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Grantaire awoke among the smoke and ashes swirling through the air. He coughed as the smell of burning filled his nose and throat, and pushed himself up. His fingers brushed up against the glass bottle beside him as he did. It was surprisingly unbroken, and looked to have a few sips left. He picked it up as he stood, and began to walk, stumbling out of the alley and into the ruined street. Splintered bits of wood had rained all over the ground, buildings burning down only a few feet away.
What has happened, he wondered. And how many are left? The last time he had been awake, the abandoned city streets that made up their arena had not been reduced to fire and ruin, not like this. In a fit of despair, Grantaire had hidden in the shadowed alley behind a blockade of crates and drank deeply from the bottle Haymitch sent him in a discreet little parachute. A joke of sorts surely, what sponsor would pay for such a thing? It would only hinder him, but Haymitch understood more than anyone that Grantaire was in need of a drink.
But waking up to this, it felt as if he had been dead for some time and then revived only to find himself in hell. Even with the help of the wine, how could he have slept through what happened? There had been explosions, blood splattered in the street... He could imagine the screams, but there was only silence now, and his shoes scraping on the dirty cobblestones. He kept going past, not wanting to see the remnants of the carnage. Did he die here in this street? Or is he still out there?
Grantaire had stopped counting the cannonfire long before, tuning out the noise that heralded each death, and now he had no idea how many tributes were still in the arena with him. Could it be I am the only one left? he thought for a moment, before dismissing the thought. If that were true, there would be an announcement right now hailing him as the victor. Plus, he would never be that lucky. To go through the entire games without a single kill and live? Impossible. Improbable, at least.
He had not been alone beforehand. Allying with Joly from District 5 and Bossuet from District 11, they scrounged for food and weapons together in the empty houses, all three of them having run from the cornucopia when the sound of the klaxon signaled the games had begun. Grantaire hadn’t planned on their partnership, but when they all stumbled upon each other at a crossroads in the southern quadrant of the city, they agreed not to kill one another, more terrified of continuing on alone then of each other.
Grantaire found comfort in them, and on that first night, when they built up a fire in one of the dark, empty houses and sat around it, keeping warm and missing home, it had almost seemed normal. The three of them had gotten along well, their conversation easy, enough to make Grantaire forget about the imminent doom they all were facing. Joly patched Grantaire’s wound for him, wrapping a bandage around his arm where an arrow loosed by a career named Cosette had grazed him as he fled that first bloodbath. Bossuet joked he always knew he was going to become a tribute, blaming it on his bad luck, and that it was only fitting that the lots were drawn for the 61st Hunger Games the day of his eighteenth birthday. He even said he would be the first of the three of them to die, but it was not so.
Joly had felt faint since the beginning of the games, recovering from a cold, and asked to stop and rest for water on their second afternoon together. They broke into another house, finding and filling a cup for him at the sink, for even though their abandoned city of an arena had no electricity, it at least had running water. Grantaire was about to take a sip from the cup himself when Joly fell to the floor, his body shaking with convulsions. This was how they found out that over half the houses in the city had waterlines laced with poison. Grantaire and Bossuet returned to the house they stayed in the first night for their water after that.
Grantaire tried to convince himself it was a blessing that Joly had died through the Capitol’s means alone, that he wouldn’t have to betray and kill Joly himself. But he realized he wouldn’t have had the stones for it in the first place, that if it had come down to the three of them, he didn’t think he could have turned on them. Grantaire wasn’t made for these games. No one was, save for the careers, who had been training and preparing all their lives for this. Surely he’s still out there…
His body felt limp as he made his way down the street, unarmed but for the bottle in his hand. He wasn’t sure where he was going, but as he passed by each building, the ones that still remained standing, he found large black X’s were sprayed across the doors, warnings to not go inside. He wondered what they were for, until he passed another with a more detailed explanation sprayed on it, ‘poison.’ Was someone really marking off the unsafe houses, or was it a trick? His suspicion was aroused further when he reached the end of the street and saw a building with the word ‘SAFE’ sprayed over the door. Nobody advertises themselves in these games… You’re either asking to be killed, or hoping that someone was dumb enough to come right to you. Grantaire shook his head and made to continue past, but suddenly something caught his eye.
He turned and looked up. In the upper window of the safehouse, he saw a flash of red. It came closer though, and a figure appeared in the window. Grantaire’s mouth fell open. It was him, wearing the red jacket of the tributes from District 1, his curling golden hair framing his face. He was staring down at Grantaire.
Grantaire was frozen, and half expected the other tribute to open the window and fire down arrows, darts, anything now that he had been seen. But the boy did nothing but stare back. Grantaire had been searching for him, hoping to see him one last time, but now that he finally saw him again for the first time since they rose into the arena in the city square, he didn’t know what to do. What do you say to someone who wants to kill you?
Neither of them moved, but then a feeling deep within Grantaire compelled him to step closer, to ascend the stairs to the entrance, right into the lair of the career who waited inside. He pushed open the old door spraypainted with the promise of safety within, creaking as it swung back on its hinges. As he crossed the threshold, the other boy’s boots appeared at the top of the staircase directly before him, and then the blonde descended into view. “Enjolras,” Grantaire breathed softly.
“Grantaire,” he replied simply. Grantaire looked to Enjolras’s hands, but he held nothing but the bannister, no weapon waiting in his palm.
Grantaire wanted to know what happened, what he had missed, but he found himself too embarrassed to mention he had gotten drunk and passed out for the past several hours and needed to be filled in. “How many are left?” he asked guardedly, feeling it was the easiest question to ask first.
“Come, I’ll show you.” Enjolras turned and went back up the steps.
Grantaire swallowed, knowing he shouldn’t be so trusting of the boy from District 1. But he felt himself drawn to follow, and he did so, going up the stairs after him. Enjolras was waiting at the far end of the room as he came to the top of the stairs. In that same black spray paint, the numbers 1 through 12 ran across the wall. The letter M was sprayed under each number, and below those, the letter F. Almost every letter had a red X sprayed over it, but the M’s under 1 and 12 were still uncovered.
Grantaire approached the wall, putting his hand up to touch the first M. “It’s you.”
“And you,” Enjolras replied, from the other end of the chart, indicating the last M.
Grantaire looked down the wall, and saw another M under District 7 free. “And him?”
“He does not have long,” Enjolras said, a hint of sadness in his voice as he touched the M that represented the other boy. “Marius is lying in the street, bleeding out, unconscious. I would have moved him if I did not think it would kill him.” His hand slipped down from the M to the crossed out F below it. “The girl Eponine died trying to save him. She wanted him to be the victor.”
Grantaire stared at him. “So it has to be one of us,” he said, his voice shaking a little. “Either you or I must-”
Enjolras turned his eyes, sharp and intent, on Grantaire. “I’m not going to kill you, Grantaire.”
Grantaire raised his eyebrows, shocked by his quick reply. “Are you sure? I’d think you were setting a trap, from the way you’ve sprayed the door.”
Enjolras’s mouth became a thin frown. “I was never one for subtlety, or tricks. I offer safety. When I saw you down below, I was hoping you’d come to me.”
Grantaire felt an ache in his chest at the words. What do you mean by that? What could you possibly want with me…“If you’re not going to kill me…. are you inviting me to kill you, Enjolras?” he asked, awestruck.
Enjolras had a faraway look in his eye when he answered. “It doesn’t matter. Either way I will die in these games, by your hand or the Capitol’s.”
Grantaire shook his head, shocked, but as he did he noticed something lining the wall across from them. He turned to look and saw many tiny little parachutes with presents attached to them, food and weapons, all unopened and unused.
“Are you hungry?” Enjolras asked as he caught Grantiare looking at them.
“What are these…” Grantaire asked incredulously.
“Gifts from my district. From my family, most likely. They’re begging me to fight.”
“But…But you’re a career. You’ve trained your whole life for this. You...volunteered.”
“Exactly.”
“…You’re… protesting the games.”
Enjolras nodded solemnly. “District 1 has always been so proud of their tributes, District 2…the Capitol. Maybe they’ll stop and think now, if only for a moment, what they’ve been cheering on.”
“They can hear you right now,” Grantaire said in a hushed voice. “If we’re the only ones left, we’re on TV right this very moment.”
“I want them to hear.”
Grantaire looked around uneasily, as if the walls of the house were going to cave in, as if the gamemakers would send in something to silence Enjolras. “Why are you still alive?”
“I’m not sure but… If I were to guess I’d say they want me to change my mind at the last moment, for me to realize victory is in my grasp.” Enjolras drew closer to Grantaire “That I’ve been wrong this whole time, and that I only need slit your throat to win these games, and bring prizes and glory home to my family and my district. They want so badly for me to drop all of this and give in to temptation. That and…” He gestured to the gifts lining the wall. “My sponsors are giving the gamemakers a lot of money. If I am killed, that goes away.”
“And…how have you stayed alive all this time, if you’re not fighting?”
“I have fought. I have defended those who could not defend themselves. But I will not defend myself, should you raise your hand to me now. I will not be the victor.”
Grantaire fell back against the wall, and slowly slid down until he was sitting on the floor, his bottle limp in his hand. “I have to kill you, is what you’re telling me.”
Enjolras remained standing over him. “District 12 never wins. My death would bring food and prosperity to your impoverished district. You need it.”
“District 12 has won once,” Grantaire answered hollowly, though he didn’t refute his statement.
Enjolras opened his mouth to say more but they heard the soft beeping of another parachute falling through the air outside. Enjolras went to the window, catching the parachute that floated into his hands. “Another,” he said distastefully.
“What is it?” Grantaire asked, looking up.
Enjolras stared at it for a moment, for there was only a small envelope attached to the parachute. He opened it up and pulled out the piece of paper inside. He grunted, then turned the paper over to show Grantaire, walking back over to him.
Grantaire recognized Haymitch’s handwriting. A blunt message, really.
KILL him.
“That’s for me,” Grantaire explained.
“Oh, is it?”
“My mentor agrees with you.”
“Of course he does. It’s the right thing to do.” Enjolras knelt down and then sat beside Grantaire. “I won’t blame you though, if you can’t bring yourself to do it.”
Grantaire was silent. This was not what he wanted to talk about, matters of life and death, and the Capitol. But he realized how stupid he was for his own selfish thoughts and feelings, when Enjolras had bigger things on his mind, like the poverty in Grantaire’s own district.
“Will you?” Enjolras prompted.
“I don’t know. I didn’t expect to get this far. I…haven’t been awake for some time. And now you tell me the games are over…” Grantaire shook his head, and uncorked the bottle, raising it to his lips to sip at the dregs of wine. “Tell me what happened. Why is the city burning?”
“They rained fire on us. The cannons sounded and I thought it was to signal the deaths of other tributes but when I looked up I saw the cannons were real this time. The artificial sky had opened above us and a firey hail came down from the gun barrels above, blasting buildings and bodies apart. That was last night, right before the death announcements. I returned here and crossed the rest of the dead off my chart this morning.” Enjolras’s voice was full of pain as he spoke.
“You’ve lost people you care about,” Grantaire said slowly.
“Yes. And you, surely?”
Grantaire nodded, biting his lip. “I had almost convinced myself that there was something after this. That if we stuck it out, we’d get through it and go on with our lives.” Which is why I let myself feel this way about you…
“It’s easy to convince yourself that there’s always tomorrow,” Enjolras said. “What do you do, when time has run out?”
“Drink,” Grantaire said, raising his bottle. That was something he had learned from Haymitch, even if it was the only thing. Grantaire was thinking that Haymitch probably regretted sending him the bottle at this point.
“No, thank you,” Enjolras closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the wall.
“Even at the end of all things?”
“Especially at the end.”
Grantaire paused, watching him. The way his eyelashes looked against his cheeks, the way his hair fell softly around his face. “Did you kill anyone, Enjolras?”
He paused for a long moment before replying. “Yes. I did what I had to do, as I said. To defend those who could not. I watched…I watched little Gavroche die. He was just a child.”
“I understand.”
“And you, Grantaire?”
“No,” he said, staring at the floorboards. When he and Bossuet had carried Joly’s body from the poisoned house for the hovercrafts to take, the girl from Joly’s district, Musichetta, had seen. She must have thought they killed her counterpart, and she tailed them, waiting until nightfall to sneak into the home where they made camp. She surprised Bossuet as he slept, but his cries awakened Grantaire. Instead of avenging his friend, Grantaire had run, and run and run, far off into the darkness, leaving everything behind. “I couldn’t kill anyone,” he admitted, thinking himself a coward.
“There is no shame in that, Grantaire.” Enjolras’s eyes were still closed, his lips curved gently upward, almost into a smile.
It relieved Grantaire to hear those words, for he had felt as if he failed Bossuet. He wasn’t entirely sure he believed him, but he wanted to think that Enjolras spoke the truth.
“That is why I won’t blame you if you can’t claim my life now,” Enjolras continued. “To kill is a terrible thing. But think of what my death could do for you…your district. My eyes are closed, Grantaire. Go ahead. Do what you must, if you can.”
Grantaire sat up as Enjolras fell silent, staring at him. He knew the whole of Panem was watching him, waiting. District 1 and the Captial, amongst others, screaming for the beautiful Enjolras not to throw his life away, and… District 12 wanting Grantaire to do it, to break his neck, or choke him, find a weapon anything. But all Grantaire could do was stare at those perfect lips, his face so serene as he waited, expecting to die. How can you be so calm? How can you submit so willingly, and lay down your life just like that?
Grantaire drew closer and put his hands to Enjolras’s neck, first one and then the other, the skin warm and pale beneath his fingers. Enjolras let out a soft breath, tilting his chin up to expose his throat. “Go on,” he whispered. “It’s alright.”
Grantaire swallowed, listening to Enjolras’s shallow breathing, and ran his thumb over Enjolras’s throat. He felt his heartbeat pulsing beneath his fingers, steady and sure. Finally, Grantaire felt his own sense of calm pass over him and he leaned in, catching Enjolras’s soft lips between his own. Enjolras jolted, his pulse suddenly racing, but after a moment of shock he let out a sigh of relief, a laugh almost, and slowly kissed him back. He was shy, but he let Grantaire kiss him, this beautiful boy Grantaire had thought untouchable.
Grantaire let his fingers slide up Enjolras’s neck and into those golden curls as he kissed him more deeply, as he so badly wanted to the day he first saw him, when they arrived in the training center after the parade. He had stepped off the chariot, his skin glittering, his body swathed in the gemstones of District 1, breezing past Grantaire in his sad mining getup. Grantaire’s crush had blossomed into full-blown love as he watched him smile for the cameras, and heard the ringing tone of his voice in the interviews, so charming Grantaire had wanted him to win. He was mesmerized by the way his body had looked during the physical training in their tight jumpsuits, admiring the curve of his hip, the turn of his shoulder. Grantaire had joined him at each fitness station just to be near, and attempted to impress him by sparring with the larger boys, hoping Enjolras would notice. He had even been happy for him, when Enjolras had undoubtedly earned a score of 10 after their private sessions. But never would he have guessed it was all an act. That Enjolras had never meant to be a victor, that he had planned to disappoint them all.
Grantaire drew back from the kiss for breath, panting softly, his cheeks flushed. But he frowned when he saw tears in Enjolras’s eyes. “I’m sorry,” Grantaire said. “I shouldn’t-”
“No,” Enjolras said, shaking his head, a bemused smile on his lips. “I… thank you. Thank you. Don’t you see? They need to know. They need to know how you feel. What they’re asking you to do, what they’re asking me to do. We have so much to give the world, to give to one another, and they want to take it away. You want me, and they want me to kill you. Others want you to kill me, and I’ll bet there are some that don’t care as long as we entertain them with death. But I’m not going to kill you Grantaire. Kiss me all you like.”
Grantaire could practically hear Haymitch from where they were. I said KILL, not KISS.
“Though… I never expected my first kiss to be in front of millions, for all of Panem to see,” Enjolras said, carelessly brushing a tear from the corner of his eye.
Grantaire looked at him, incredulous. “You? You’ve never been kissed before? But… you’re so… everything about you is-” Perfect.
“Is it so hard to believe? I had other things to focus on then romance but… now I see that this is how it was meant to be. You and I, desperate to show them we have something left to feel, that there are souls still inside of us at the end of these games, at the end of all things.” Enjolras gazed at him intently, as if he finally understood that Grantaire was the last piece in his plan.
Grantaire had never meant to make a statement. He wasn’t thinking about the cameras, he just wanted to kiss him, while he still had the chance. “When you stepped off that chariot,” he began slowly, “it was like you really were a mythical hero of ancient times. Like you were the only one that really belonged, that everyone else was merely trying to play a game you had already won. I couldn’t take my eyes off you. And I wanted you, from the first time I saw you,” he said, his voice broken.
“I had a feeling you did,” Enjolras nodded softly. “Come closer, Grantaire.”
He felt Enjolras’s hand upon his own, and he forgot his reservations, and everything else, leaning in for another kiss. He could feel Enjolras’s soft breath upon his cheek before their lips met, and Grantaire felt himself stir with desire. He wanted to take hold of him, possess him, keep him captive in his arms so that no one, certainly not the Capitol, could take Enjolras away from him in this moment. He wrapped his arm around Enjolras’s body and pulled him in, but the boy winced, flinching. Grantaire withdrew, letting go of him.
“Sorry,” Enjolras said. “I am hurt.” He reached up and slowly unzipped his red jacket, and as he pulled it off and cast it aside, Grantaire saw the dirty t-shirt beneath, stained with blood. Is that your own blood? Or… Enjolras shifted as he pulled up his shirt to reveal his belly, twisting to show the heavy bruising on his side, dark purple beneath his skin. “I was hit by a beam, when they shot the cannons at us last night. The building nearly collapsed on top of us. I escaped but…others…”
Grantaire nodded, wanting to reach out and touch the tender skin, but he didn’t want to cause him pain.
“How have you managed to get by unscathed?” Enjolras asked with a gentle smile.
“Not entirely unscathed.” Grantaire unzipped his own jacket, black for District 12. He slipped it off and showed him his arm, where Joly had wrapped his wound. “I was shot. An arrow, from Cosette.”
“She was from my district,” Enjolras said, his eyes on the bandage. “Children from District 1 are raised to believe it is an honor to take home the victory to our families, that killing is just a means to achieve everything we’ve dreamed of. Don’t blame her.”
“But you killed people for playing this game, didn’t you?” Grantaire asked, furrowing his brow.
Enjolras’s expression grew cold. “There are those that join the game for the pleasure of killing. Cruelty I can’t abide.”
Grantaire remembered the boy from District 2, Montparnasse. He opened his mouth to ask but Enjolras cut him off. “Cosette was a fighter, but she wasn’t like that. She just wanted to survive and go home, like everyone else.”
“Except you,” Grantaire reminded him.
Enjolras nodded. “I was never planning to go home. But I can help you go home, Grantaire.”
“I’m not ready for that,” Grantaire pleaded. “I can’t…”
“Then kiss me again, while you can.”
Grantaire wanted to, badly, but his eyes flicked down to Enjolras’s bloodstained shirt, the dark red drawing his attention more than his full, pink lips. Enjolras followed his gaze. “Don’t mind that,” he said, reaching to pull the shirt over his head and removing it from view. Grantaire saw that his bare chest, though bruised, had not bled, and the cuts and scrapes he had suffered on his arms were minimal. Grantaire hesitated, wondering whose blood was on Enjolras’s shirt.
“Are you still afraid I’m going to turn on you?” Enjolras’s voice was soft.
“If you do it’s my own fault. For not killing you right now. For wanting you so badly I that I’m willing to believe you.”
“Believe in me,” Enjolras whispered.
Grantaire was about to answer when he heard that soft beeping again. “Don’t get up,” he said to Enjolras, standing and going to the open window, his hands outstretched to receive the parachute.
Another envelope, handwriting scrawled furiously on the paper inside. If you survive this, I will kill you myself.
Grantaire couldn’t help but laugh. “I’d better die here then,” he replied back, hoping Haymitch heard him.
“What is it?” Enjolras called.
Grantaire turned back to him. “My mentor again. He’s angry with me.”
“Understandably. What will it take, for you to do it? What will give you the peace of mind to let me go?”
Grantaire was silent for a moment, then shook his head slowly. “Nothing.”
Enjolras stared back at him. “You want the Capitol to make the decision for us? Let the gamemakers throw something our way to knock one of us off the board?”
Grantaire nodded slowly.
“Even if you were the one to die?”
Grantaire thought about it and nodded again. He knew Enjolras didn’t want to hear that though, that Enjolras didn’t want to be the victor.
Enjolras’s intensity melted away, and he smiled at him sadly. “You’re a good person, Grantaire. I’m sorry, I should never have asked such a thing of you. Something I can’t even bring myself to do.”
It took a moment for Grantaire to understand what Enjolras meant, that he had been considering taking himself out of the game by his own hand. “Don’t-”
“I’m tired, Grantaire. Tired of this game, tired of waiting. I haven’t slept for two, three days, it’s hard to remember.” He attempted to stand up, but fell back against the wall, his body clearly in pain from bending where he was bruised. Grantaire rushed to his side to help him up, and Enjolras leaned on him for support as he was pulled to his feet. “Thank you. I want to go lie down.” Grantaire was planning on escorting him there but Enjolras shook him off. “I can still walk just fine. Let me have that dignity.”
Enjolras went through the open doorway across from them into the next room, where there was an old bed, stripped to the mattress. It reminded Grantaire that they were in a building that used to be someone’s home, long before this abandoned city was turned into an arena. Thrown across the bed was a Capitol-issued blanket, something Enjolras must have gotten from the cornucopia. Either him, or one of his allies that didn’t make it through the night.
Enjolras sat down on the edge of the bed, removing his boots and then lay down, pulling the blanket up over his bare torso. “Aren’t you afraid?” Grantaire asked, staring at Enjolras’s discarded shoes. “That they’ll send something in at any moment, and we’re going to have to run?”
“I’m not afraid. And I don’t plan on running.”
It didn’t take long for Grantaire to join him, hopping from foot to foot to pull off his boots and crawling under the blanket beside him. Enjolras only seemed mildly surprised, and shifted to make himself comfortable in Grantaire’s arms, looking up at him. “I’m glad you’ll be with me, when-”
“Shh…” Grantaire hushed him, and drew him closer, careful of his bruises. He ran his fingers through Enjolras’s tousled curls and pulled him into another kiss, sweet and chaste at first. But inside he felt a desperate longing, a need clawing inside him to steal one last human connection before the end. He kissed him harder, and Enjolras opened his lips, allowing him to slip his tongue inside. Grantaire pressed his hips to him, almost instinctually, beyond his control. He felt Enjolras’s hands slowly slide up his shoulders and when they reached his neck Grantaire froze, for just a moment, a fleeting thought passing through his mind that Enjolras had killed, and could kill again if he wanted to.
Enjolras pulled back from the kiss, his hands still poised at Grantaire’s neck, and looked him in the eye, his own eyes pleading. He shook his head ever so slightly, like he knew what Grantaire was thinking.
Grantaire nodded and let his eyes fall closed again, pulling him back in. I’m sorry… I trust you, I do... Though I wouldn’t mind dying in your arms like this, even by your hand…
Enjolras’s fingers left Grantaire’s neck as they continued upward and tangled into his hair, combing it off his forehead as Enjolras kissed him back with a bit of desperation, as if to prove his sincerity. Grantaire could feel his hips pressing back against his own, and he hazily realized they both were aroused. He was thankful for the blanket, that no camera could show what was underneath.
He heard the soft beeping outside of another parachute, and turned his head distractedly towards the window, but Enjolras took hold of his face and forced him to meet his eyes instead. “Leave it. I don’t care. At all. I don’t care what they want from us.”
“You don’t care that everyone is watching?” Grantaire whispered.
“Oh, Grantaire,” Enjolras shook his head. “We have never been more alone.”
“Next to you, I don’t feel alone.” Grantaire put his hand to Enjolras’s chest, trying not to remember that the heart beneath his fingers would stop beating that day.
Enjolras smiled sadly. “Yes. I’m sorry, Grantaire. I’m sorry I couldn’t have given you more time.” As he said it, Grantaire felt Enjolras’s fingers sliding down, lifting his t-shirt, deftly unfastening his pants with one hand. Grantaire gasped, pushing against Enjolras’s hand as he freed his cock, begging to be touched. But Enjolras’s hand left him, only to find his own, guiding Grantaire’s hand down from his chest to the waistband of his pants.
Yes, of course, he thought as he struggled to unbutton Enjolras’s pants to keep up. What I wouldn’t give for more time…
He imagined what would have happened, if he had taken the chance, if he had enacted on his fantasy. If he had slipped his hand in Enjolras’s when they met at the training center, and followed him into the District 1 hotel room – no – if he had taken him up the elevator to the District 12 penthouse and snuck him into his own room. And there they would have…
Grantaire pushed down Enjolras’s pants just enough and then his hand wrapped around his cock to stroke him. He watched as Enjolras closed his eyes for just a moment, a soft pant escaping his throat, before he opened his eyes again, gazing at him intently. It was mesmerizing, those blue eyes focused upon his, and beneath the blanket, Grantaire felt Enjolras’s hand over his own, coaxing it open to release him. Grantaire obeyed and Enjolras pushed his hips forward until their erections met, before helping him close his hand over the two of them together.
Grantaire let out a shuddering breath and bowed his head, hiding his face in Enjolras’s neck as he stroked them both. He could feel Enjolras’s pulse, or was it his own, as he held them together, reminding him that they still had so much life within them, that they still felt and breathed and needed human touch.
… They would have tumbled beneath the sheets in Grantaire’s bedroom, exploring each other’s bodies. Grantaire would have sunk down between his legs and found out what it was like to take him in his mouth, to taste him, and perhaps Enjolras would have done the same. He might have allowed Grantaire to do more, to bury himself inside Enjolras, and claim that sanctity for his own. He might have heard Enjolras cry out his name in those desperate heated moments, a night that could have lasted forever. He would have held him tightly afterward and kissed him, stroking his damp curls and telling him it was going to be alright. Then they’d order that fine Capitol food right to the room, to fill their bellies once their bodies were spent, and in the early hours of the morning Enjolras would kiss him goodnight and sneak back to his room, so no one would know. But when he saw him again Enjolras would flash him that smile, that beautiful smile he gave for the cameras, but this time he would mean it, and behind his eyes he’d be saying remember last night?
Or even in the training center, they’d find a dark alcove where nobody saw them, and he’d unzip that tight jumpsuit that fit Enjolras’s body so perfectly, and…
No, that’s not what I want.
Grantaire didn’t want to be in a world where they were tributes waiting to die. He wanted a reality where a boy from District 12 could move to District 1, to be with a boy he had fallen in love with. He wanted to grow up and not be told he was destined to be a miner, or destined to die, but instead be allowed to have passion, to study literature and art, and learn to cook the kind of food they made in the Capital, and pursue life and beauty. Would I have that, as a victor? Is Enjolras the price I would have to pay for the freedom I want?
He could feel Enjolras’s breath against his ear, his soft sighs as Grantaire’s hand stroked over them, their cocks slick with anticipation. Grantaire shuddered, feeling the heat radiating between them beneath the blanket.
No, not freedom, He reminded himself. He would not be allowed to leave District 12, he would become a mentor, like Haymitch. Exactly like Haymitch, drinking to get by as each year he would coach more kids to their deaths. All the while remembering the boy he had let die in his place, and regretting, and thinking what could have been if all of this had never happened. If somehow their paths could have crossed without becoming tributes, without this death sentence. But that was never a possibility.
Would I ever feel happiness again? Would I ever feel love again?
Suddenly, Enjolras’s body was crushing against his, begging to be closer, and Grantaire slipped his hand out from between them to wrap his arms around him. Enjolras was thrusting against Grantaire’s belly, his hands clawing into the back of Grantaire’s shirt as their cocks slid against each other. Grantaire rolled his hips to meet his, matching his rhythm, trembling as he held him tightly. He nosed into his golden hair, and with his lips against his ear he felt compelled to whisper, “Enjolras, don’t leave me here…”
Enjolras only made a soft noise in reply, his fingers tightening in the fabric of Grantaire’s shirt. He came then, and Grantaire could feel the warmth rush against his belly, but Enjolras continued to move with Grantaire, until he had spent himself as well. They held each other, panting and shaking with each breath, and Grantaire peppered kisses down his neck, before he let out a long sigh and lay still.
It was silent, until-
“You have five minutes,” an echoing voice announced, from the ceiling, from the sky above.
Grantaire opened his eyes, his heart aching, his chest tightening. “I’m surprised they let us go on,” he said, his voice raw.
“It entertained them, while it lasted,” Enjolras said bitterly. He used the blanket to wipe their bellies clean, and they fastened their pants again, Grantaire pulling his shirt back down. “Have you changed your mind?” Enjolras prompted.
Grantaire nodded. Enjolras raised his brows.
“I’ve decided I don’t want to leave this arena either,” Grantaire said.
“Then there would be no victor,” Enjolras said shaking his head, his brows furrowed. But then slowly his face changed, realization dawning, and a smile formed. “Are you sure, Grantaire?”
“Yes,” he breathed softly in reply.
“Get dressed, then.”
They both rose from the bed and found their boots, pulling them on. They moved back into the other room, Enjolras retrieving his bloody shirt and slipping it back over his head, and taking his jacket in hand. Grantaire put his own on, and spotting the bottle he had left on the floor, he picked it up and tipped it back to savor the last bit of wine left.
“Ready?” Enjolras asked.
Grantaire nodded, though he didn’t know what lay ahead. He simply let the empty bottle slip from his fingers and drop to the floor, and it rolled across the wooden floorboards as he moved to join Enjolras on the stairs. They went down together and left the old house, stepping out into the bright sunlight. Enjolras kicked aside the parachute they had never retrieved as they walked out onto the dusty street, though Grantaire paused to look down at it, cocking his head.
From the pretty cursive handwriting on the note attached, Grantaire could tell it was a sponsor gift for Enjolras. From Your Fans in the Capitol. A small bottle, some Capitol product Grantaire wasn’t familiar with. An oil of some sort, and after a moment he understood what it was meant for. Their depravity knows no bounds. They’d watch anything and still expect us to die afterward.
Enjolras was already several paces ahead and Grantaire ran to catch up, so he could walk by his side. He didn’t know where they were going but he didn’t care. Enjolras led him down the street, back to where the cannons had lay waste, and he stopped when he came to a large pile of rubble.
“You have one minute,” the booming voice from above reminded them.
A building had collapsed, and where it stood was now broken bits of wood and furniture, roof tiles and bricks. Enjolras hesitated a moment, then set one foot onto the mess, before finding his way up, stepping as nimbly and easily as if he were climbing stairs. Grantaire followed after, the wreckage crumbling under his feet as he went. As they reached the top of the pile, Grantaire almost slipped, but Enjolras held out his hand. Grantaire took his hand and he was pulled upright beside him, where Enjolras kept hold of his hand and didn’t let go. He raised his red jacket above his head and waved it like a flag, though Grantaire knew that he had no need to draw their attention. Everyone was already watching.
“Strike us down, we will not play your game any longer!” he shouted up to the sky. “We refuse to fight, so you must end us both, for we will not leave this arena! Take us now! Damn your games! Damn the Capitol!”
Grantaire looked up as the sky opened up in the center, and like Enjolras had said, it was simply a hatch, and inside the giant gun barrels lay waiting.
“Yes,” Enjolras cried, almost gleeful. “Shoot us and end this game. Who will you cheer for, who will you celebrate, when there is no one left! Think on the lives you have destroyed today, yesterday, every year, when you have no victor to distract you from this injustice!”
“There will be a victor,” the voice announced dryly.
“No!” Enjolras said firmly. “You must take us both and end it! We will not play your game!”
“Very well.”
Grantaire heard the mechanical hum of the guns being lowered down, angling towards them. His heart raced in his chest.
“Look at me,” Enjolras said softly.
Grantaire turned his head to meet his eyes, and saw that he was calm, and as beautiful as ever. It calmed him, too. “I’m in love with you,” Grantiare said simply.
Enjolras squeezed his hand in reply, and Grantaire saw him smile, that smile he had hoped would be meant for him someday.
He only vaguely heard the blast, and then there was nothing more.
***
Haymitch stared at the screen in disbelief. “Damn kids,” he grumbled, reaching for a drink. He had been so close. Another year, another death, another lifetime stuck as the sole mentor of District 12. He would never catch a break.
***
Three weeks later...
The boy blinked hazily as he woke. He was vaguely aware there was someone standing over him. A girl. A blonde. Cosette? he thought hopefully. He liked Cosette. He wondered what day it was, when the games would begin. He wondered why he hurt.
As the figure came into view, he saw that it wasn’t her. A reporter. Many reporters. Cameras all around his bed. The woman smiled, but it was pained, like she had been waiting for a very long time. “Congratulations Marius! You are the victor of the 61st Annual Hunger Games!” she said brightly.
“I… I what?” he said, turning pale.