused–and a little bit too eager. “How, exactly?”
Oliver glances at her from the corners of his eyes. “I would appreciate it if you left me alone, Clara.”
Clara smiles again, and it's smug. She slides out of the booth, winking. “Alright, alright. You keep your secrets to yourself, Seabrook. You're gonna have to spill sooner or later though if this alliance thing is going to work out."
“That's assuming there will be an alliance in the first place,” Oliver retorts, his gaze back to the window.
“Trust me, Oliver. There will be an alliance,” Clara says, and there's not a trace of doubt in her voice.
Oliver hears her footsteps retreat as she exits the car. They're light, almost completely silent. She must be very adept at stealth which will undoubtedly come in handy in the arena. He still hasn’t figured out her tells, which must mean she hasn't had a reason to lie yet. That or she's just very good at pretending.
He thinks about the kind of person Clara Tallow was back in the district. She attended both the regular school and the Training Academy. You could always see her chatting and laughing with different people outside of classes, but she kept her circle of close friends very small. It's one of the main reasons Oliver finds it hard to trust her. He's observed her enough to come to the conclusion that she must have two different personas, and while he can understand the necessity of that, he doubts trusting a person that's so two-faced in a match of death would be wise.
The events of the day start to catch up with him, making him weary. He leans his forehead against the window and closes his eyes for a nap.