Chapter Text
before
Pylades: I’ll take care of you.
Orestes: It’s rotten work.
Pylades: Not to me. Not if it’s you.
— Anne Carson, Euripides
So, I said, now that we have our dead,
what are we going to do with them?
— Richard Siken, Straw House, Straw Dog
There were only seven slips with Minghao’s name on them in the bowl with thousands of others. He only had seven slips. It shouldn’t have been him.
The sunlight is a little blinding, but he can see enough to know that no one from District 7 is feeling particularly called to volunteer today. He can see enough to have to look away from the tears in his mother’s eyes. He doesn’t need to see her mourn him. He doesn’t expect her to get it together by the time they say goodbye, but that’s fine. Minghao just can’t afford to cry on stage. He can’t afford to look weak. He schools his face into a blank expression and looks resolutely at no one.
They’ve already reaped the other tribute, a girl named Lottie Hale that Minghao vaguely knows from school, and Minghao is grateful that it means that he doesn’t have to stand up on the stage for much longer. The cold bites through him as the Capitol escort—Seokmin, maybe? Minghao admits that he wasn’t paying much attention to the newcomer—thanks the crowd and asks for a round of applause for their two tributes. Minghao has attended the reapings for the past 18 years and knows that District 7 is as consistently neutral as it comes with their polite clapping and barely-concealed relief. Minghao is going to die and this is a normal course of events. Happens every year. Seokmin gestures for Minghao to shake Lottie’s hand before they go back into the Justice Building for their goodbyes.
Lottie and Minghao both have handshakes that are far too weak to be a victor’s. The odds were never in their favor.
The room that Minghao is led into is small, just enough space for a couch and one strangely blue armchair shoved into a corner, and he wonders if it has any use other than this. He can’t decide if it would be better if the room is reserved for this graveyard kind of goodbye or if they use it for something mildly charming like an intimate afternoon tea. He isn’t left to wonder long before the door is opening and his mother is letting out a horrific sob and pulling Minghao into her arms.
“Oh, my baby,” his mother cries. Minghao tries not to choke on it and hugs her tighter. “My sweet boy. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Minghao says quietly. It’s not, but no one needs to say that out loud. It’s kind of implied by the whole goodbye-armchair-in-the-corner thing. “I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize for anything.” His mother pulls back to look at him, taking his face into her hands despite the way that she has to reach up to do so. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Don’t try to make this your fault.”
Minghao gives a wry, tired smile. He doesn’t really have to make it his fault—it’s going to be his fault when he dies. No way around it. “Whatever you say. You’ll be okay, right? Mingyu can help cover shifts, you know how he likes the apothecary, and they’ll send a little bit of money to compensate for things.”
It’s a credit to his mother’s strength that she doesn’t flinch. They send money to the families of the dead tributes, an almost offensively small amount to really drive home how unimportant they are. Still, it’s something.
“I won’t beg you to come back.” His mother’s voice breaks a little on the words and Minghao tries not to scream. “I know that’s too much to put on you. Just try, sweetheart, and know that I love you no matter what. Just try.”
She doesn’t add any “you could do it” or “you’re strong enough.” She’s only asking him to try, no pressure added. He can at least do that for her, one last act of respect and love.
“I will,” Minghao’s voice cracks in the middle, the tears finally falling. “I’ll try. I love you, Mama.”
He’s not sure that he registers anything that his mother whispers to him before the Peacekeepers come to escort her out, but he does register the half-yelled “I love you” that his mother says as they shut the door behind her. He didn’t even get to say it back. He hopes that she knows —it was the last thing he could choke out anyway.
Mingyu walks through the door, takes one look at Minghao, and drags him into sitting down on the couch, Minghao’s face buried into Mingyu’s neck while he cries.
“I’m so sorry, Hao,” Mingyu says. “I wish I could do it for you, I’m so sorry.”
Minghao doesn’t say it, but he’s glad that Mingyu can’t. The reapings are always at the very beginning of November, just barely in between Mingyu and Minghao’s birthdays. Mingyu turned 19 in the spring, meaning he couldn’t volunteer like Minghao knows that he would have. It’s for the best. Between the two of them, despite Mingyu’s strength and skills from the sawmill, Minghao is the one who has any kind of chance.
Mingyu is too soft—he would hesitate to kill someone if he even could in the first place, and it would cost him his life immediately. Minghao has always envied Mingyu’s softness, but Minghao’s lack of that is paying off now. Minghao can kill. He’s going to have to. Mingyu couldn’t, but he’s going to be excellent in the apothecary. He never liked the sawmills anyway.
“It’s okay, Mingyu,” Minghao says, wiping harshly at his face with the back of his hand. Get it together. You don’t get to stay in this room forever. “I know you would’ve and I love you for it, but it’s okay. You can take over at the apothecary for me instead.”
Mingyu grimaces. “Okay. I’ll take care of her. I won’t— I won’t leave her alone. I’ll stay.”
Mingyu will stay. Minghao can’t. Never in their favor, but at least Minghao’s mother won’t be alone.
“Minghao,” Mingyu says slowly. His words are sure when he turns Minghao so Mingyu can look him in the eyes. “Don’t let them change you. Not at your core, not who you are. Don’t let them near that.”
Minghao feels his own grimace now. “You’re telling me to not kill anyone?”
“No, not at all,” Mingyu says, shaking his head. “No, I want you to try your best to come home. You’re going to have to kill people to do it, I know that, but that’s not who you are. You know the difference. Don’t let them change you like that.”
It’s the last thing Mingyu gets out before the Peacekeepers come in, a rough voice telling him that time is up. Mingyu doesn’t fight it, but he does turn his head so he can look back at Minghao. “I love you, Hao. Even if they do.”
Minghao thinks that this “I love you” gets drowned out too. Mingyu must know anyway. He wouldn’t tell Minghao that if he didn’t: I love you, even if they change you. Even if.
Minghao didn’t say “goodbye” to his mother or to Mingyu. He looks back at the armchair as he’s led out of the room to the train and wonders if he’s done enough to satisfy it until the next male tribute sees death in that room.
Minghao has been told about the trains, of course. They’re almost an urban legend, made up of the kind of glamor and opulence that District 7 doesn’t ever see—save six years ago, when their last victor won and 7 got a year of spoils for it. Even then, all of their own opulence was tinged with something rancid that felt a lot like profiting off of a 14-year-old slaughtering people against his will. It felt a lot like profiting off of—
“Jun.”