Chapter Text
Oikawa was the tribute for District One.
Of fucking course.
Oikawa paced the confines of the Justice Building's small room, his thoughts a swirling storm of disbelief and grim acceptance. ‘This can't be happening,’ warred with, ‘Oh, but it is.’ He'd been bracing himself for this day, the day they dragged him back to the arena. Hajime always swore he was safe, that his escape six years ago meant he was done with that life. Oikawa tried to believe it, really, he did. But it was like some sick sense of déjà vu, those bad dreams whispering it was only a matter of time. And now, here he was, nightmare confirmed.
Oikawa should've been floored, and a sliver of him still was. But the larger, more cynical part of his brain just shrugged, like, ‘Called it.’ He couldn't even begin to imagine the chaos in Hajime's head right now. Probably an even bigger train wreck than his own, considering Hajime was the one who'd always been there, his rock, swearing Oikawa was finally safe.
But now, the illusion was shattered. They were never safe, not even when they dared to believe it, not after all the promises they were told countless times over.
They were, and would always be, prisoners of this world.
There was no escape.
Oikawa felt the tremor rip through him, a raw, visceral thing. He gripped his wrist, knuckles white, trying to anchor himself, but it was a losing battle. Each replay of the Reaping in his mind, each image of that Capitol arena where he'd have to claw for survival, only fueled the trembling. He couldn't afford to be afraid, not now. Any minute, he'd be paraded onto that train, a spectacle under a thousand eyes, a thousand cameras. He imagined Hoshiumi, the other tribute from District One, wouldn't be afraid. Career tributes weren't built to be afraid.
The click of the door jolted Oikawa's head up. Hajime strode in, slamming the door shut behind him, the sound echoing in the sudden silence before his eyes locked onto Oikawa's. And in that instant, the cold fist of fear clamped around Oikawa's heart, and he finally understood why he was afraid.
Oikawa lurched forward, and Hajime met him halfway, pulling him into a desperate embrace in the center of the room. Oikawa felt it then—Hajime was trembling too, just as violently as he was, the man who was expected to leave home all over again. Oikawa's fingers clawed into Hajime's back, his eyes wide and unfocused, staring at some random point on the floor over Hajime's shoulder. Hajime's face was buried deep in Oikawa's shoulder, and Oikawa heard the sharp, shuddering inhale as he clung to Oikawa with a crushing intensity.
Then the brutal reality crashed down on Hajime. Three minutes. Three minutes to say goodbye to Oikawa. Possibly forever. He could have stayed locked in this hug for an eternity, a suffocating haven where he could barely breathe. He couldn't breathe, knowing Oikawa was about to be thrown back into that meat grinder. The same torture that haunted his nights, the same torture that had turned Oikawa's life after the Games into a living hell he could barely live.
"Tooru..." Hajime finally choked out, fighting to swallow the lump in his throat that made his voice crack, but it wouldn't budge. "Tooru, I'm..." he squeezed Oikawa tighter. "I'm so sorry..."
Oikawa squeezed his eyes shut. "Hajime—"
"I should've volunteered for you," he interrupted, his voice raw. "Shouldn't have been such a goddamn coward all those years ago, and fuck..." he trembled against Oikawa. "Fuck."
“Hajime–”
“I should’ve volunteered.”
“Stop,” Oikawa pleaded, barely audible. “Stop it, Hajime, you can’t do that to yourself, please.. Please, not now.”
“Then maybe you wouldn’t be going back, and… and–fuck!”
Oikawa pulled back from the hug, his hands finding purchase on Hajime’s shoulders. A grip that was both firm and gentle. "Hajime," he said, a newfound seriousness battling the lingering fear in his voice, though the fear still won out, if only by a hair. "It's done. It happened. I'm going back in there, but it's better than picturing you in there. I couldn't live with myself."
Hajime had always blamed himself for what happened six years ago. He blamed himself for not stepping forward when Oikawa’s name echoed through the Reaping ceremony, back when they were eighteen. He blamed himself for not volunteering, for not being the one to face the arena instead of his boyfriend. And it hurt. It hurt Oikawa to see Hajime break down, to crumble, to hear him spew self-loathing words like ‘coward’ and ‘craven’, because everyone they knew saw Hajime as an unshakeable force, someone stronger than that.
Someone who would leap into the fray for his partner, instead of standing by, paralysed, as he was dragged away without a fight for his safety.
And now, with Oikawa facing the arena once more, the nightmare was repeating itself.
Hajime's eyes glistened with unshed tears as he choked out, "I couldn't live with myself when I thought you died in that arena, Tooru,” he clutched at Oikawa's wrists, his grip trembling, as Oikawa's hands on his shoulders remained steadfast. "I could barely breathe, barely forgive myself for letting you go when I could've stopped you. And now you're going back and... What if.. what if..."
Oikawa watched as Hajime's eyes seemed to lose focus, his gaze skipping over Oikawa's face and landing somewhere far away, lost in the labyrinth of his own mind. Oikawa could practically see the gears turning, each click a potential nightmare scenario unfolding behind Hajime's eyes. He was picturing it all—every possible injury, every near-miss, every gruesome outcome that could kill Oikawa in that arena. Oikawa tightened his grip on Hajime's shoulders, a grounding force, to tell him that he was here, that he was real. Hajime's attention snapped back to the present, away from the treacherous landscape of his imagination where fear held dominion.
"I'm going to win." Oikawa promised, his eyes locked on his, seeking to reassure.
Oikawa couldn't know for sure if he'd win. This year was different. A Quarter Quell. He wasn't just facing ordinary tributes; he'd be up against victors, seasoned killers who had already tasted blood and survived the arena's horrors. They were likely better, stronger, more ruthless than Oikawa could ever hope to be. He might have been a Career, trained from birth for this game, but he wasn't the strongest, not by a long shot. Not when some of these tributes had won by tearing their victims' throats out with their bare hands, or had descended into cannibalism to survive.
But strength wasn't just about brute force. Oikawa had to be strong for Hajime, because that's all that mattered.
Nothing else mattered, not survival, not victory, only Hajime.
Hajime had always been strong for Oikawa, ever since they were just five years old. He'd drag Oikawa into the silliest, most dangerous situations, always taking the lead, always the first to face the consequences. Oikawa remembered the scraped knees, the face-plants into pavement, and the 'yeah, whatever' expression plastered on Hajime's face, even as tears welled in his eyes.
But in this moment, as Hajime looked down, desperately trying to hide the tears threatening to spill, he saw the cracks in that strong facade. Hajime couldn't always carry the weight, couldn't always be the unbreakable one. And that's why Oikawa had to step up, had to shoulder the burden, had to be the strong one now.
Oikawa forced a smile, a fragile attempt to break the silence punctuated by Hajime's quiet sniffles. "Hey..” he whispered as he reached out, his hand gently cradling Hajime's wet cheek, coaxing his gaze upwards until he was met with those familiar, glassy olive eyes. They were hard, Oikawa noticed, because even when he cried, he still seemed to look so angry. And maybe he was angry. Angry at the world, at the situation, at himself. “I’ll be okay,” Oikawa promised. “I’ve been there before, and I clawed my way back for one good reason.”
Hajime sniffled, his gaze unwavering, locked onto Oikawa's face. His eyes, filled with a heartbreaking expectation, silently pleaded for an answer, for reassurance. So, with infinite tenderness, Oikawa gently wiped away the tear that traced a path down Hajime's cheek, his thumb a soft balm against the emotion. And then, he smiled.
“You,” he finally whispered. “It was always you, Hajime. And now I got another reason to come home,” he loosened his grip on Hajime's shoulders, his hands now caressing the clothed skin with a tender reverence. “We’re getting married, remember?”
A small smile, fragile as a newborn bird, cracked across Hajime's face. He sniffled, shaking his head slightly. “How could I forget?” he scoffed quietly, but the words were lighthearted, laced with affection. “You only bring it up every five fuckin’ minutes.”
A playful pout formed on Oikawa’s lips. “Just say you hate me, Iwa-chan.”
A soft laugh escaped Hajime's lips, quickly followed by Oikawa's own. Their quiet laughter, mingling with the last, dwindling sobs, reverberated in the small room, and it was good. So, so good that they practically forgot the reason that had brought them here in the first place. Only a minute remained, a mere sixty seconds before Oikawa would be swallowed by a train, hurtling him so far from home that he'd once again remember the hollow ache of homesickness. So, Oikawa drank in this moment, etching it into his memory with painstaking detail.
He cherished the way Hajime laughed, even as tears still glistened on his cheeks. He cherished the way Hajime tried to mask his emotions, feigning annoyance before a smile, irrepressible and radiant, cracked his stoic facade. He cherished the way his eyes shone, reflecting the light like captured stars through the prism of tears, and the way his dimples, those oh, so familiar, beloved dimples, deepened with every smile. And they looked so good.
Oikawa's touch was feather-light as he traced the curve of Hajime's cheek, his fingers drifting down until they found a comfortable spot behind his neck. "Look," he began, his voice a soft murmur once their laughter had faded into contented sighs, “life’s a mess, a tangled, chaotic mess. But there’s good to it too,” his voice softened as he said, “Like getting married to my best friend. The one who pulled me back from the edge, kept me from losing my mind after the games. The guy who makes me feel.. less terrified,” a self-conscious smile flickered across his face. “And yeah, I’m getting sappy, but I need you to know, need you to really hear it, that I’ll fighting if it means coming back home to you,” he gently squeezed the back of Hajime’s neck. “Okay?”
Hajime smiled, a true, unguarded smile that reached his eyes. It was a smile reserved for Oikawa, and Oikawa only. A brief pause hung in the air as he gathered his thoughts, then he settled his hands on Oikawa's shoulders. "Remember what I told you when you came back from the Capitol?" He asked.
Oikawa merely arched a brow, a silent invitation for Hajime to jog his memory. In a move as swift as a lightning strike, Hajime seized Oikawa by the collar, yanking him close with a suddenness that left Oikawa gasping. Before he could even blink, Hajime had pressed their foreheads together in a forceful, yet strangely tender, headbutt—a far cry from his usual bone-jarring collisions. This time, he didn’t move, their foreheads pressed firmly together as his grip on Oikawa's shirt tightened.
Oikawa swallowed hard, pointedly ignoring the frantic thumping in his head. "I said," Hajime nearly growled, “if you ever die like that again, I’d headbutt you in the face.”
The tension seemed to leach out of Oikawa's shoulders at those words. "Ah," he chuckled, the sound airy and relieved. “How could I forget such a heartwarming sentiment?”
Hajime's grip on Oikawa's shirt tightened almost imperceptibly, and then he closed the remaining distance and kissed him. The moment their lips met, Oikawa's entire being seemed to unwind, to soften, to melt into the kiss. He returned the gesture with a fervent tenderness, savouring the gentle pressure that spoke volumes, conveying emotions far beyond the reach of mere words.
I love you, it whispered against his lips. I love you, I love you, I love you.
Pulling back just enough to breathe, their lips still brushing against each other, Hajime murmured against Oikawa's mouth, his voice a husky whisper, “So, to save us both a migraine, just..” Hajime breathed, “just come back to me, so I can officially trap you with my last name.”
Hajime leaned in to capture his lips again, but Oikawa swiftly intercepted him with a, "Woah, woah, hold up," Hajime's expression flickered with confusion, his brow furrowing until Oikawa clarified, "I thought you were taking my name."
The confusion suddenly melted away, replaced by a scowl so intense it could curdle milk. Hajime's grip on Oikawa's collar tightened, his knuckles turning white. He didn't need to say a word; the look in his eyes was a volcanic eruption of pure, unadulterated annoyance.
Oikawa chuckled nervously, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "Okay, okay," he relented with a sigh. "Tooru Iwaizumi it is, then."
Hajime eased his grip on Oikawa, the harsh lines of his scowl softening into a smirk that bordered on a genuine smile. Oikawa's eyes softened slightly as he noticed the telltale shimmer of tears gathering at the corners of Hajime's eyes.
Hajime attempted to sound gruff, to maintain some semblance of composure, but instead, a soft, almost sappy laugh bubbled up from his chest,
"Damn right.”
…
Mere moments ago, Kenma had been standing on that stage in District Three, his mind racing, grasping at the faintest possibility of an escape, knowing deep down that such a desperate hope was unlikely. There were only three Victor’s in District Three, and now, here he was, seated on the train beside Terushima, steeling himself for the Games he had stupidly believed he'd left behind forever.
An unnerving silence filled the carriage, broken only by the rhythmic rumble of the train hurtling down the tracks and the muted murmur of their escort and mentor engaged in hushed conversation in the adjacent car. Kenma remained fixated on the passing scenery, the trees outside a mere blur of green and white streaks, like a landscape painted in fast-motion snow. His thoughts spiralled. He kept thinking about having to face new and familiar tributes again, the hollow spectacle of the opening ceremony, the probing questions of the interviews. Yet, his mind kept drifting back to the blonde boy seated beside him, acutely aware of the intensity of his gaze. Curious and unnervingly perceptive.
Kenma didn’t know that much about Terushima, just that Kenma didn’t want to be anywhere near him. He'd catch glimpses of him from time to time, drifting in and out of his house in the Victor's Village, living alongside two of his older sisters. He remembered his time in his games, the scary moment when he murdered the girl he'd feigned affection for, revealing himself as nothing more than a master of deception, using his insufferably handsome face to manipulate his way to victory.
Sometimes, it struck Kenma as bizarre that Terushima was even capable of such treachery. Considering he had two older sisters, you'd think they would have instilled in him that seducing a girl only to murder her was, you know, wrong. But then again, maybe his sisters were just as twisted as he was. Maybe they were the ones who armed him with those manipulative tactics, willing to do anything to ensure his safe return home.
All that time Kenma spent dodging Terushima in District Three felt like a breeze. The guy never seemed to make an effort to bother Kenma or strike up a conversation. But now, fate had other plans. Here they were, sitting in silence beside each other, knowing they were back in the arena, whether they liked it or not.
Kenma's face remained an impassive mask, betraying nothing of the turmoil raging within. But beneath that familiar facade, he felt a profound sense of deflation, like a balloon slowly losing air. This was the last place on earth he wanted to be. He didn't want to return to that brutal arena, didn't want to fight, didn't want to face all those people again.
A subtle tension coiled in his muscles, almost imperceptible.
He didn't want to face Kuroo again.
Before his mind could spiral into a vortex of worst-case scenarios about facing Kuroo again—assuming he was even chosen as District Two's tribute—"So, Kenma, right?" the blonde beside him drawled, dragging Kenma back to the present. "Never thought I'd see the day we'd meet. District Three's finest, back for another round," he then extended a hand. "Name's Terushima, by the way."
Terushima held his hand suspended between them, patiently awaiting the obligatory 'nice to meet you' or some semblance of acknowledgement. Kenma, however, offered only a fleeting glance, his eyes barely visible through the curtain of faded, bleached-and-brown hair framing his face. With that, he turned his attention back to the world outside the window, effectively dismissing Terushima's gesture.
Terushima let his hand fall, smoothly raking it through his spiky blonde hair. "Okay, not a talker," he mused, nodding slightly. "Got it. Solo act."
Kenma felt a fleeting sense of relief when Terushima seemed to grasp that his silence meant he wasn't here to make friends. He'd tried that once, and it had only gotten most of them killed. But then came a sharp click, the sound of Terushima's tongue against the roof of his mouth, followed by a metallic clink against his teeth.
"But wait," the blonde hummed, a feigned thoughtfulness dripping from his tone. "It's coming back to me now. You weren't exactly alone in the sixty-ninth Games, were you?"
Kenma ignored him, his gaze glued to the glass, but that didn't deter Terushima from continuing his taunt.
"You teamed up with that tall, sour-faced glasses guy, Tsuki, right?" he pressed, not giving Kenma a chance to respond, knowing he wouldn't. "Then there was Akaashi. And let's see..” he hummed thoughtfully. "Oh, and that big, buff dude who got taken out way too early. There was one more, wasn't there?" He tapped his chin, his brows furrowing in mock contemplation. "What was his name again?"
The silence stretched, thick and heavy, as Terushima feigned contemplation. Kenma could hear that unnerving metallic rasp again, like he was dragging something cold across his teeth, before he snapped his fingers.
"Kuroo!" he finally declared, as if he'd just hit the jackpot. "How could I forget? He's the one who so gallantly let himself be dragged down with you."
Kenma was quick to notice the charm in his voice dissipate, replaced by something deeper and more resonant as he uttered that last comment. Kenma's mind flashed back to being trapped in that suffocating tangle of vines, feeling his body grow weaker as thorns relentlessly pierced his limbs, poison seeping into his veins. Then, in an instant, Kuroo was there, willingly plunging into that thorny abyss so Kenma wouldn't face death alone. He remembered the raw vulnerability in Kuroo's expression as he confessed his love, remembered the unsettling calm that masked his pain.
The memory alone made Kenma feel sick all over again. The look on Kuroo's face, the ease with which those three sacred words had been spoken, the desperate squeeze of his hand with the last dregs of his strength. Perhaps, it was in that moment, Kenma realised he had unwittingly opened the door, and Kuroo had willingly stepped inside. It was everything he had feared from the beginning. Letting Kuroo in meant succumbing to those foolish, reckless decisions that would be misconstrued as acts of love, a spectacle for the Capitol to relish as if it were a melodramatic film, not a harrowing reality.
And maybe that was part of the reason he'd severed Kuroo from his life.
As the silence stretched, Terushima finally broke it. “Heard our escort and mentor whispering earlier," he said casually. "Kuroo volunteered. Crazy, right? To go back in for some has-been who won the games years ago. I mean, who in their right mind would willingly step back into that arena, right?"
"What's your angle?" Kenma finally bit out, the question escaping before he could censor himself.
He locked eyes with Terushima, whose gaze was calm, almost smug. Disturbingly familiar.
"Hm?" The blonde hummed, feigning innocence.
Kenma's eyes narrowed, dissecting Terushima with a calculated gaze, though the blonde was proving to be an open book. "You trying to get in my head?” he muttered, “or are you just annoying?”
“I’m not trying to get in your head. I’ve just been doing my homework,” Terushima countered. “This Quarter Quell is gonna be a bloodbath. Twenty-four Victor’s fighting it out again? Skills, quirks, the old, the young,” he puffed an exaggered breath of air. “It's not going to be a walk in the park."
Kenma’s glare intensified. “Around the point.”
“Getting there.” Terushima shot back.
Kenma's glare deepened, but Terushima just grinned, a flash of teeth and unwavering confidence. He ran his tongue along the back of his teeth, and Kenma caught the glint of silver jewelry embedded in his tongue. The metal clicked softly against his teeth.
Then, without missing a beat, "Let's be allies."
“No.”
“Why not?” he tilted his head, feigning curiosity, though the gesture felt more like a calculated attempt at intimidation. “Kuroo’s back, so you’ll go running to him?” He probed.
“I don’t want anything to do with either of you,” Kenma stated, his voice flat, yet laced with a firmness that brooked no argument. “Anyone.”
Terushima's eyes remained locked on Kenma, searching for any flicker of vulnerability beneath the surface. But Kenma's expression was a blank canvas, revealing nothing but unwavering resolve. He was dead serious. He didn't need anyone in his corner, didn't need anyone to witness the extent of his power.
Terushima let out a low whistle, his gaze drifting away as he muttered, "Love took a nosedive." Kenma bit back a retort, knowing there wasn’t any point in arguing.
He turned his gaze back to the window, deciding to ignore Terushima for the remainder of the train ride to the Capitol. Yet, despite his efforts, Terushima's words continued to echo in his mind, wondering whether or not his own answer was a truth or not. If Terushima's claim about Kuroo's return this year was true, would Kenma be forced to confront him? After all this time, would they have to forge another alliance, just like they did all those years ago?
Kenma hadn't seen Kuroo in person since the Victor's Tour five years ago. In that time, Kuroo could have transformed into an entirely different person. Five years was an eternity, after all. Perhaps he wouldn't want anything to do with Kenma, just as much as Kenma did. After all, Kenma had vanished without a trace, dropped from the face of the earth, leaving Kuroo without a word. He couldn't even begin to imagine the kind of person Kuroo might have become.
Was he still stupidly reckless? Was he still desperate for an explanation? Or had he finally reached his breaking point, tired of trying, tired of being the impulsive fool he was—tired of Kenma himself?
Kenma pressed his palm against his mouth, stifling a sigh as he squeezed his eyes shut.
Soon enough, the inevitable confrontation would occur, and then, maybe, he’d find out.