Chapter Text
The Hunger Games. A bloody, gruesome mess of dying children in an Arena. It's a horror to everyone who watches, and everyone watches.
Dazai has watched the Games more than he’d ever like to admit. It’s cruel, how he can’t tear his eyes off the Ability users of the Arena and how their deaths are almost always seared into his mind, that won’t ever let him forget the past. It’s pain and death and torture to remind himself each year of the destruction that it causes.
“Atsushi,” he says, quietly, stopping in front of the gates to enter the town square as they step aside from the crowd.
The younger boy looks up at him. At eighteen, he’s shorter than Dazai by several inches, much quieter and more delicate than himself. He’s not built for the Arena, not that anyone is, but Dazai knows Atsushi, and the boy would be completely devoured in the arena from his kindness and sympathy.
“Find me after the Reaping,” he commands, his voice sharp, leaving no room for Atsushi to worry about if he doesn’t make it through. “What are the rules?”
“No volunteering. No visiting the Reaped. No drawing attention to myself,” he recites and Dazai nods.
Dazai hates how he feels. So out of order, like he’s choking on air that he can’t breathe. It’s one of the few times that he’s completely helpless in the world, not only unable to protect himself, but the only other person he has, being Atsushi. But he pushes past it, for the sake of the young boy that he’s taken under his wing.
Only four years apart in age, yet countless more apart in the ability of apathy. Dazai always promised himself to never look out for anyone besides himself. Being an orphan in the Districts was practically a death sentence already, forgetting about the Hunger Games. But at thirteen, he found Atsushi, barely nine, looking so desperate and alone, similar to himself from before, that he broke the rule. Somewhere, deep, deep inside of his chest, his heart tugged at his soul so profoundly that he took it upon himself to help him.
Nine years later, he’s still looking out for Atsushi. What went from a promise of one meal, for one night, has turned into a few thousand. He has to. It feels like a responsibility that he can’t let go of any longer and he doesn’t think he’d change a thing if he went back in time.
“Correct. Go with the younger kids. I’ll find you after the Reaping.”
Atsushi nods but he doesn’t move, watching Dazai.
“You’re going to be fine,” Dazai comments, seeing the fear in the younger boy’s eyes, wanting to ask but not wanting to speak the words. “Go.”
It’s a bit harsh, a bit cold, but that’s how the Districts work. He has to do it. Growing up in a society where children are sent to die every year, does that to people. Dazai has lived a life of darkness and he’s seen much more than he’d like to admit.
Letting Atsushi fade off into the crowd, Dazai takes him place closer to the back. And he waits. His District is slow to stumble into place, like cattle in the herd. That’s what they produce, at least the rich do. They raise livestock to be raised and sold to the Port who take their goods and give them hardly any profit to live off of.
The process is slow and long. First, the Mayor comes to the stage, his eyes a bit bleak as he looks across his District, watching all his people aged twelve to twenty-six stand, anxiously awaiting the Reaping.
Francis Scott Fitzegerald, the Mayor of District 10. Formerly, a bystander of the Games, until his daughter, Zelda, was Reaped and killed a little over a decade ago. After that, his wife became catatonic with grief and every year, there is just a little more pain in the eyes of their Mayor as he looks at the bowl full of paper slips on the podium.
He gives a speech, lacking in a lot of emotion or feeling about the importance of the Games, before allowing District 10’s Reaper, Michizou Tachihara, onto the stage. The redhead enters, taking his own place in front of the microphone.
“Out of war, out of rebellion, the Port was born,” he begins and Dazai stares at him, darkly. “Thirteen Districts fought against the Port and nothing remained from the war. Then out of the ruins, came peace, a new era born and the traitors defeated. To prevent the treachery from once again occuring, it was decreed that each year, two Tributes from each District would be sent to fight to the death in a display of courage and sacrifice.”
It’s a lie. All a lie. Dazai has heard the same speech year after year and he doesn’t believe a word of it. He hasn’t in forever.
“The final Victor, standing on the blood of others, is given the riches of the Port, as a show of generosity and forgiveness. And without further ado, let the 89th Hunger Games commence and may the odds be ever in your favor.”
Dazai looks at the slips of paper, ten of which have his name on them. He’s twenty-two, meaning he has ten entries into the Games, one for each of the ten years that he’s been eligible for the Games.
He can’t be Reaped. Dazai simply won’t allow it. He cannot hear his name, he cannot go through with anything. But he’s truly helpless as he watches Tachihara reach into the bowl and find a slip with a name on it, unfolding it as he leans closer to the microphone.
Not him, not him, not him, not-
“Atsushi Nakajima.”
Dazai’s blood runs cold as Tachihara speaks the singular other name he doesn’t want to hear, one that he never even imagined worrying about. It would be fine to be anyone else in District 10, but not Atsushi. He’s too kind, nothing about him being able to fight. Atsushi being in the Games is simply an unthinkable option. It’s not possible. He sees the boy stiffen, straightening up as he slowly starts towards the stage. There’s fear in his eyes but his actions are sharp as if mechanical. The entire world has gone silent, focusing on the white-haired boy when-
“I volunteer.”
These are words that Dazai never thought he’d say in his life. Yes, he wants to die but the Hunger Games aren’t the way to do so. There’s nothing peaceful about death in the Arena. It’s pain and fear and murder and it’s not a way that Dazai would like to go out. He’s always vowed to never open his heart, never volunteer for anyone, and never, ever, go to the Port. But just like many other things he’s vowed not to do, someone he cares for has caused this exception.
As his voice echoes through the crowd, heads turn to find him. He feels the scathing and confused glances, looking at the tight bandages around his arms and neck, his thin frame, his haunting eyes. Nobody volunteers for the Games. It’s a death sentence and not a pretty one, even for someone as suicidal as he is.
Setting up a facade of confidence, Dazai strolls up to the stage, fast enough to surpass Atsushi and gently nudge him back to the crowd, but slow enough to cover any nerves that he feels rush through his body. Climbing the stage, he meets Tachihara’s slightly confused eyes before turning back to the crowd, letting a thin, fake smirk cross his face in an aura of confidence. As much as he hates it, he knows that the Games have started from this moment and that every eye in the Port watching live and every Tribute who watches the recording in the future will see him. There is no time for vulnerability.
“What’s your name?” Tachihara asks, trying to move the situation along from the tense crowd.
“Dazai. Osamu Dazai,” he says, keeping his voice steady and allowing his gaze to travel across the crowd.
He sees the look of fear across Atsushi’s face, clear as the night sky with a full moon. Dazai knows exactly what the boy is thinking. He’s blaming himself for Dazai being up on the stage. He carries too many emotions and he struggles to hide them but Dazai simply lifts his chin and waits, seemingly uncaring to his fate.
Tachihara waits to see if he’ll say anything else but Dazai is silent, watching his District with dark eyes as he shields himself from the rest of the world. Nodding, the Reaper steps closer to the bowl and rummages around for another paper. After a moment, he pulls one out and unfolds it, exhaling harshly.
Dazai can easily read him as he walks across the stage, much closer than normal to the Reaper. Tachihara acts gingerly, his actions carefully chosen and building a facade of strength over his fear. He doesn’t want to be here but something keeps him in his role, so close to the heart of the Hunger Games. It’s a bit strange but Dazai doesn’t have time to ponder on it as the Reaping continues. With the next name chosen, Tachihara looks back around District 10, as he reads off the next name.
“Chuuya Nakahara.”
He knows that name. Dazai has heard it a million times from whispers on the street. Chuuya Nakahara grew up rough, constantly getting into fights with his harsh temper. Dazai has heard of countless street kids who have been beaten up by him but he’s never met the boy until now.
There’s jostling around the crowd as a figure pushes his way through. He’s wearing a ridiculous hat over bright red hair that forms a ponytail over his shoulder. Dazai watches him, trying to read as much information off this boy who could probably kill him with ease, due to his brute strength, in the Arena.
When he reaches the top of the steps, he turns around as Dazai stares, in a bit of shock as he stands on the stage. Tachihara motions for the two to shake hands as he watches Chuuya stick out a hand.
“What are you waiting for?” Chuuya snaps in a low whisper.
Dazai takes a moment to get over his minor surprise at the other boy as his words come out, louder than he means them too.
“You’re really short,” he says, stunned that the rumors of the fearsome Chuuya Nakahara are of a boy at least half a foot shorter than him.
A small smile crosses his face but it’s wiped away as the microphone on stage picks up his words and broadcasts them across the District, but also across the live TV that is shown across all of Yokohama.
Chuuya doesn’t even take a moment to consider his actions, before his fist collides with Dazai’s face and his head snaps to the side with stars of pain.
“OW, stupid shortstack!” Dazai yelps and Chuuya goes to attack again, but Executives in black uniforms and masks are on top of them instantly, pulling the two boys apart.
“I’m gonna kill you!” Chuuya roars as they are dragged apart and Dazai just watches him, curiously.
He’s put into a room with two chairs and told to wait for visitors. Realistically, he shouldn’t get any, but he knows Atsushi. He’s predictable and, no matter how hard Dazai tries to teach him not to be, he’s too emotional. He’ll listen to his heart and break the rules.
The door opens and sure enough, the white-haired boy enters, watching him nervously.
“Do my rules not say, no visiting the-”
Dazai is cut off by Atsushi suddenly throwing his arms around him. For a moment, he goes completely tense by the touch before allowing the other boy to hold tightly to him, the words dying in his throat as he also considers the fact that, he too, broke the rules when he volunteered.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, you never should’ve done that,” Atsushi says, his voice dangerously close to breaking.
For a moment, he can’t reply, before shrugging, choosing to pretend like it’s all fine because that’s the easiest thing to do, even though it wasn’t, as Atsushi steps away from him, looking up.
“It was my choice.”
“Why-why did you do it?” Atsushi asks, his voice trembling with a hint of emotion that he can’t mask, no matter how hard he tries.
Dazai can’t explain it. Against his mind which told him never to stand up, Atsushi’s soul is too pure for something like the Port and the Arena. Even if he made it out, he would be corrupted and Dazai can’t stand to see someone like him ruined by the Port.
“It doesn’t matter,” he replies, shifting the topic away from his reasoning. “Look, Atsushi. This is what you’re going to do. Lay low. Do not take extra rations for more slips in the Games, it won’t be worth it. I never had and you shouldn’t have to. You know how to survive yourself on scraps of the street. You’ve gotten strong in these years, you can live.”
He’s strict and cold, the words fast and urgent. Atsushi watches him in confusion.
“You too. You could win,” he says, softly. “You know how to fight. You’re swift and sharp and smart. Maybe you could-”
“I won’t, Atsushi,” Dazai says, sharply, his voice emotional. “I can’t.”
“Yes, you can, you just have to believe-”
“Listen to me, Atsushi!” he snaps, his voice raising in pitch and Atsushi flinches, eyes growing big with fear. “Belief is nothing in the Games.”
For a moment, the guilt washes over him, but he forces it out. He’d rather hurt Atsushi now and make him understand then let him have false hope. Honestly, he doesn’t know how the boy holds onto it after all these years of being abandoned and thrown around on the streets of District 10. But he has. And now, all Dazai can do is try and leave him prepared for his life that he will no longer be a part of.
“I can’t win. I’ll never be allowed to. But-”
“I don’t care if you want to commit suicide, you can’t leave me!” Atsushi bursts out but Dazai goes cold, instantly, at this vulnerability that he’s never done well around.
“This isn’t about me,” he says, his words frigid. “I am telling you, Atsushi, do not expect anything. You aren’t going to understand. Just. Stop.”
The younger boy looks like a wounded animal, looking at him with confusion and Dazai feels a touch of guilt at his expression but he struggles along.
“Atsushi. I-I care about you. A lot. But you have to grow up now. I may not be coming back but you will survive. Keep your head up. Live for me, okay?”
The boy nods, a single tear slowly falling down his face.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, softly, but Dazai shakes his head. “Goodbye?”
Dazai can’t reply. Without another word, the door opens and Executives motion for him to leave. Atsushi gives Dazai one last look before he’s whisked away and Dazai is left alone in the room.
No one else comes to visit.
◉◈◉
Chuuya waits in the small room he’s been given, the simmering anger over his District partner slowly fading to an ember. The door opens and his dads walk in.
“Chuuya,” Arthur scolds, his voice sharp. “I can’t believe you.”
“Me? He’s the one who fucking called me short!”
“That’s not an excuse!”
Paul walks forward, placing a hand on Chuuya’s shoulder.
“You can’t lose your temper in the Arena,” he warns, sharply. “It’s going to get you killed.”
“I know.”
“I don’t want to lose you, Chuuya.”
“Well I don’t want to be in these Games but we don’t all get a choice.”
Paul and Arthur stare at their son who crosses his arms, sharply, his temper flaring with the cruel words.
“Promise me that you’re going to try,” Arthur finally says, his voice desperate as he soaks in the gaze of his son, the boy he found on the streets at the age of seven and took into his home.
Chuuya finally feels the last of his anger dissipate and he suddenly wants to curl into his dads arms. He feels like a little kid again, like he can’t do this. The fear overtakes him suddenly and he’s scared. Lost. Confused.
“I will. I’ll go and I’ll win. I promise,” he says, fighting to keep his voice steady.
There’s pain in his dads eyes and he hates how he’s put it there, not that there’s anything he could have done about it. But Paul nods and opens his arms, letting Chuuya fall into them, holding him tightly as Arthur covers both of them.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers.
“You haven’t done anything wrong,” Arthur murmurs back.
The door opens again and they pull apart, Chuuya becoming immediately defensive. The Executives don’t react, however, instead they gesture for his dads to leave.
“I’ll see you again,” Chuuya promises as they are beginning to be dragged away. “I will. I will!”
He repeats the words as a promise to himself and his dads, that he’s going to win. He has to. He will. It sets like stone in his mind and allows it to overcome his mind. Chuuya will be the Victor of the 89th Hunger Games. He has to be. Nobody will stand in his way.
The door opens again and two Executives come to escort him to the train. They don’t talk to him, just forcing him towards the train. There’s an aura of mistrust, but then again, he did punch Dazai on stage, so maybe that’s why. But he hesitates before stepping onto the train, turning his head to get one last look at the place he calls home. Then, with a nudge to his lower back, he steps onto the train.
Inside the train, it’s luxurious, soft cushions and fancy lighting all around the rooms that seem to stretch beyond what he can see. But it’s all stopped when he hears footsteps behind him.
Turning around, he sees Dazai watching him with an amused grin on his face. There’s a mark on his cheek and Chuuya feels a little bad but he decides not to care. He deserved it, anyway.
Dazai doesn’t seem as surprised at the luxury as Chuuya does. Instead of taking in the awe, he flops onto the comfortable-looking sofa and sprawls his long limbs across the cushions. Seemingly at ease, he turns to look at Chuuya.
“So now what?”
Before Chuuya can reply, the door opens again and an older man walks in.
“Hello,” he says, softly. “I’m Fukazawa and I will be your mentor for the Games.”
He walks slowly to the sitting area and takes a seat on a chair, opposite Dazai, as Chuuya takes the other, watching him.
“I was the Victor of the 67th Games but I have never brought a Tribute home,” Fukazawa continues. “I’m hoping to change that this year. I’d like to speak to both of you, of course, but first, I believe we have to address something. Your… fight.”
Chuuya looks away as he feels heat flush up his skin before Dazai speaks.
“Well, I must say, the little-”
“Who the fuck are you calling little?” Chuuya snaps, his voice filled with warning as all traces of embarrassment fade away at Dazai being absolutely remorseless.
“Chibi is-”
“That’s not my name!”
“Boys, stop!”
Chuuya pipes down, glaring at the boy sitting across from him.
“I understand that the two of you are experiencing high emotions but we will already have to do damage control on your fight. I would recommend the two of you make a choice. You can either work together or-” Fukazawa is broken off by the two boy’s instant responses.
“I don’t want to work together-” Chuuya says, right as Dazai says, “Working together is our only option.”
“Absolutely not!” Chuuya snaps but Dazai looks at him, his gaze finally serious for once.
“Chuuya, do you want to survive? Because trust me, if you’re going to make it in the Arena, you’re going to need me.”
“No, I won’t,” he tries to object.
“Yes, you do. You’re a fighter; you don’t think before you act and in the Arena, that’ll get you killed.”
The words are eerily similar to the ones that Paul told him and Chuuya tenses.
“I’m logical. You need me to survive.”
“I won’t. What’s the other choice?”
He turns to Fukazawa and that older man sighs, clearly hoping they would choose to team up.
“Lean into the dynamic. Show the Port that you might be rivals but you can put on an entertaining show. They’ll be more likely to keep you alive-”
“Yeah, right.” Dazai snorts and Chuuya turns to him, agitated.
“Would you shut up? What are you, suicidal? Because, fun fact, not all of us want to die!”
“I am, actually.”
Without waiting for another response, he sits up further, reaching for a small device on the table between the three, flicking a couple of buttons as the TV behind Chuuya sparks to life. He doesn’t want to admit how stunned he is by the speed or high Port technology compared to their District televisions or how Dazai knew how to use it on his first attempt.
“Which Reaping is that?” Chuuya asks, directing the question to Fukazawa as he turns to see what Dazai is looking at.
“Nine,” Dazai replies before Fukazawa can and Chuuya frowns.
“How did you figure that out so quickly?” he demands.
“That’s Sera Hikari, the District 9 Reaper,” Dazai replies, as if this is common knowledge.
Before he can continue, Sera unfolds a slip of paper and her eyes light up with surprise, completely over the top in a way that makes Chuuya appreciate Tachihara’s sincerity to a degree he hasn’t quite realized until now.
“Naomi Tanizaki!”
“Tanizaki?” Chuuya asks, trying to think. “That sounds familiar.”
“Junichiro Tanizaki. Ability Light Snow. Victor of the 86th Games,” Dazai replies. “He won two years ago. She must be his sister.”
They watch as a young girl climbs the stage, her eyes dark and worried, jumping to her brother repeatedly as he watches in clear shock.
“That’s cruel,” Chuuya breathes out, feeling his heart suddenly ache with sympathy for this girl and her brother.
“No, don’t do that now,” Dazai warns him, looking coldly at the redhead.
“Do what?”
Dazai sighs.
“Open your heart. Feel sympathy for others. It won’t do you any good if you want to win the Games.”
“Then why are you opening your heart and helping me?” Chuuya responds, sharply.
It’s silent as Dazai turns away to look out the window, his eyes fighting a flicker of some kind of emotion that Chuuya doesn’t recognize.
“Because at least one of us should win and it’s not going to be me."
“Why?” Chuuya asks but Dazai turns away, finished with the conversation.
His gaze settles on the TV and he reacts as if he can’t hear Chuuya. After a few more attempts for clarity, he gives up. Dazai sits, his eyes glued to the screen, completely unresponsive to anything around him.
“Of course you’re a maniac,” he says sharply and Fukazawa turns to him as they lower their voices. “What am I supposed to do about that?”
“Try talking to him. Really talking to him, not just arguing.”
For a moment, Chuuya stops moving, giving his mentor an incredulous look.
“Are you insane?”
“You two are more alike than you think,” Fukazawa replies, thoughtfully. “If you would only see that then I believe that you could do some very important things together.”
“That won’t happen in a million years,” Chuuya snaps back, his voice still low but harsh.
Fukazawa simply gives him a low smile and allows him to turn his attention to the TV, which has switched from District 9’s Reaping, to District 7. A younger woman with dark brown hair stands on the stage, opening her first slip of paper as the crowd waits in anticipation. Chuuya finds himself becoming increasingly nervous, as if it is his own Reaping.
“Shirase Buichiro.”
A boy with choppy white hair steps forward, heading up the stage with his chin held high. Chuuya watches as he crosses his arms, almost challengingly, at the cameras.
“He’s charming,” Chuuya comments, only half joking, and Fukazawa nods in agreement.
A girl around his age is called next, but her name slips his mind, only remembered by her pink hair on stage. Together, he and Fukazawa skim through the other Reapings as he tries to keep track of the other Tributes as Dazai lays motionless on the couch, his eyes the only sign of movement as he takes note of the televised Reapings. It’s a lot harder than Chuuya expects it to be, remembering the other Tributes.
District 1 sends a young child, aged twelve but looking much smaller than that, who introduces themself as Q. From District 3, Louisa, a girl a few years younger than Chuuya, with wide glasses and a nervous tremble as she stands on stage. A fierce looking girl from District 6, a quiet teenager from District 8, and a redhead named Lucy from District 12.
By the time that the Reapings are finished being broadcast, Chuuya feels defeated before he’s even entered the Arena. The sheer amount of children, as young as twelve and as old as twenty-six, is overwhelming in itself. But the thought of being in an arena, trying to all murder each other, is haunting.
“How did you do it?” he asks Fukazawa in a much smaller voice than he’d like to be portraying. “I mean, to kill anyone is a nightmare but…”
He doesn’t finish his sentence but his mentor understands, nodding in sympathy.
“You have to think of the Arena as a battlefield. Be kind, but not to a hamartia. Kill when you must but remember the true enemy are not the other Tributes.” His words are firm but honest and Chuuya takes them in.
It would be easier to not have to think about the Arena. But it plagues his mind with so much terror that Chuuya is forced to constantly battle the rising anxiety of the Hunger Games. He simply nods and tries to continue breathing.
“Why don’t we get you something to eat?” Fukazawa asks, clearly seeing the emotions that have been brewing across his face.
Chuuya nods. On a normal day, he’d jump at the chance for food, but his stomach is tight with anxiety as he tries to smile but it comes out as more of a grimace. Fukazawa presses a button on the side of the table and a moment later, the doors open and the Port Subordinates walk in.
Port Subordinates, the lowest of the Port, held lower than even the Districts, for the reason of betrayal. Born to the Port, something they had done was so dastardly wicked that they were turned into servants. Dark metal collars wrap around the necks, cruel creations that Chuuya has always hated the idea of. They’re electrical and if the wearer speaks, causing vibrations through their neck, then they’re immediately shocked. It’s unforgiving and inhumane, in his opinion, but Chuuya is also helpless to do anything for them. There’s no key for a lock, no way to break or cut them apart with extremely high technological tools that he doesn’t have, not after they’ve been forged together around the wearer's neck to a size that is just a touch tight enough to be obviously uncomfortable.
The first one walks in, head bowed, as Chuuya stands. He sees Dazai look up from his spot on the couch, before he watches the other boy move for the first time in over an hour.
Dazai has gone pale and his eyes are locked in on the first Port Subordinate, whose head is down as she pushes a cart into the room, before standing up straight, eyes looking directly forward as she tucks her hands behind her back. Before he had been imobile while watching the Reapings but now he’s frozen in place as Chuuya stares at him in confusion.
“Dazai?” he finds himself asking. “What’s going on?”
He gets no response. Dazai continues staring at the girl for several more moments until Fukazawa eventually walks over, placing a hand on the brunette’s shoulder as he flinches, hard.
There’s something vulnerable about Dazai state as he clearly forces himself to look away, a trembling smile on his lips that’s completely fake.
“Did someone say something about eating?” he asks, the humor just slightly rough under the facade that he builds around the room.
Chuuya watches as he fights to not look back, taking pity on him, even if he doesn’t know what’s happening.
“Yeah, we wanted to get food,” he finally steps in, giving Dazai the reprise that he needs. “Come on, I’m not waiting for you.”
The slight banter helps Dazai a bit and he follows Chuuya to the table. The Subordinates serve platters of food and if he wasn’t so distracted, Chuuya would have been marveling over the sheer quantity that the Port has, while the Districts struggle for any scraps they can find. But with Dazai acting… how he’s acting, he’s preoccupied with the other boy throughout the entire meal.
Finally, when he’s picked through most of his meal but gotten some of it down, Dazai announces that he’s going to bed early and slips out of the carriage as Chuuya stares at him in confusion at the bandaged boy who clearly hides too many secrets to count.
◉◈◉
When Dazai is alone in the small bedroom he’s been given, he finds himself sliding to the floor, shaking, completely falling apart by himself.
Tokika is here. Not just here, here as a Subordinate, a servant to the Port and specifically for him. His District.
Back when he was a kid, he knew her. They got into mischief together. She was a thief, incredible at sleight of hand, while he was practically on her level. They ran on the streets together, an unstoppable duo, until one day, a mission went wrong.
Tokika was caught by the Executives with classified documents and sent straight to the Port headquarters as a criminal. Dazai thought she was dead. He assumed she was dead. She should’ve been dead. But instead she’s been turned into a Subordinate and here she is.
The guilt hits him with waves. Before Atsushi, Tokika was his only friend. But he didn’t look for her, didn’t try to save her, no, he just shut off and abandoned her to the Port, trying to forget about her. It was his plan that went wrong. It was his fault.
Dazai finds himself picking at his bandages again, feeling like he’s choking once again. This day has just been high energy, high emotion, much too much to handle all day long. Whenever the Port comes up again, it’s like he’s someone else.
Looking out the window, his thoughts turn to the boy he’s left behind in the Districts, Atsushi. He can almost guarantee the fact that the younger boy is probably back in their alleyway, staring at the moon and blaming himself for what’s happening. For some reason, Atsushi always looked up when he was scared, staring at the moon like he’s searching for guidance, which he likely is.
Behind the bakery, steering close to the electrified fences at the back of District 10, is an alleyway that Dazai and Atsushi laid claim to several years back. It’s partially covered by trees and the ground stays relatively dry due to the minor incline. Several stones in the nearby buildings are loose, giving them space to hide their valuables, which are really just a couple extra outfits or spare food. Due to Tokika’s influence in his earlier years, Dazai is adept at sneaking things away from the merchants.
The trick is to take everything a little at a time. A single roll, not a whole loaf of bread, and only once every two or so weeks. A browning apple that isn’t likely to be missed if it vanishes randomly on the market. The scraps of meat off of animal bones in the butchers front yard.
With a reputation for being street kids, jobs are scarce to come by. Both boys can pick up odd jobs around the District but stable work is impossible to find. Most children take over their parents jobs, in an apothecary or the bakery or the butchers shop. The orphans tend to have two options. If they can marry into a family then they gain a new profession, or, more commonly, then end up dying, whether it’s in the streets or the Hunger Games. Being poor, weak, uninteresting, winning the Games is practically unheard of. District 10 has only had one Victor, being Fukazawa, in the 67th Games, twenty-two years prior. Now, at the 89th Games, he’s lost a total of forty-two Tributes and is prepared to lose at least one more.
Death. A somber topic and one Dazai is all too familiar with.
First it was his parents, who died when he was young to a double suicide, due to their financial issues, throwing him to the streets at the age of six.
Then it was Tokika when he was eight, who he thought he lost for good. What has once been a way to survive and even have a little bit of fun, turned deadly and dangerous.
He’s seen dozens of Tributes be Reaped around him, dying on screen as he watches from the Reaping Square in the middle of his District. With no access to another livestream but a morbid mix of fear and curiosity overwhelming him, he watched in anticipation, growing to resent the Port more and more with every Games he watched.
Since his parents' deaths, however, death has always weighed heavily on his mind. He’d be lying if he didn’t say that there were hundreds of times throughout his life where he considered suicide. The freedom to take his own life, the escape from the world that held nothing but pain, was intoxicating. If not for Atsushi being a reason to stay, if just to help the younger boy, then he doesn’t know where he’d be.
The Games are a real test of this. He’s been suicidal for a decade and a half but he’s never fully followed through, not that there are a lot of options when you’re poor and from the Districts. His only hope is that it won’t be too painful but he doesn’t think that he’ll be allowed to die painlessly. It won’t be entertaining enough for the Port.
His wish to die comes less from death itself and more from a darkness that surrounds his life. He’s sick of being in pain all the time and the exhaustion it takes to stay alive is too much to bear yet he suffers it every day.
Dazai turns away from the window, pressing the somber thoughts out of his mind with calculation. It’s easier to handle the thoughts of the Games, of the other Tributes, then of his life. From watching the Reapings, there’s a handful of Tributes that stand out to him.
First of all, there’s Q, the twelve year old from District 1. Dazai can already tell that they’re going to be underestimated in the Arena. Sure, they’re extremely small for their age, when they’re already young, but Dazai recognizes the hollow look in their eyes, like they’ve seen far too much to be the innocent soul that they’re expected to be. Q is a survivor, similar to himself, and they’ll be overlooked by many of the other Tributes and the Port. From the moment they took the stage and refused to follow the name listed on their paper, they grabbed the attention of everyone watching.
From District 3, Louisa Alcott is a girl that Dazai clearly recognizes the intelligence of. However, she’s meek and carries herself with too much fear to ever fight in the Arena, at least enough to survive.
From District 6 is a fierce looking girl, small in stature but slippery in nature, named Takeshi, who seems jumpy but willing to fight.
There’s a boy that Chuuya commented on earlier, Shirase, from District 7, but something about him rubs Dazai the wrong way. He’s smart, yes, but not enough to match his arrogance.
Honestly, Dazai is almost disappointed by his fellow Tributes. There’s a lot of brute strength, especially from the lower numbered Districts, who tend to be the Victors more often than not, but not as many thinkers. Sure, the boy with glasses from District 6, Sakaguchi, seems to be strategic, by the way he carefully examines his fellow Tributes and holds himself confidently but not overly. There’s a few brains in the group but nobody to really give him a challenge.
Nagging at the back of his mind, the one Tribute he refuses to let himself consider is Chuuya. What he said before rings true. Chuuya is a fighter, enough to win the Games but he also sees inside his mind. For the other boy to win, he’s going to have to cut off his emotions and Dazai doesn’t know if the redhead will be able to.
These are the Games and he’s prepared to fight. Not to win, just to fight. There will be no winning for someone like him.
As the night becomes darker, Dazai does not go to sleep. He waits, staring out the window and listens as the train slowly becomes quieter until there’s no one awake, or at least active.
Nighttime is peaceful. When Atsushi would go to sleep in their alley, Dazai would stay up and watch the town. He’s never been one to sleep at night. Or during the day for that matter. He likes watching people and their actions. It’s one of the only times that he finally feels something akin to serene.
The train is heading through a meadow, stars twinkling in the sky as the full moon hangs in the sky. He’d never admit it, but Dazai hopes that Atsushi is looking at the same moon that he is. That he hasn’t completely abandoned the young boy that he’s come to care for so deeply.
Atsushi is the only exception that he has to the rule he’s set for himself, of never caring for anyone again. Tokika was a blow he vowed he’d never take again, but the heart has a funny way of refusing to always listen to the brain.
Dazai sighs, crossing his arms as he leans against the wall. Looking down at his arms, his bandages are becoming grimy and he’s been wearing them almost a full week. He’s never allowed anyone to see below his skin but the bandages are a high expense. The way they wrap around his skin, hiding most of it from view, is such a relief that it’s worth it.
The only bad part of night is the silence is too loud sometimes. His mind begins to spin too much and he can get lost in his memories. It aches sometimes, like fresh bruises that he doesn’t want to think about and there’s only one way to escape it.
Shutting his eyes, Dazai does not sleep. No, instead he simply tunes out his brain and allows his mind to slow down until he’s empty, devoid of any thoughts. It’s vacant in his mind and sure, he doesn’t feel any joy but he also doesn’t feel any sorrow or pain. It isn’t the safest strategy but it does its job.
He stays there for hours, emotionless. Empty. And free.
The sun rises and as it comes up in the early hours of the morning, he finally falls into a dreamless sleep for a little over an hour. It’s by no means enjoyable. But that is all he can do. It’s all he can have.
◉◈◉
The next morning, Chuuya sits at the table over a meal of soft bagels nothing like the ones from their bakery at home. He pointedly ignores Dazai as he turns to Tachihara and Fukazawa, who are conversing softly. The other redhead looks up before making sure to face him, giving him a thin smile, screwing up the band aid across his nose. Chuuya has been wondering why he always wears it, since he became District 10’s Reaper three years ago.
“Michizou Tachihara,” he says, holding out a hand to Chuuya’s.
Chuuya hesitates, watching him wearily but he shakes his hand.
“I’m here to walk you through the Games. My job is to answer any questions you have, to deliver you where you have to be, and to coach you through working with the Port, along with your mentor.”
There’s something about Tachihara that doesn’t make Chuuya bristle with discomfort, like he does when he normally thinks of the Port.
“Chuuya Nakahara,” he says, even though it’s useless to say so, just to be polite.
Tachihara gives him a tight lipped smile and nods.
“If it’s any consolation, I am sorry about choosing your name. I don’t have another option but I know it doesn’t make it any easier for you, and for that, I am sorry.”
Chuuya doesn’t have a response for the other boy and Dazai snorts.
“You don’t need to worry about the Chibi. He’s a fighter. He’s got a good chance of winning. I've heard the stories. Chuuya beats up the street kids when he gets mad and-”
“What the fuck?” Chuuya interrupts, confused. “I do what? Who told you this?”
Dazai looks at him as if he’s crazy but Chuuya genuinely has no idea what he’s talking about.
“I was a street kid until I was adopted,” Chuuya tries to explain. “Why the hell would I ever do that?”
“The word on the street is that you lose your temper at the smallest things and beat up the other kids, even when they’re bigger than you.”
The brunette says this as if it’s common knowledge but Chuuya only stares at him, waiting for some other explanation, maybe another boy pretending to be him or hallucinations, because he would never beat up a kid for no reason. Dazai, sure, but only because he’s completely insufferable.
“You know, Jiro Hiraoka, Miwa Eguchi, hell, you popped Akagi’s shoulder out of its socket with one blow. If that isn’t fighting with the others then I don’t know what is.
Suddenly, Chuuya knows exactly what Dazai is talking about.
“Hold on, are people really saying those things about me?” he questions and Dazai nods, no trace of humor on his face.
Groaning, he turns away, shaking his head in disbelief.
“Dazai, I didn’t beat them up for no reason. We were fighting because they were making fun of me for having two dads.”
Dazai blinks, his eyes suspiciously blank.
“You have two dads?”
“For someone so smart, you’re incredibly stupid too,” Chuuya deadpans but Dazai beams at this.
“Aww, Chibi thinks I’m smart!” he coos.
“I just called you dumb too?”
Dazai pretends to ignore it and Chuuya sighs, not finding it in himself to care.
“The point is, I wasn’t fighting just to fight. I was fighting cause the kids were being homophobic.” An uncomfortable thought crosses his mind. “Do you care about them being gay?”
His tone is defensive but Dazai only laughs.
“It would be pretty hypocritical of me to hate you for having two dads,” he replies, and finally, Chuuya gets a tidbit of information about him.
Suddenly, Tachihara stands, his eyes narrowing and growing tight as he steps closer to the window. He’s clearly less comfortable and apprehensive, straightening up and taking a deep breath.
“We’re here,” he says and Chuuya’s appetite is gone in a flash as he looks out the window.
The Port. Shining in all its dark glory, the power clear and formidable, as the train passes through it. Chuuya stares, his eyes filled with wonder at the tall buildings, the dramatic shadows, the people who watch the train and cheer as they see him through the window.
Chuuya hates watching the young children who chase the train, already shouting his name. They’re innocent. They don’t understand the Games. They don’t know the fear, the pain that follows in every District every year. Raised in the Port, all they know is the entertainment of Games.
The train begins to pull to a stop and Chuuya stands by the doors, waiting for them to open as his heart pounds deep inside his chest. Everything is coming at full speed and he has no way to prevent it.
And suddenly there’s a presence by his side. Looking up, he sees Dazai standing next to him, crossing his arms and scowling. Chuuya is put off by his expression. If he’s trying to win any favor in the Port then he’s doing a horrible job of it. Dazai is supposed to be smart but this isn’t helping his plan so why would he be doing it?
It only takes him a moment to decide what he’s going to do.
As the doors open, Chuuya walks out, smirking with a hint of amusement on his face as the Port screams with excitement. He tips his hat at a couple of children as he makes eye contact with several of the citizens. There, he flashes them a cold glare but with the fake grin on his face, they can’t complain that he’s trying to scare them. It’s mean and petty, sure, but Chuuya enjoys the way some of the parents recoil at him. It’s funny to watch them try to react to the Tributes, as if they’re scared when he’s the one getting sent to die like a lamb to the slaughter.
Fukazawa and a few Executives take the lead and Chuuya follows right behind them as Dazai lags behind. They enter their first building in the Port and Chuuya takes in where he will be living for the next five days before he enters the Arena.
Looking around at the luxury of the Port, Chuuya decides that he is going to make them pay. It doesn’t make sense how the purity of the city that somehow, is unstained by the blood of the thousands of Tributes that have died to their hands. Eighty-nine years of the Hunger Games, of death and pain for all of the Districts, all for the entertainment of the citizens of the Port.
If he’s going to be here, to fight, kill, and possibly die for the amusement of the rich, then by god, he is going to make an impression for the ages. It started at the Reaping and it starts now. With cameras on him from every direction, Chuuya turns to one, gives it a wink and a manic smile, before entering the door he’s required to follow his mentor through.
The Hunger Games have officially started.