Chapter Text
➶∞ ⚔
Her name slipped from Cassiopeia's lips, and Conrad Fisher’s world teetered on its axis.
Colours faded to grey, noises blurred into a cacophony of chaos, and he felt his heart physically wrench itself out of its chest, flinging a hoarse noise out of his raw throat. He stumbled, and the guy next to him steadied him slightly, just enough to stop him from falling to the ground.
Through blurry eyes that struggled to focus, Conrad watched as Anika squeezed her best friend’s arm, tears already pouring down her cheeks. His gaze caught onto Steven, rigid and terse on the stage with the other Victors, and the tiniest scrap of relief shuttered through him at the thought that Steven would do everything to bring his sister home.
Then, Belly walked forward.
There was a shakiness to her steps, but her back was ramrod straight.
Conrad felt like he was going to throw up, as the only girl he’d ever loved mounted the stairs to the stage, taking Cassiopeia's offered hand, clawlike nails closing around her wrist. She’d still yet to look at him, and he knew that would be his downfall. Maybe it would be hers, too. Perhaps that’s why her expression was determined, eyes steely, as Steven looked like it took everything in him not to rip his sister away from the front of the stage; as if he was longing that mentors were able to take the places of tributes.
“Our female tribute for District Four,” Cassiopeia exclaimed, raising Belly’s hand into the air. “Isabel Conklin!”
There was applause, a few whistles thrown in, but all Conrad could hear was the ringing of his own ears. All he could picture was Laurel’s sobs that were televised during Steven’s reaping, two years ago, and the stony silence she must’ve been battling to maintain right now, too hardened nowadays to let them use her tears for their entertainment.
“And now…for the boys.” Cassiopeia’s smile bore daggers.
But, Conrad couldn’t take his eyes off Belly. He wanted to run up there, he realised. He wanted to push her off the stage, and take her place, because he’d seen what became of people who lost the Games; of the families left behind, forgotten in the blaze of glory. He couldn’t lose her. Even though he didn’t have her, not really. Not anymore.
He wasn’t really listening as Cassiopeia fished her long nails in the bowl of names, scooping out the other unfortunate who was going into the arena with Belly. All he could think about was how there was no way Steven would even be able to stomach mentoring the other tribute, not when all of his attention would be focused on ensuring that his sister survived; on making sure that another Conklin came back victorious. He almost felt sorry for the other tribute, because there was a part of Conrad’s brain that was refusing to compute the idea that Belly wouldn’t come back. She simply had to, because the other tribute simply wasn’t as important as her, which was a selfish thought for him to have, but a truthful one and—
Why were people looking at him?
Conrad blinked, glancing around in confusion, because his name certainly hadn’t been called, so why were the people around him shifting and bustling as if it had been? His brow furrowed, heart still lurching wildly for Belly, and he quickly looked towards the stage, where the other tribute was slowly approaching, as if he was in a daze, running a hand over golden curls that looked scarily like…
“Jere!” Conrad shoved, with no care for the other boys in his way. He skidded out into the middle, dusty sand kicking up at the rapidity of his heels, and felt the Peacekeepers’ guns train on him instantly, as if they were expecting for him to cause a ruckus.
Jeremiah turned, and his blue eyes were full of tears. “Con—”
“No.” Conrad shook his head fervently, and he could’ve sworn he could hear his mom whimper from the stage, a delicate hand trained in front of her mouth in case the cameras caught her displaying emotions towards her sons; emotions which they could capitalise on. “Not you, too. You can’t—you have to—”
“Con, I have no other—”
He made an executive decision, right there and then. He’d fucked up enough. He’d failed to protect Steven; to protect Belly, and now Jeremiah? This could not be happening. But it was. And, there was only one thing he could think of doing. Only one thing that made complete sense; that solved two of the problems that were knifing at his brain, slicing his resolve into ribbons.
“I volunteer.” Conrad wasn’t imagining Susannah’s gasp now. His mom was going to be splashed all over Panem’s magazines by tomorrow: NATIONAL SWEETHEART SOURS; Golden Warrior’s Armour Breaks; Fisher Fans Rejoice as Susie’s Son STEPS UP!
“I volunteer as tribute.”
“Conrad, you can’t—” Jeremiah tried to stand in his way, jaw set, eyes flashing.
“I already have,” he replied quietly, aware that the cameras were catching every moment. “It’s too late, Jere. I can’t lose you. I can’t lose—” Conrad broke off, because he didn’t want even the slightest chance of a camera picking that confession up. Not yet. Not until he could speak to her.
“I know.” And, for the first time since they were kids, Conrad knew that Jeremiah really did understand. They’d been on opposite sides of the tracks ever since they were born but, for one fleeting moment as they exchanged looks, they were hurtling in the same direction.
The moment was broken as soon as it arrived, due to Peacekeepers dragging Jere back into the crowd, where he simply stared at his brother desperately, like he was trying to commit every part of his face to memory. Conrad just looked away, swallowing, as he advanced towards the stage.
Conrad took each step at a time, hearing the applause ring out from his district as they all, despite the emotions of the interaction, celebrated him—Susannah Fisher’s golden boy—as the 80th Hunger Games champion. Because they, just like all the Capitol media, would presume that he was destined for glory like his mom; that he wouldn’t let anything get in his way.
Little did they know…
Because, as Conrad reached Cassiopeia, letting her drag his arm into the air to greet the cheers, he only had eyes for one person, who was finally staring back at him.
What have you done? Belly’s eyes asked him.
And Conrad Fisher’s world crashed and burned.
➶∞ ⚔
“You fucking idiot.” Steven’s eyes were red, as if he’d allowed himself a brief moment to cry before he had to be brave for his sister, who was presumably in the other room. Conrad tried not to think about Belly with Laurel right now, because it shattered his already broken heart into further, irreparable pieces.
“Cheers, Steven. Write that one on my tombstone, won’t you?” he griped, and his best friend since childhood flinched.
“He’s right.” Jeremiah wouldn’t look at him, voice gruff. “You should’ve let me go. I didn’t need you to protect me.”
The remark hit like a slap, because there had once been a time where Conrad’s number one priority had been to protect Jere. It had been the duty he prided himself on, and his little brother had known that. Now though, with years of hurt and resentment between them, he could understand why Jeremiah was struggling to see why Conrad had volunteered. As if he could just stand there and watch as the Capitol dragged off two of the most important people in his life.
No matter what had happened between them, Jeremiah was his little brother.
“You might not have, but—” Conrad broke off, and his finished sentence hung in the air.
All three men—well, they were boys, really, but the world they lived in made them men—in that room had a strong, unwavering urge to protect Isabel Conklin, for various reasons. Conrad was just the only one stupid enough to act on it. But, what could he do? She made him do stupid things, and he couldn’t…he wouldn’t regret it. Not if it meant she could come home.
Conrad had been raised for this. Susannah Fisher had won the 53rd Hunger Games, and she had brought her sons up with the expectation that one of them, if not both, would probably be reaped one day. She’d trained them from their enormous backyard in the Victor’s Village, equipping them with skills that even the most notorious Careers didn’t learn at the Academy, and she had prepared every inch of them for this outcome. So that they had the strongest chance of surviving.
Somehow, it had taken until Conrad was twenty-one, his last year of being eligible for Reaping, until he was here. And, it wasn’t even because they’d wanted him. They’d wanted Jere. But, he simply hadn’t been able to help himself jumping at the chance to not only save his brother’s life, but try his goddamn hardest to save Belly’s. If Belly didn’t come home…Conrad didn’t even want to think about it. It made him feel physically sick.
“You’re still an idiot,” Steven replied. He exhaled shakily. “Con, I don’t know how I’m supposed to—”
“Pick her,” Conrad interrupted. “I’m here so that she can come home. I will be pulling out all the stops to make sure that she comes home, Steven, so don’t you dare waste any of your time or effort in trying to save me. I know what I’ve done, okay? I’m here for one reason, and one reason only. I want her to come home.”
“I want that, too,” Steven rasped. “More than anything. Of course I do. She’s my little sister. You know how that feels.” His eyes flickered briefly between Conrad and Jeremiah and, though they’d had their differences, both brothers knew exactly what he was feeling. “But, Con…you’re not my brother by blood, but you’re—” He cleared his throat. “I want you to come home, too. I want both of you to come home.”
“That’s not possible,” Conrad said placatingly, heart hammering. “So, don’t even bother. We’ll work together, okay? We’ll bring her home.”
“But, you could win,” Jeremiah mumbled, sounding less like the twenty-year-old man that he was, and more like the baby brother that Conrad would always see him as. “If Belly doesn’t—” All three of them flinched, but Jere continued waveringly. “You could. You have to try, Conrad. You can’t just…give up.”
Conrad knew for a fact that, in the darkest scenario possible where he would have to watch the love of his life die, he wouldn’t have the strength to try and come home. Not even for Jere. District Four without Belly wouldn’t be home anymore—it would be hell. The oceans that had once sung for them would howl in his nightmares. The sandy beaches would turn to hot coals.
But, a part of him would always try his hardest to protect his brother. So, he tasted the lie on his tongue, poison sliding down his throat, as he looked Jeremiah in the eye: “Okay,” he said. “If it ends up only being me left, I’ll…try. I’ll come home.”
“Thank you.” Jeremiah crushed him in a hug. Conrad let his eyes close, savouring the touch of his little brother for the last time. If nothing else went to plan, at least he’d done his job. He’d protected his brother, in the ultimate way possible.
“Time’s up,” the Peacekeeper grunted. “You’ve got one more outside, Fisher.”
“I don’t want to—” Jere choked, tears spilling.
“You have to,” Conrad said quietly. Steven just watched them, jaw clenched. “Look after Dad. And Kayleigh.” The words were glass in his mouth, and he swallowed.
With that, Jeremiah was gone. Steven opened the door to reveal his mother who, with one glance towards her son, conveyed all that she needed to. Laurel brought him into a hug, brief and orderly, and Conrad pretended to look out of the window when he heard a sob slip from Steven’s lips. Then, he was leaving with a murmured, “See you on the train, Con,” and the two of them were alone.
“Laurel…” Conrad started, turning around. He waited for her admonishment; her reprimand that he was sure was coming from his own mom. But, instead, she opened her arms wide.
“Come here, kid.” If her voice shook, they both acted like they hadn’t heard it.
Conrad folded into Laurel’s embrace like when he was six, and he’d broken his arm. He hadn’t told anyone, until Laurel had found him on the outskirts of the Victor’s Village, silently crying. She’d asked him to help her with the bags she was carrying over to his house, discreetly making him use the arm he hadn’t broken, and it had only been when he’d got home, chest puffed with pride as she praised his kindness, that she’d pretended to only just notice the broken arm. Conrad had been too wrapped up in her gratitude for his helpfulness that he hadn’t minded her healing him, because it had felt like an equal exchange as opposed to a moment of weakness.
This time, it was weakness that crippled Conrad, but he didn’t have it in himself to care anymore.
He’d always been weak for Isabel Conklin, and this was the most glaring proof.
“You did it for her, didn’t you?” Laurel’s hug was over as quickly as it had come. His Laura had always been like that—brisk, and to the point. None of the frilly fussing that Susannah could be prone to, when she tried to pry.
There was no point in lying to her. She’d always been able to see right through him. “Yes.”
“I thought so. You’ve always loved her,” Laurel said, matter-of-fact. “Then, you’re going to protect her? Fight for her?”
“To the end of the Earth,” he whispered.
Laurel nodded. “I trust you, Connie. I wish it didn’t have to be like this, but…you bring my girl home, okay?”
“I will,” he promised, before adding: “Or, at least, I’ll die trying. Literally.”
Laurel humoured his dark joke with a slight, tense smile. Emotion flickered in her eyes as her gaze scanned over him. “I love you, Connie. You’ve always been another son to me. If she doesn’t—” She cleared her throat, grief sharpening her features. “Don’t give up. One of you should come home.”
Just make sure it’s her, were the unspoken words as Laurel gripped his shoulder briefly, then left. He knew she wouldn’t hate him if it was him who came back, but he would. He wouldn’t be able to look anyone in the eye ever again. So, therefore, it was simple to him:
Either Belly came home, and he didn’t.
Or, neither of them came home.
➶∞ ⚔
District Four was one of the ‘lucky’ districts in the sense that they had a decent smattering of Victors: a whole twelve, out of eighty years. Unlike some of the poorer, outer districts who had to make do with their few Victors shouldering the responsibility of Mentors, District Four were lucky enough to switch Mentors in and out every year, depending on who they thought was best suited to the tributes that year. Sometimes, there were Career volunteers who worked with their mentors one-to-one in the Academy, but this year no one had been put forward.
So, as Conrad entered the dining car of the sleek train now shooting away from the home he’d never see again, it was to witness some of the Victors he’d sometimes only seen in passing, as neighbours, and some of the neighbours he’d grown up around. All arguing with his mom.
Fantastic.
“I just don’t see why it should be you, Suze,” Mags Flanagan, District Four’s oldest and most respected Victor and the stern grandmother of the Victor’s Village, said. “It’s a conflict of interest.”
“So what?” Susannah shot back fiercely. “I’d protect both of them with my whole heart.”
“That’s the problem,” Finnick Odair—national sweetheart and playboy for those who didn’t know he was dating the Fishers’ next-door-neighbour, Annie Cresta—butted in. “It shouldn’t be you or Steven because there’s the risk that you might let emotions get in the way of sensibility.”
“I made a promise to my mother,” Steven said sternly. “And, Finn, with the utmost respect, when are you going to have the time to mentor, with all of the clients that Snow has booked you in for?”
Finnick winced. It was clearly a sharp dig, even if Conrad didn’t know the exact reason why he was always plastered over headlines with various lovers when he was head-over-heels for Annie. “I didn’t say I wanted to mentor your kid sister, Conklin. I’m just saying that you should never have a personal connection with your tribute. It’s why I never mentored Annie, because we’d known each other since we were kids.”
Conrad couldn’t help it. He looked for Belly, who was sitting on the sofa with an untouched biscuit in front of her. He wished everything had been different. That, if they’d had to be in this situation, then at least it could’ve been similar to Finnick and Annie’s situation, where they’d been in separate arenas, and could now be together forever as Victors. There was no chance that they were getting even a sliver of a happy ending (or as happy of an ending as couples could get in Panem), and the heartache churned in his chest painfully.
“This is my final chance to protect my son,” Susannah retorted, cheeks flaming. “To protect a girl who’s practically my daughter. Mags, I didn’t see you passing up that chance when it was Finnick.”
Conrad plonked himself down next to Belly, taking a biscuit from the plate in front of her. She was immobile, pale and silent, and that simply wasn’t allowed. Even with Death around the corner, he would try everything to make her smile. “I’m half expecting someone to take out a weapon. You wouldn’t want to get into an argument with all Victors, would you? It’s a death sentence, surely.”
Belly didn’t look at him, and he was already grieving her warm, brown eyes. He nudged her. “C’mon, Belly. You can’t ignore me. You’re literally stuck with me until I die.”
She flinched, but it was so slight that, if he wasn’t so attuned to every inch of her body language, he might’ve missed it. “Belly,” he said quietly, voice sliding under the argument that was still ongoing. “Will you look at me, please?”
Belly took a deep breath, as if it was taking everything in her not to succumb to his pleas. But, as inevitable as it was for the tide to greet the shore, she met his eyes. Another part of Conrad shattered when he saw the pain swimming there, because he knew he would drown in her gaze if it was possible, and he just hoped that Belly’s eyes would be the last thing he’d see.
“Conrad,” she murmured, and he had to fight the urge to tug her into his arms, because he’d lost the right to do that years ago, and he couldn’t use this situation as a chance to take advantage of that. “Why are you here?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“If it was obvious, I wouldn’t be asking.”
Oh, my sweet, oblivious girl.
“I was protecting Jere,” he said, which wasn’t a lie, per se, but he was almost scared of her reaction if he told her the complete truth.
Even if she did know it, deep down. He didn’t want to give up the privilege of her looking at him and, if she knew what he was planning to do, she would never forgive him. They’d wasted enough time not forgetting and not forgiving, and they were officially running out of time now.
“And?” Belly prompted.
And you. Because I love you, and I couldn’t just stand by and watch as you marched off to the slaughter. Because I love Jere, but I didn’t trust him to prioritise you, if it came to the two of you. Because I love you, and I’d rather die making sure that you survive, than live without you.
But, he couldn’t say that. He’d ruin everything, even more so than he already had.
So, for the second time that day, Conrad Fisher tasted poison on his tongue:
“That’s it. I couldn’t watch my brother die. You know how that feels.”
Belly’s eyes slid away from Conrad’s to latch onto Steven, who seemed to be winning his argument with Finnick about mentoring. He would never forget how much she had clung to him, two years ago, when it had been Steven in the arena. He wished he’d never taken that for granted; wished he’d never let her slip out of his arms.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” Belly muttered, dropping her head into her hands. “I mean, when I heard my name…that was bad enough. B-but then, it was Jere. And then—” she cut herself off and, despite the circumstances, Conrad couldn’t quite staunch the jealous wound that re-opened at the heartbreak in her voice about Jeremiah. He wondered if they’d had a romantic goodbye; a true declaration of love and promises to finally tie the knot if—when she got out.
Do you even care that I’m willing to die for you? A selfish part of him wondered. Or, are you glad that it’s me here, instead of Jere?
“I know,” Conrad agreed, burrowing his envious thoughts because this was not the time to be possessive over his brother’s girlfriend. “But, you’re going to be okay, Belly.”
She met his eyes again, and he took her in greedily this time, savouring every inch of her. “How do you know that? You—you must want to survive, too.”
“Of course I do,” he lied. God, it was becoming effortless now, and he detested himself for it.
“Then, why are you trying to comfort me?”
Conrad shrugged helplessly. “Habit.”
“Well, you need to quit it.” Everything soft in her had hardened now, as if she’d had an inner wake-up call, and he missed the days where he had been able to read her mind. Now, they were simply strangers who had once known everything about each other. And yet, he still hadn’t hesitated to protect her. Pathetic, really, wasn’t it?
“Why? I’ve got nothing to lose if I stick to my habits.” Because my habit has always been to look after you. If I break that, I break my promise to your mother, and my own heart in the process.
“Conrad, you have everything to lose,” Belly told him, as if he wasn’t understanding the gravity of their situation. “You have a one in twenty-four chance of winning; of surviving. I’m one of the other twenty-three. You–you can’t—” Her lips thinned, and she didn’t finish her sentence. They were both a little too good at saying everything without saying much at all, nowadays.
Heartbreak pulled his lips into a smile he didn’t properly feel. “Are you going to kill me, Isabel?”
Something flashed in Belly’s eyes, and he wished he was still fluent in every emotion she felt. “I’m not going to kill you on purpose. But, Conrad, i–if it comes to it…” For the first time that day, she held his gaze completely without her focus flickering elsewhere, and that was how he knew she was telling the truth, even if her face was unreadable. “I’m coming home. Nobody—not even you—is going to get in my way.”
That’s my girl, he thought, even as the pain of what she was implying cut his stomach into slithers of sick remorse. Regret for what had happened between them; for what had gone down that meant Belly was willing to kill him if it was just the two of them at the end.
At least that made his job easier. He could get her to the end, she could take him out, and she’d have an easy ticket home. Because she didn’t love him anymore, so she’d be able to kill him. Whereas he’d never stopped loving her, so he’d happily die if it meant she could live.
“Good,” he said simply.
“Do you understand what I’m saying?” Belly asked him, as if she was almost expecting a different answer than the one that slipped from his lips. Oh, if only she could see inside his brain.
“Loud and clear. I have my own plan, too, you know,” he replied evasively.
Belly’s expression shuttered. “Right. You’ve always been competitive.”
“As have you. Quite fitting, that we’re competing, isn’t it?” Conrad didn’t know why he was digging this hole. Maybe he just wanted her to hurt as much as he was. Or, maybe he was just so desperate for her attention that he was willing to let her think that he was also gunning for self-victory if it meant that she’d feel no guilt when she killed him.
“Yes.” Belly looked away, and he wanted to scream: Look at me. Look me in the eye and tell me, with your full chest, that you’re going to kill me.
But, she didn’t.
After all, there was no point in declaring such a thing, when she’d already killed him years ago.
At least the grave was already dug. It’d be easier this time.
➶∞ ⚔