Chapter Text
I am not the only traveler
Who has not repaid his debt
I've been searching for a trail to follow again
Take me back to the night we met
.
.
Simon has nightmares about the games.
That’s not special, he knows he’s not the only one. He’s met enough of the victors to know that none of them are normal or well-adjusted people. If they haven’t succumbed to an oblivion of drugs and liquor then they are plagued with sleepless nights and guilt that burns like a hot stone through their gut.
And if they aren’t either of those — well then they are just as fucked up but in a much more terrifying way.
It’s been two years since he won— victor of the 72nd Hunger Games, a skinny, scrawny teenager from 3 who had won out of sheer luck of circumstance.
Two years and he still dreams about them at night, sees the faces of the other tributes— all of them children. Sees them die. Over and over.
He was eighteen when he was reaped, so close to aging out of the games like his sister had the year before. He’d been to so many reapings at that point, so careful not to take anything from the Capitol to avoid having his name entered again that it felt somehow like he’d manage to escape having his name called.
That day is a reoccurring scene in his dreams, the tall blond—a kid really— only a year older than Simon at the time, reaching into the slips of paper, hesitating before plucking one from the top.
“Simon Eriksson”
His name, flooding through the crackle of the old microphone. The feedback was all distorted, Simon could fix it, probably any of them standing here could. Just a matter of wires and a practiced hand.
It had been so quiet as the sound settled and slowly he registered the pairs of eyes on him. Simon Eriksson. His name.
No one stepped forward. No one volunteered, why would they? His limbs felt like they were made of lead as he stepped forward, stunned. From somewhere behind him he could hear a choked noise—his mother maybe.
The walk to the stage felt simultaneously like it took a lifetime and all too quick. A funeral march followed by the heavy eyes of his peers standing in straight rigid lines, silent and watching.
Onstage it’s even more oppressive and he feels sick, too stunned to really hear anything that the escort from the Capitol is saying into the microphone.
Sweeping his eyes over the crowd looking for his mother, for Sara, he finds Ayub first and Zero—friends from his dev group. On the other side Rosh is staring ahead, gritting her teeth in anger, movement at her right shows Nyx placing a hand on her shoulder and squeezing.
His friends.
Just this morning they’d been talking about meeting at their spot after sunset, Ayub had managed to smuggle the data for a new augmented reality game they are developing and was going to bring it for them to play. “Testing is an important part of game development” he’d said with a goofy grin when Rosh had scolded him for taking risks.
Guess they will have to meet without him.
At last he finds his mother and sister in the crowd, lined up behind the tributes. He can’t see their faces clearly but before he has a chance to linger he’s pushed along into the wide cavern of the Hall of Justice.
It’s built inside an old factory no longer in use, refitted for ceremonies and administration of the district, dark and dingy like most of 3 itself. Long windows stretch from the floor to the ceiling, tall enough to allow some of the pale light from the smog grey sky to trickle through.
He looks over at the other tribute, Haptica Milo. She’s a few years younger than him, small and ashen from the lack of sunlight in their district. She catches his eye and for a moment he’s afraid she’s going to cry. He has no idea what he will do if she does; he doesn't think he’s capable of comforting her.
The factory is a wide open space so there’s no real privacy when they bring his mother and sister to say goodbye.
His mother clings onto him, and he feels wet spots in his shirt from the tears that she’s trying to hold back.
Sara, however, doesn’t cry. She steps forward and places her hands on his shoulders fixing him with an intense expression.
“You can win this.”
It's such a strange thing to hear come out of her mouth and his expression must reflect this thought because she tightens her grip and gives him a shake.
“You can.”
“What?” Simon thinks about the careers from 1 and 2, the tributes from other districts used to backbreaking physical work that translates into deadly skills in the arena. “Look at me Sara— I spend every day behind a screen how am I supposed to—“
“You’re smart.” She cuts him off, “That’s how 3 wins the games. We use our intelligence.”
Their district doesn’t typically do well in the games but they have a handful of victors, most no longer living at this point. Currently there are 3 still around, they had been standing to the right of the stage when the Capitol escort had called his name.
“But Sara—“ he starts and there’s a flash of panicked anger on her face.
“You have to win, Simon. You have to come back.”
She’s shaking at this point and he understands that this brave face she’s trying to put on is really her shutting down. So he nods and brings her in for a tight hug, feeling her tense slightly before going limp. “Okay.”
He looks over at Haptica, sobbing into her mother’s dress and lies. Lies because he doesn’t want to see her sad.
“Okay, I’ll win.”
Simon often dreams about Haptica. She had stuck to him like glue from the moment they stepped on the train, but halfway into the games they’d been separated and not long after she’d been killed.
Simon hadn’t known how until he was forced to watch the replay— impaled from behind with a spear by one of the careers. He sees her expression of pain and surprise in his nightmares, sees her small body collapse. She’d died quickly after that, a blessing in the arena.
Fourteen years old, gone too soon.
The dreams are more reoccurring and violent leading up to the annual reaping. The faces of the dead tributes morph into those of his friends and family, the group of district children his sister teaches.
Turning to look at the projection of glowing numbers on the wall he sees that it is already four am. A little too early to be awake but sleep is beyond him now so he runs a hand over his face with an exhale, staring at the ceiling before sitting up in his bed.
“Lights.”
At his words his room hums to life, the lamp at the bedside blinking on and the screens over the window rolling up to reveal a glorious sunrise over a sparkling ocean. The light pouring in is warm against his skin and he hears the waves break shore as they curl over a stretch of endless white sand.
“Disable projection.” Simon frowns and the light flickers, disappearing in an instant, swallowing the room in darkness. The sunny ocean view is now replaced with the dark ghostly shadows of the buildings and pale glowing of distant factory lights.
District 3 before sunrise. The view from his apartment, high up enough in the Victor’s Tower to get real sunlight if the sky wasn’t so polluted.
The Victors Tower is where the District 3 victors and their families are taken to live after the games. A skinny gleaming glass building that towers over the square, visible to every citizen of 3 as they make their way to work each day. An eyesore of a building that is odd and unfitting on the skyline. A constant reminder.
Despite having more floors than most buildings that make up the concrete jungle of 3, only a few of them are finished and functional, most of the building is empty and just for show. There are twelve apartments but they've never been fully occupied as their district has only had 7 winners in the history of the games and today only four are living.
Each apartment is the same, two levels, glass and shiny metal, fully equipped with new appliances and tech that controls different aspects of the house. The temperature, the lighting, music, the view from the windows, even the smell and the quality of the air are adjustable.
It’s as close to living in the Capitol someone in 3 can get. A veritable palace compared to the cramped rat infested block apartments where most people here grow up. The residential area of District 3 is squeezed tight with tiny living quarters families stacked on top of each other, thin walls, oppressive heat in the summers and bone chilling in the winters. Luxuries like the kind of tech found in Simon’s new home are things most people have never had.
The irony is not lost on him that all of it is made and produced here in District 3, by the very same hands who will never get to use it.
He’s quiet as he pads down the sleek glass staircase, not bothering to turn on the main lights and following the glow of the linear light installations that come from the kitchen. They are programmed to stay on the lowest setting all night since Simon wakes often and finds the large emptiness of the lower level of the apartment unnerving.
His mother and sister are still sleeping so he’s extra quiet as he hits the bottom step, crossing the sitting room to the kitchen with its long counters glinting in the low light, careful not to bump into anything.
Noise travels easily in the building due to its high ceilings and minimal furniture, even despite the ugly plush rugs that theoretical should absorb some of the sound.
Taking a clementine from the metal basket on the counter, he hoists himself onto the counter and draws his knees up to his chin as he mindlessly begins to peel.
Sara would chide him if she saw it, feet on the counter, bad manners ecetera ecetera, but today of all days he can’t bring it in himself to really care.
His mother must have spent the whole day yesterday cleaning. Every surface is free of clutter, shining and smells of citrus and soap.
She’s always kept things as clean and orderly as possible even when they lived in that tiny dilapidated broom closet after their father had been arrested and never seen again.
“Cleanliness is paramount Simon. They may think of us as livestock, but we should let that be true. We will not live like livestock.”
There’s a burst of juice on his tongue as he takes a segment of the orange fruit in his mouth. Tart and sweet, a real luxury to begin his day.
After it had been revealed that it was his favorite thing he’d tried in the Capitol, an offhand comment really that had somehow spread like wildfire, he continuously received shipments of them paid for by well-wishers. At first he refused to eat them, passed them out to the children in 3 and pushed them off on his mother and sister but they’d both scolded him for it and he’d succumbed to the shame of letting himself keep some of them to enjoy for himself.
“Far as I see it, you should take advantage of them as much as possible. After everything they put you through.”
Sara’s words not his.
There’s a grain of truth to what she says, but Simon is careful with how much he entertains his “fans” in the Capitol. He’s fully aware of the situation some of the other victors are in and he has no desire to appeal to them more than absolutely necessary.
The victors are only shiny playthings to them after-all and the goodwill of the Capitol always comes with conditions.
Simon knows that not everyone there is “evil” despite the commonly held assumption by most of the districts. He’s been there enough times now to have a better understanding of the situation there and how Capitol residents are not exempt from the total control the government holds over its people. The majority of them are brainwashed, ignorant and desensitized. Docile and frivolous sheep who believe what they’re told and are raised not to think for themselves. Punished harshly if they step out of line.
The faces of the few people he trusts in the capital flash through his mind and he pauses, sucking the juice from his fingers as he eats a wedge of clementine.
His thoughts linger on one person in particular, and it gives him pause, stirs up strange things in his head.
“Simon?”
A soft voice breaks his concentration as he stares out of the train window at the landscape of Panem that rushes by. So much green. He’s never seen it in person before.
He turns to look at the person standing in front of him.
The man is tall, with a slender frame, not in a hungry kind of way, but graceful, dressed in a powder-blue silk shirt with billowy sleeves and little bows. Simon finds his eyes, honey brown, almost amber, like light catching the dark liquor his father used to smuggle.
He’s new.
Ulysses Verdant, the escort District 3 had ever since Simon could remember has seemingly been replaced. It hadn’t really been something he’d thought much about once the reaping had begun, considering his mind was elsewhere after all but now he’s realizing what this means.
“I’m Wilhelm. Wilhelm Crown.”
Haptica is sleeping in the next car and Beetee has excused himself for a moment so now it’s only the two of them here, which makes him uneasy. Simon stares at the man as he bites his lip, looking back as if for some kind of instruction. He shifts nervously as he looks back and suddenly Simon feels a flare of anger come to life out of the numbness in his chest.
They sent a complete novice. The person who is supposed to make him look good to the Capitol and guide him through this whole process looks like he’s completely fresh out of the academy.
“You don’t really know what you’re doing do you.” Simon snaps and relishes in the way the soft brown eyes widen in surprise.
“I—“
“How old are you even?” He continues, an accusation more than a question.
“Nineteen.” The other replies after a moment and Simon feels the cold shock when he realizes they are almost the same age. He’s no man, he’s just a boy.
“What the fuck are you doing here then?” He presses and the other looks down at the plush carpet of the train car before raising his gaze back to him as though it’s hard to meet his eyes.
Compared to the very few Capitol people he’s seen with his own eyes, Wilhelm looks relatively normal. There’s no weird body modifications that he can see and his hair, while dyed blonde, is cut in an inconspicuous way that frames his face softly. His features are begrudgingly nice, high cheekbones, an aristocratic nose and lips. A small beauty mark on his cheek. The most “Capitol” thing about him is the light makeup he’s wearing and the sparkly glitter over the bridge of his nose that looks like an iridescent spray of freckles that catch the light of the overhead chandelier.
“I know you’re probably disappointed to see me.” Wilhelm says. His voice isn’t quiet really, but it’s soft in a way that Simon finds discomforting. Discomforting because it makes him seem gentle somehow, even kind, and Simon knows that’s nothing but a ruse. Capitol escorts aren’t trustworthy and they could care less about their tributes beyond how they make them look and how much glory they can bring.
“What happened to the other one?” Simon thinks of Ulysses and his ridiculous pinstripe suits and stupid beehive wig.
Interestingly Wilhelm’s face does something complicated, hesitating as he seems to choose his words carefully. “He could not join this year, unfortunately.”
Whatever that means. There’s something ominous about the admission and Simon has a feeling the man probably isn’t on vacation.
“So you’re the one who is supposed to cart me around The Capitol and make me not look like a savage huh?” He sneers, finding the anger easily after being in shock for the past few hours.
“I’m here to help you.” He says, still frustratingly gentle, “I won’t lie to you, it’s my first time doing this but I promise that I will do everything I can for you, to prepare you for The Capital and the games.”
The other's gaze is unflinching, earnest in a way that has his guard lowering mostly out of curiosity, but Simon isn’t convinced and bites out, “Well I guess you have to if you want to make a good impression on Snow.”
“My focus is you. And Haptica.” Wilhelm says without pause, “I know in the grand scheme of things it may seem trivial what I can do for you two, but it’s crucial to for…” he pauses, tripping over the words like it’s hard for him to say, “increasing your odds.”
Simon starts, nearly jumping out of his skin when the other moves sitting down in the seat across from him and reaches for his hand.
He rips away from him with a sharp inhale, curling his hand to his chest and staring at the other as Wilhelm murmurs a quick “Sorry. I’m sorry” looking pained but continuing, words quick and earnest.
“I know I’m an outsider and you don’t trust me and that’s okay. I understand of course why would you? All I can do is try to show you that I’m serious. So please give me a chance to prove it to you.”
There’s a silence that settles over the train car and Simon doesn’t know what to think, doesn’t understand why Wilhelm seems so keen on his permission or approval when he’s the one with all the power in this situation.
“I don’t exactly have a choice do I.” He finally says and the other swallows, biting his lip again, a nervous tick maybe.
“Not really. No.” The admission is quiet, “But I don’t—I just want you to know I’m in your corner.”
It’s an oddly touching thing to say, in some kind of twisted fucked up way considering the circumstances, considering the way Wilhelm could have handled this. He doesn’t have to be nice to him, he could have treated this like an inconvenience, could have been angry to be assigned to a district like 3 known for bringing little glory in the games. He could have treated Simon like he was a thing and not a person.
It softens him, in spite of himself, and he drops his hand from his chest to his knees, swallowing as he tenses his fingers. “Okay.”
Wilhelm looks up quickly, eyes trained on him and Simon looks away after a moment from the intensity of it clearing his throat, “So…where do we start then?”
Unfortunately that was not his last trip to The Capitol. Winning the games may have saved his life, but it had guaranteed that his life was no longer his. Whoever it is who decides how these things work had decided Simon was to be the new official mentor accompanying tributes to the Capitol from District 3. You made an impression during the games Wilhelm had said when he asked, expression unreadable.
As the reigning champion he was still of interest apparently ,and returning to the Capitol had been completely different than last time. The attention on him, the questions, the assumptions, the eyes lingering on every part of him had been so overwhelming, and this time he’d come with the responsibility of two young lives other than his own and everyone wanted to know how he would keep them alive.
Somehow it had been even worse than his own games. Both of his tributes had died early on. One caught up in the rush at the cornucopia and the other ambushed by mutts. Simon had been forced to watch surrounded by revelers downing glasses of brightly colored alcohol, cheering and laughing and stuffing their faces with endless amounts of food as he stared at their bloodied bodies and unseeing eyes.
And he hated them. Such a wave of hatred and anger like he’d never felt had flooded through him in that moment, turning to see how no one was even looking at the screen as they airlifted them out,
Simon wanted to scream, wanted to force them to acknowledge him— acknowledge what had just happened. To fucking care about their lives at all, but of course it was too much to ask.
He sat, tense in his seat, hands digging into fists, trying to control his breathing and keep himself together and then—
“Oh wait we missed something, who is it now?”
“Probably, oh wait—“
“The other scrawny one from 3 it seems.”
Laughter.
“Well we all knew they wouldn’t last didn’t we. Honestly—”
It’s too much. He stands swiftly and the three beside him startle, drinks in their hands sloshing. Under the lights they look like demons, ghastly grey faces and fluorescent colored lips.
Simon excuses himself, he’s supposed to stay here with the other spectators and victors, schmoozing, entertaining their curiosities and trying to butter them up to send gifts to his tributes in the arena. He isn’t really sure what he’s supposed to do now that both of them are gone but he can’t imagine he would be allowed to leave until the event is over.
Still, he has to get out for a moment or he’s going to suffocate, he feels like an overloading circuit, anymore of this and he’s going to do something that could cause irreparable damage.
The Capitol likes their victors pretty and grateful and docile. A killer in the arena and a charmer in a banquet hall.
Blindly he stumbles out of the room weaving around people until he finds an isolated staircase that winds up onto a maintenance door.
The air catches his lungs when he pushes the door open and stumbles onto the roof, the glittering lights of the Capitol spread out beneath him. It reminds him of home almost, buildings pressed together in the dark, alive with artificial lights. Simon steps onto the ledge, heart swooping irregularly in his chest as he peers down at the ground below. The city’s most desirable ebb and flow from the mouth of the building. Morbid humor crosses his mind when he thinks what they would think if he were to jump, if it would just be another thing to laugh over.
The thought of his mother and his sister sobers him and he pulls back. He’s almost certain they would be punished if he made a scene like that so instead he moves away from the ledge, sinking to the ground with his knees raised to his chest, pressing his forehead between them trying to breathe.
It’s going to be like this forever isn’t it. Until the day he dies, or at least until someone younger and more interesting becomes the next District 3 victor. Until people here have had their fill of his face. He will have to come back to this wretched place every year, will have to lead their children to the slaughter every year.
His breath catches, his chest feels too tight.
Simon is going to have to go back home and face them all, hand over the last remaining possessions to their families and see the grief and disappointment in their eyes.
Every. single. year. It’s never going to end.
A sharp, keening sound escapes his lips as he presses his forehead even harder into the bone, as if he’s trying to curl into the smallest ball he can, crush himself in until he can no longer be perceived.
But he can’t stop the tears that come then, hot and angry and helpless. It’s such a pathetic moment of weakness, but he’s so grateful that he’s far from prying eyes.
A noise has him snapping to attention, wiping his cheeks as his stomach fills with dread.
He’s relieved somehow to see Wilhelm and not an Avox or security or other party-goers. He doesn’t want the other to see him like this or have to explain himself, but Simon is too tired to fight the grief and anger that he feels.
“Hey…” the other starts, approaching slowly as Simon stares at him.
The wind pushes his blonde strands out of place as he comes to his side, sliding down to sit shoulder to shoulder with him.
“I’m sorry about Jessa and Torque.” Simon watches as he reaches out and places a hand on his arm.
“Don’t be sorry for me.” The words come out cracked and jagged, “Be sorry for their families.”
“I know how hard it must have been for you to be in this position.”
“Well I guess I better get used to it.” It’s a whisper. He feels so hollow, “I’ll be here every fucking year won’t I.”
He doesn’t turn to look at Wilhelm, isn’t as careful with his words as he probably should be. Wilhelm is different than most of the people he’s met here, and there’s a lot of trust he places in the other man in a lot of ways. He did a lot for him in the Capitol and in his games and after—but he’s still one of them. No matter how kind he has been to Simon in these circumstances.
Still he’s always kept his guard up, but now with apathy and bitterness on his tongue, he can’t bring himself to care enough.
Simon had thought surviving the games was bad enough, but this hell has no end in sight.
“I wish I had died in that arena.”
Wilhelm takes in a soft breath, Simon feels the weight of his hand settle over his.
“At least if I had died I wouldn’t have to live this way.”
There’s a stretch of silence, next to him Wilhelm shifts.
“It’s not fair.” The blonde says, voice lowered. They may be out of the public eye but there are eyes and ears everywhere. Simon looks over at him and is surprised to see genuine anguish over his features.
“It’s not fair or right at all….that you had to go through that, that you still have to be reminded of it…”
Throughout the time he’s known Wilhelm the other had never outright said it, but he’d always gotten the distinct impression he was uncomfortable with The Games. Of course he had perfectly fulfilled his role but he’d never seemed happy or excited to be in this position. He’d always kept a laser focus on trying to help his tributes look and do their best but beyond logistics he’d never heard the man talk about The Games themselves or go on about their necessity like the other people here seem to love to do.
In fact, Simon has never heard someone in the Capitol speak this way, show sympathy like this to someone in his position.
Staring at him intently he feels a small shock when Wilhelm turns to meet his gaze. There’s so much unsaid that he wishes he could pry out of him that lies murky in his brown eyes, but it’s not safe to talk so candidly here at this venue.
Not for the first time he notices how nice Wilhelm’s features are, the soft fan of his eyelashes and his pretty cheekbones. Simon slowly realizes exactly how close they are to each other, how the feeling of his hand over his is suddenly too warm, his gaze is too intense. A strange feeling that he’s uncomfortable with is sitting in his chest now, his heart feels like skipping stones.
“It could be worse. I guess.” Simon swallows, feeling heat in his cheeks as he looks away, “It could always be worse….”
Not feeling the need to elaborate on that Simon slowly pulls his hand out from under Wilhelm’s who lets go instantly.
“It just—they were so young.” He turns his thoughts back to his tributes. Jessa, the fifteen year old daughter of one of his mothers friends, and Torque, a thirteen year old from his district who had lost both parents and one of his eyes to a small gas explosion in his apartment. “So was Haptica…so are all of them—“
“You too…” Wilhelm says and again he turns to look at him, frowning.
He’s going to argue. About how he was 18 and about to age out, how he’d been working full time for the past three years at the point he’d been reaped, but the words die on his tongue. Eighteen is a strange age in their world. Both too young and already older than so many ever have the chance to be.
“What am I going to tell their families…” Simon whispers, mostly to himself, leaning his forehead into his hands, despair choking him “They were relying on me—they—how am I supposed to go back there and live in that fucking tower every day with the knowledge that their blood is on my hands—-“
The despair grows, swells into a monstrous wave inside of him as he talks, it feels like he’s drowning, unable to breathe or think.
Wilhelm shifts and somehow from within his anguish he blinks, seeing the blonde crouched in front of him. Simon holds his breath as he takes both of his hands in his, slowly turning them over palms up and rubbing his thumbs over the skin lingering on the scar from when Simon was little and cut his palm open on a broken bottle.
“Their blood is not on your hands Simon.” Wilhelm murmurs, so quiet he has to lean forward to hear better. Wilhelm looks at him and there’s more clarity in his gaze than before, a hardness he hasn’t witnessed before, “You gave those children everything you could for a fighting chance and a dignified ending. Their blood is on the Capitol’s hands. On all of those people who laugh and rejoice when the innocent die. On mine for being a part of this. And on Snow’s for allowing this to happen.”
Simon’s eyes widen in shock to hear such a candidly critical statement. These kind of words are treasonous and Simon is not lost on the severity of punishment both of them would find if anyone were to hear them. Still, he can’t help but feel immensely grateful to Wilhelm in this moment. To know that he sees the immense injustice of all of this, that he cares enough to risk his own neck to comfort him.
Closing his hands around the others he feels his eyes sting. It affects him more than he was prepared for, to be treated with this kind of unflinching compassion in the literal walls of his enemy where his life means nothing more than entertainment. Simon has to look away, down at the ground as the tears blur his vision.
Mercifully, Wilhelm doesn’t mention them, or ask him if he’s okay. He stays quiet, squeezing his hands, supporting him as he cries silently into the concrete.
They stay like that, outside on the roof for some time, until they both know it's been too long and that soon someone is sure to come looking for them.
Wilhelm helps him to his feet, hands him his handkerchief so that he can dry his cheeks and keeps a steadying hand on him as they descend the stairs.
Simon pauses before they reenter the banquet hall, taking a grounding breath and steeling himself to face it all over again. The weight of Wilhelm’s hand on his arm and the light lavender smell of his perfume, the warmth from his body, the things he’d said outside that Simon doubts he knows how much they had meant. He focuses on these as they step inside. Grounds himself in them and lets them carry him into the cacophony of revelry once again.
Back in the present Simon leans his cheek on his knees feeling the warmth bloom in his cheeks as the memory fades.
Today will be the first time he sees Wilhelm since that night, as he’d been shooed back into the train early the next morning without a chance to say goodbye or to thank him. Somehow a whole year had gone by already.
He’d often thought about him over the months, wondered if he was okay, hoped no one had actually overheard their moment on the roof, wondered how someone from such an aristocratic family so deeply embedded in the heart of the Capitol had such radical ideas.
It’s not lost on Simon that there’s a part of him that’s excited to see the blonde again, which is immediately followed by a hot twist of guilt considering the circumstances of their meeting. Frowning, he pushes the thoughts away quickly, running a hand through his hair.
It’s gotten longer again, he’s sure they will cut it for the cameras.
His fingers smell like citrus from the fruit he’d eaten, the skins picked clean on the counter next to him. His mother saves the rinds for baking and candying so he collects them and places them on the rack for drying before slipping off the countertop.
The overhead lights switch on and he hears footsteps coming down the stairs, his sister judging by the way they fall.
She blinks when she sees him in the kitchen, eyebrows knotting in concern, “Simon? It’s so early. What are you doing down here?”
Shrugging he gives her a small half smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes and reaches into the breadbox for yesterday's loaf.
“Couldn’t sleep?” Her expression is knowing, lips quirking into a small frown.
“No. But what’s new.” He cuts three thick slices and takes out the butter from the ice box, along with a few boiled eggs.
Sara doesn’t answer but he hears her soft sigh as she joins him in preparing breakfast.
“The cameras will be here soon.” He says, spreading butter over their bread, feeling her eyes on him.
“I hate that you have to go back to that place every year.” She mutters, passing him a half empty jar of sour cherry jam.
“I guess I should be grateful.” His smile twists bitterly, “that I get to come back home at all.”
Noise on the stairs alerts them to his mothers arrival. She smiles gently when she enters and sees them both, soft lines appearing in her face, familiar and comforting.
“Good morning my love.” Linda says drawing him into a warm hug, “Early morning I see. Thank you for preparing all of this.”
“Good morning Mama.” The tension he’s holding in his shoulders eases as he hugs her back, “I just wanted to have all of this done and cleared up when they get here.”
She looks around and nods, “How much time do we have left?”
“About an hour.” Sara supplies, already biting into her bread and jam.
They eat their breakfast for the most part in silence. It’s always unnerving, this impending knowledge that soon the apartment will be full of people and cameras to film them in their home that the capital has graciously supplied them. And then Simon will find himself escorted back to the Hall of Justice and leave on a train back to the capital with two more tributes headed for the arena.
“Stay out of trouble Simon.” Sara says after they’ve started to clean up. He turns to give her a look.
“What do you mean?”
Shrugging his sister dries her plate off with the hand towel before placing it back in its cupboard, “I’m just always nervous about that place. It feels like anything could happen to you there.”
“I’ll be okay Sara, I know I have to watch myself.”
It’s not an over exaggeration either, he has to be very careful of what he says and does with so much attention on him. It’s exhausting playing their puppet, but the alternative is unthinkable so he does what he can.
Setting down his towel he knocks his shoulder into hers, grinning when she snaps around to look at him, “Hey!”
“I’ll be fine Sara.” Simon ignores her outcry and smiles, giving her a mischievous grin, “Have a little faith in me huh?”
Rolling her eyes, Sara can’t help the laugh that escapes her when he knocks into her again. “I do. It’s them I don’t trust okay— I just want you to come home you know?”
The silly mood evaporates and he stills, straightening his shoulders and nodding, “I know. I know better than anyone what’s on the line yeah? I won’t do anything dumb.”
“Okay.”
Sara turns and suddenly throws her arms around him, squeezing tight and burying her face into his chest.
Stunned for a moment slowly he brings his arms up around her and rubs her back leaning his cheek into her hair. She always gets sentimental like this around this time of year.
The two of them stand in the kitchen, arms around one another until their mother calls from upstairs that she’s laid their outfits out on their beds.
They get dressed without preamble before gathering on the bottom floor to wait.
The prep team arrives not long after, getting him camera ready and attacking his face and hair with their scissors and tweezers and strange smelling creams. They stage him opening the door again and greeting them but this time with the cameras trained on Simon and his family. It’s a whole thing—ridiculous really and he too often finds his gaze surreptitiously drifting toward Wilhelm who is standing off to the side, murmuring with the camera crew and taking notes.
His hair is much shorter now, cut close to his scalp in a way that frees up the rest of his face and shows off the line in his jaw and the studs in the top of his ears. It’s an aggressively different look than what Simon is used to—that must be why he keeps looking at him.
In the whirlwind of the tight schedule they’re on he doesn’t actually have time to say anything to him. Too quickly he’s saying goodbye to his family and being escorted to the justice building followed by two peacekeepers gleaming white armor.
The cameras track him as he walks past the lines of District 3 citizens that have gathered in the square. He feels their eyes on him, hears the robotic clapping echoing against the walls and sees tension that’s settled over the crowd. Everyone is afraid to hear their child’s name announced, uneasy because of the guns strapped to the peacekeepers backs.
He makes his way to stand at the side of the stage with the other victors. Beetee gives him a small nod and smile when he falls into place beside him. The cameras do a sweep over the four of them there, they wave mechanically and give plastic smiles.
The 74th reaping happens the same way the reaping happens every year. One boy, one girl. They both look shell shocked and Simon remembers all too well how it had felt to stand up there after his name was called.
Eventually they are taken away with Wilhelm and Mayor Linux. When the Peacekeepers start to herd the rest of the people from the square Beetee turns to him with a serious expression, “Stay safe in the Capitol Simon. Keep your eyes out.”
He wants to ask what his former mentor means but before he can he’s being called to follow a guard. It’s already time to board the train it seems. This year's goodbyes were short.
Looking at Beetee, Wiress and Evene, who is completely out of it, leaning heavily on her cane while staring into nothing. Nodding, Simon gives them a wave and heads toward where the train is waiting.
Introducing himself and giving his initial talk to the tributes goes better than last year. This year he has a pair that seem to want to know everything about his games and how he won. They quickly form an alliance and after hours of him and Wilhelm briefing them they retire to the sleeping car. Maybe if he allowed himself to dwell, it would unnerve him how nonchalant he is being about it all this year. Two years and is he already becoming desensitized?
The door closes with a metallic sound leaving him and Wilhelm sitting across from each other at the table by the window. It’s the first time the two of them have been alone in nearly twelve months. Since Wilhelm had sat with him as he cried on a rooftop and told him it wasn’t his fault.
An awkward silence has settled over the dining car as they sit across from one another. Simon is nursing a cooling cup of coffee and Wilhelm stirs his tea with milk and sugar.
The quiet is almost oppressive so finally Simon breaks it, clearing his throat to draw his attention, “Uh—your hair. It um looks—different?”
The blonde blinks at him, fingers going up to run over the short strands, a small smile tweaking the corners of his lips, “Different? You don’t like it?”
Simon trips over his words, “No—no I just wasn’t expecting it because you look—well different.”
The other laughs softly, “Yeah I guess I do.”
“Those aren’t in your skin are they?” Simon asks, referring to the jewels that are dotted along his eyelids. They are distracting, catching the light every time he moves towards the sun.
“Oh no, they are just glued on.” The man replies, “It’s a bit of a trend right now to get implants but I would never modify my body so I just use these temporary ones.”
“Right.”
There’s another beat of silence and Wilhelm raises his gaze to him. “Have you been well Simon? Has your family?”
Swallowing Simon reaches for his coffee. He’s not exactly very keen on talking about his family, even though he finds that he trusts Wilhelm. More than he probably should if he’s being honest.
“We are good.” Reaching for some topic to land on he continues, “My mother started a hydroponic herb garden and my sister has a new class this year—she’s a teacher. They keep her on her toes. I’ve been—well I’m just working and life keeps moving on. I stay busy.”
Wilhelm nods, looking interested, “Do you like your work?”
It’s kind of a dumb question, considering Wilhelm should know that people in the districts don’t get to choose what they do, rather they are divided up by strengths and skills and assigned a job. At least in 3. Wilhelm seems to realize it too by the faint blush that appears on his cheeks.
“I mean—“
“No it’s fine.” Simon waves him off, “For me at least, yeah I do.”
Simon is lucky to have been assigned something that he actually enjoys and excels at. He works as a virtual game designer and likes how it allows him to sink into far off places and escape from reality while he builds whole worlds and designs every aspect of how they function.
Technically he doesn’t really have to continue working and it can be tiring, hunched over in front of a screen for hours on end, but Simon finds it better than wasting away at home in the silence of his apartment where all the things he tries to bury have space to grow and swallow him whole.
“I think what you do is very interesting. I’m definitely not smart enough for it.”
Huffing softly he smirks a bit, “I bet you’ve played one of the games I worked on. Probably more than one actually.”
“You think?” Wilhelm perks up a bit, eyes widening in soft expression of wonder. Simon finds his grin growing wider.
“Oh I’m sure. Not that they would put my name on them of course, but if you like games I’m sure you’ve come across them before.”
“That’s so cool,” The blonde enthuses, “I haven’t really thought about how they are made before but I bet it takes a lot of work.”
“Sure.” He shrugs, feeling a little bigheaded at the genuine praise coming from the man, “But our team is the best. My friend Ayub is a genius at visual graphics and Zero can write code and program like no one else.”
Wilhelm grins, “Oh yeah? You all work together? You must be close.”
His breath falters, heart skipping a beat as he realizes his mistake. Saying their names like that so easily, establishing the relationship between them. His stomach turns. It’s so easy to talk to Wilhelm and to forget who he is and where he comes from and what his job here is.
The smile slowly fades from the other man’s face as Simon stands from the table.
“Simon?”
“I should probably rest.” The words come out rushed, “I don’t want to look tired for the cameras tomorrow.”
Wilhelm nods, a sad kind of smile on his lips as understanding dawns, “Of course. Please let me know if you need anything else, okay?”
“Yeah—thanks.”
Catching his eyes once more Simon tries to ignore the feeling of guilt. It’s confusing. Being around Wilhelm is confusing.
Turning, he ducks out of the dining car to his private sleep quarters feeling unsettled and unable to shake the strange mix of things coming at him from all sides.
Soon he will be back in the Capitol. He needs to focus on his tributes and keeping himself together for the show of it all. He can’t afford another breakdown like last year. It’s too risky.
Allowing himself to lower his guard this much around Wilhelm is too risky.
The Capitol’s goodwill always comes with conditions.