Chapter Text
Often, the first thought he has when he rolls out of bed is I will never be free. It's a fact he accepted years ago but the crude finality of it still hits him like a blow to the head.
There used to be a house on the north-eastern outskirts of District Seven, pressed right up against the treeline. It was abandoned, had been vacant for years — no one knew why. No one knew the origins of the house, either. His father said it used to belong to a family that had drawn the ire of the Capitol, for some inexplicable reason, and one day the family vanished. His mother said a lone woman once lived there and, once she passed away, there were no takers. Lin Zhai said that was where Old Man Yang used to live with his wife and children before he went crazy.
This latter theory scared Zhang Hao the most. Old Man Yang, with his bad leg and rheumy eyes and constant mumbling, terrified him as a child. He couldn't imagine him with a family.
But he loved to visit that house. Never inside, he was too much of a coward for that even then, but peeking through the dusty windows and playing with the colony of ants outside allowed his imagination to run wild. Sometimes he went with Lin Zhai, sometimes by himself.
It was an easy walk from school: follow the stream of dishevelled pupils back to the centre of town, take a right at the bronze statue of a man Zhang Hao didn’t know, down the alleyway which seemed to house all of Seven’s stray dogs, skirt around the dirt pit which toddlers loved to play in, wind through the wobbly line of one-storey houses once he had the forest in sight. And there it would be, at the end. Just a house.
But nothing is ever truly just anything, not in Panem. There's always the catch, the snake lying in wait in the grass and readying itself to strike.
One day, the house began to burn down. It attracted a crowd at first, mainly the house's neighbours. The crowd only muttered to themselves, gossiping about bored kids and whether the fire would spread, before they grew bored and drifted back home. Water was too precious to spare on dousing the fire of an empty house and the Peacekeepers didn't care so long as the fire was contained.
It burned for three days straight. Zhang Hao watched it during every spare moment of his. He remembers thinking how strange it was that the fire never budged from that plot of land; it was as if the flames were trapped in a bubble, slowly licking at the wooden walls and thatched roof but unable to progress any further. When night fell, the flames would flicker and the innards of the house would only glow a faint orange, sparks sailing in the air. Eventually, it was over. Ashes that burned his eyes, clung to his skin and clothes.
There was no insight into why the fire started. Lin Zhai, still insisting on his theory, said that Old Man Yang set fire to the house to destroy the ghosts of his family. Then he called Zhang Hao weird and ran off back home.
“So which one were you?” Kim Heechul would ask, with his standard friendly smile lighting up his face. “The snake waiting in the grass, the house on fire, or the boy watching it?”
“I don't know,” he would say honestly. “Perhaps all of them.”
Heechul's smile would slide away, his face scarily empty. “Wrong answer.”
It's a trick question, he should tell Heechul: every answer is the wrong answer. Each option exposes an unruly side to him. Some days he feels like the snake, patient and malicious. Some days the house, reduced to nothing but a scattered pile of ashes floating in the wind. Some days the boy, unreactive and unreachable.
Some days, he feels like nothing at all.
Zhang Hao first meets Sung Hanbin on the thirteenth floor of Freedom Tower. A perfectly ironic name. Most landmarks in the Capitol are termed in the same vein, engineered to remind the public what they've lost and gained. Freedom, justice, liberty. To someone like Zhang Hao, it's a slap in the face. Even more so when considering why exactly he's here tonight.
His presence is required at these types of evenings, an annual get-together with too many important people. It's ostensibly a celebration of the Games and all the relationships it's fostered, and the invite list covers four sections of society: victors of the Games, any sponsors or business executives that have been loyal patrons of the Games, the Capitol government, and the Gamemakers themselves. There are many dinners and conferences and parties which Zhang Hao is free to make his excuses for, but not this.
Similar to previous years, he spends his time skirting around the edges of the room with a water glass in hand and making a show of admiring the art decorating the walls. Zhang Hao doesn't know a single thing about art, even after his years in the Capitol, but at least it keeps him occupied enough to evade questioning. A few of the sponsors — his clients — appear at his side to make small talk, their smiles sharp and eyes greedy, but vanish again when he gives too many clipped responses.
No one else approaches him. His fellow victors are dotted around the room, chatting up their own former sponsors or muttering to themselves in small groups; at this point, they know better than to try and entice Zhang Hao into conversation. He has no business with any government officials and the Gamemakers have long made a habit of avoiding past victors for simplicity's sake. Now hiding in a corner, he faces away from the art and towards the mass of people instead. Four sections of society, it turns out, is a lot of people in one room. He doubts anyone notices when he sets his glass on a nearby table and slips out.
Superstition is strong in the Capitol, especially amongst the socialites that come to these events, and his unwavering resolve to head to the unlucky thirteenth floor for a moment of solitude during these evenings has served him well these past few years. He never comes across anyone else.
There's a moment as he gets in the elevator and presses the embossed 13 that he thinks nothing will happen, that the elevator will refuse to take him up the five floors necessary to reach his destination. Who knows if they've locked access to the upper floors? But they haven't, so the doors slide shut and he moves.
He watches the numbers climb steadily, a faint pressure building behind his left eyeball. He's not used to being around so much noise and lights and people now. Fresh air, he decides as the doors open. They must have a balcony on this floor somewhere, though he's less sure when he leaves the elevator. The thirteenth floor, befitting of its supposed misfortune, seems to be permanently unused.
It's a far cry from the luxury of the lobby and the eighth floor. There's an assortment of cardboard boxes on a trolley next to the elevator doors, all housing what looks like stacks of books. They probably belong to the banned list and have therefore been seized by the Capitol — Zhang Hao is tempted to rifle through them and see if any catch his interest, but he wouldn’t be able to take them home anyway. Apart from that, the hallway is uncomfortably bare, a liminal space of barrenness. There’s no art adorning the walls or patterned vases on side tables here, only a row of closed doors beckoning him. He glances around for cameras and, finding none, mentally shrugs.
The floor isn’t carpeted either and his steps echo loudly against the linoleum as he turns the first handle. They haven’t updated the doors to electronic ones, which is strange but he isn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. The door is unlocked, to his surprise, but there’s not much worth guarding here: another stack of boxes, blanketed in plastic wrap. The second room is the same. This must be the storage floor.
The third room doesn't turn up a balcony but it does turn up a boy—no, a man, he corrects himself. Zhang Hao isn't a boy anymore and neither is Sung Hanbin, only one year younger than Zhang Hao. Boyhood splinters and dies the second you enter the arena.
(Of course, Capitol socialites aren't the only attendees here — superstition isn't as strictly adhered to in some of the districts.)
"Sorry," Zhang Hao says guiltily, making to close the door. He can't begrudge anyone else their need to escape for a moment's peace and the last thing he wants is to impose. He feels awkward enough anyway, like he's privy to something he shouldn't be; this room, albeit purposed as a storage room, is pristine-white and Hanbin is a dark blot on its clean canvas.
Hanbin's eyes snapped open the second Zhang Hao opened the door, and now Zhang Hao watches him straighten and push himself up off the wall he was leaning against. "No, stay. I don't want to scare you off."
Hanbin has a vaguely haunted look about him, the kind of thousand-yard stare where he's looking through you rather than at you. Zhang Hao sees that same expression every time he looks in the mirror. There's a second where they just measure each other up, two ghosts meeting in the haunted halls of Freedom Tower, before Hanbin is the one to break.
“I’m Sung Hanbin,” he introduces. “The victor of the 43rd Games.”
“I know,” Zhang Hao replies. “You won right after me.” He inclines his head. “I’m Zhang Hao.”
“I know,” Hanbin says, adopting the same tone as Zhang Hao.
Hanbin's posture is drawn tight, a little defensive but nothing more than that. Reading body language is a skill Zhang Hao perfected in the Games, back when night would fall in the arena and his surroundings were blanketed in complete darkness. All he could rely on was squinting at his fellow tributes' silhouettes, detecting whether they were searching for an easy kill or just trying to get through the night.
Hanbin's body language, to him, reads as the latter.
"Well," Zhang Hao flounders. "I didn't mean to disturb you, I was just looking for some fresh air."
Hanbin nods, expression smoothing out into something more—alive. “There’s a balcony just this way. I'll show you.”
Zhang Hao steps back to allow him to pass through, tongue feeling a little thick in his mouth. He has half a mind to tell Hanbin to forget it, that Zhang Hao will zip back down to the celebration below and soldier through. But Hanbin is already moving and Zhang Hao finds himself strangely intrigued at the prospect of more time with him.
He trails him further down the hallway. Hanbin clearly knows where he's going; he doesn't hesitate for a moment as he pulls open a door, identical to every other door on this floor, and guides Zhang Hao through. This room is also empty but just in front of him, there's a sliding door to the balcony outside. He breathes a quiet sigh of relief.
The wind, miraculously cool, rushes forward to greet him and caresses his cheeks. He folds his arms atop the railing and sighs again, body slowly relaxing.
Hanbin is hovering in the doorway behind him, hand braced on the frame, and Zhang Hao turns to face him. He's not sure if he expects him to leave him or not. Or wants him to.
Hanbin gives him a tentative smile. “Mind if I stay? I could use some fresh air too.”
The scale abruptly tips one way. If it were any other victor, then Zhang Hao would probably refuse. Perhaps on any other night, he would refuse Hanbin too. But he doesn't have the heart to turn him away, especially as Hanbin was the one who led him here. “No, of course not. Be my guest.”
Hanbin's eyebrows arch up in shock for a moment, like he hadn't expected Zhang Hao to agree, but he quickly recovers. He leaves about a foot of space between their bodies. His smile has shifted into something more cheeky as he glances again at Zhang Hao. This feels closer to the Sung Hanbin he's caught glimpses of at other events and stints on the TV. “So. Zhang Hao.” He overpronounces the syllables, as if rolling the name around in his mouth.
“So. Sung Hanbin,” Zhang Hao replies, curious where this is going. He can't remember the last time he held a conversation with another victor.
“I assume you're out here for the same reason I am,” Hanbin says, stretching in a way that's almost feline. “It's so stuffy in there. Not only the room but the people too. If I have to listen to one more idiot talk about how entertaining the Games have been recently,” here, he's close to spitting the words, “I may have to do something drastic. I'm sure they'd feel very differently if I stuffed them into the arena instead.”
Zhang Hao freezes. Talking like this about the Games or anyone involved strictly isn't allowed. Placed upon the highest pedestal, any kind of participation in the Games is viewed as an honour in the Capitol. To talk like this is one thing, but to speak so brazenly when this very balcony is likely bugged by the Capitol is entirely another. A chill that has nothing to do with the wind sweeps over the nape of his neck.
"They can't hear us," Hanbin declares, reading his thoughts. "Too much interference from the wind. It amazes me how they still haven't found a way to fix that even with the world at their fingertips."
That familiar panic lodges inside him. Hanbin must be aware that he's committing treason — he's not stupid. Zhang Hao can see that clearly. But why draw such attention to himself? Especially with the added risk of Zhang Hao, who for all Hanbin knows could be the greatest patriot to ever live?
"Like I said," Hanbin says softly when Zhang Hao continues to stay silent, still watching him with an unreadable glint in his eye, "they can't hear us. You don't need to worry."
A particularly strong gust of wind rips through them, the railing creaking ominously. Zhang Hao even has to rebalance a little but Hanbin only pushes his own hair out of his face, still with that piercing gaze. It makes his breath catch, to have such a look directed at him.
Zhang Hao wants to reach over and conduct an experiment, push at Hanbin's shoulder and see if he's as immovable as stone. The wind dies down, and with it his inexplicable urges.
"Force of habit," he manages, then smiles wryly. It feels unnatural on his face but altogether genuine, which is such a shock he nearly needs to compose himself again. "I'm scared of my own shadow, these days."
"Don't I know the feeling," Hanbin wonders, almost to himself. That same haunted look returns to him, eyes dimming and mouth flattening, before it's wiped away and replaced with that easygoing smile. It's like he's playing a game, repeatedly switching out two masks and asking Zhang Hao which one is the real Sung Hanbin. "It seems strange that this is our first time talking."
"I'm sure we've both been busy with our own lives," Zhang Hao replies, turning away and gazing out over the city.
Everything about the Capitol is so neat. A perfect skyline: evenly-spaced skyscrapers shooting up into the expanse of darkness, domed malls and universities which Zhang Hao knows to be far bigger inside. The rainbow lights twinkling along the Avenue, the presidential gardens an oasis of artificial green in the centre of the city, rows of pastel-pink limestone houses curving into each other like commas. Shortly after he won, Bora had insisted that he visit for a couple of days. She'd paraded him around some kind of museum exhibit dedicated to the Capitol's architecture. The city devoid of any faults, one plaque had modestly preached. Zhang Hao had snorted when he read it. He’s never once been prone to the same rhapsodising. He's still waiting for this place to feel like home.
Hanbin tuts, also examining the streets beneath them. "I said we can talk freely, Hao. I won't run screaming if you mention that the Capitol has you working on some new abhorrent project that will kill even more children."
Zhang Hao side-eyes him. What is his angle here? He's so clumsy with it that it almost feels like he's a spy trying to catch Zhang Hao out, waiting for the moment he'll slip and say something unsavoury about the Capitol. But, weirdly, Zhang Hao can tell he's being genuine with his hatred. It reminds him of himself, actually, when he was so angry at the world and all of its sheer injustice that he decided everyone else had to know about it.
Zhang Hao grew out of the ranting, both because he didn't have the energy for it anymore and because no one was around to listen. He supposes Hanbin is still young and, presumably, has people to listen. Unless he's scoping Zhang Hao out for this very purpose.
"That doesn't feel like a first-conversation type of discussion," he says evenly.
Hanbin practically lights up at the mere fact that Zhang Hao hasn't pushed him over the balcony railing for treason. "How about a second-conversation type of discussion?"
The naked hope in his face means that Zhang Hao has to look away from him. He knows there must be reasons to disagree, but none are coming to mind right now. “Alright. I can work with that.” He peers into the room behind them, as if someone will burst through the door and march them off to the Capitol's cells. “Just somewhere safer than here. Obviously.”
“Obviously,” Hanbin echoes, thumb tapping against the railing in an apparent show of nerves. It's endearing. Zhang Hao had gotten the impression that nerves had deserted Hanbin a long time ago.
He straightens up. They should rejoin the others. He says as much to Hanbin, who nods. Zhang Hao's absence has likely continued to be unnoticed, but he doubts he can say the same for Hanbin. He combs his fingers through his hair in an attempt to return it to its coiffed styling from the beginning of the evening, then quickly abandons that idea when Hanbin can't seem to tear his eyes away from him. He flushes at the attention and hopes he can blame the wind.
"I thought you'd be different," Hanbin says finally, the muscles of his body loose in interest. Zhang Hao must be reading his body language wrong, only Zhang Hao never gets this wrong. It's how he survived.
He fumbles for a reply instead. "Different how?"
"Just different. I never said it was a bad thing.”
Then he smiles. It's a dangerous smile.
He doesn't know much about Sung Hanbin. Zhang Hao had been a little preoccupied in that first couple of years of his transition from tribute to victor. There was no space in his head for himself, let alone anyone else. Especially not pretty victors with disarming smiles.
It would be so easy to learn about him. All he has to do is switch on his television and hunt for an inevitable replay of Hanbin's Games, or perhaps a documentary detailing Hanbin's district life and subsequent fame after winning the Games. Zhang Hao knows that such a documentary exists for himself, so why wouldn't it exist for Hanbin?
Or he could ask his manager Taerae or stylist Yizhou for some gossip relating to Hanbin. He's sure that must exist too. Every victor ends up being the subject of idle Capitol brunch chatter at least once. Even Zhang Hao, as prickly and reclusive as he is, has skeletons in his closet which he knows people must unearth for casual amusement.
But his television remains silent and unobtrusive, and his conversations with Taerae and Yizhou remain shallow.
He knows better than anyone the ability of the Capitol media to weave falsehoods and spin a person's character into something it isn't.
He's neighbours with Ms. Park, an elderly woman who must be the only person in the Capitol that has no clue who Zhang Hao is. He has to assume that's the reason behind her subdued kindness, her gentle smiles when they meet in the hallway. No one else looks at him like that.
"Young man," she greets as soon as he steps out of his apartment, on his way to see one of his clients. He always retreats into himself on these nights, the world growing muffled and dim as if he's plugged cotton into his ears, which is why she repeats herself. "Young man."
She's replacing the scuffed welcome mat by her front door with a brand new, considerably pinker mat. He dredges up a smile for her, though it withers away quickly. "Good evening."
Ms. Park smooths out a corner and surveys him with an inscrutable expression on her face. Zhang Hao braces himself for a remark on his outfit or where he's going at this time, but all she says is: "Have you had a chance to visit the new market yet?"
Zhang Hao blinks. He didn’t even know the Capitol had markets. “Ah…no?”
"You should,” she declares, straightening up and placing her hands on her hips. "It’s tomorrow morning. Go and have a look. The fruit is nothing like what I’ve tasted before."
"Okay," he acquiesces after a beat, equal parts intrigued and touched. It's not like his schedule is chock-full. "Thank you. I will."
She tells him where he can find it and they exchange pleasantries for a few more minutes, Ms. Park updating him on the lives of her grandchildren while Zhang Hao nods along. He has to make his excuses before his taxi decides to up and leave, and he's debating on the most polite way out. Before he can come up with something suitable, Ms. Park catches the hesitant look on his face and cuts herself off.
She smiles and pats his shoulder. "Anyway, I won't keep you. You look like you're going somewhere important."
"Yes," he says in lieu of the statement he really wants to make, and smiles wanly. He bows and begins to back away. "It was nice speaking to you. Take care."
"You too," she replies, a little stern. Zhang Hao never knew his grandmother but he imagines this is what she would've been like. "And remember the market!"
"I will!" he throws out over his shoulder.
The elevator doors open with a slight stutter. He closes his eyes, just for a moment, and disappears into himself again.
The next morning, running on perhaps three hours of sleep, he dutifully follows Ms. Park’s orders.
The market is where she told him it would be, unfurling on the promenade between Main Street and Dove Avenue. Rows of stalls greet him — there's not as many as there would be in Seven, but still enough to provide him with a diversity of options. The overhanging roofs of tarp flutter in the breeze as he approaches. It's not strange that this market has completely escaped his notice, as he rarely ventures outside of his apartment except to see his clients and buy his food in the store just a couple of minutes from his building, but it is strange that the Capitol of all places, with its saccharine customer service at every turn and gaudy façades, is home to one. It's lively even at this hour, which surprises him; Capitol natives love nothing more than sleeping in. It's a way of life he doubts he'll ever adapt to. He still rises at the crack of dawn, even during the biting cold of winter. Old habits die hard, he supposes.
He bypasses the textile stalls and heads towards where the produce stalls are grouped together. The fruit does look nice, he muses to himself as he glances at a crate of apples the colour of blood. These apples and the apples sold in headache-inducing Capitol stores must travel the same long distance from the orchards of Eleven, but these somehow look more appealing to him. Perhaps confirmation bias, perhaps not, but he finds himself buying a bag's worth regardless.
He moves onto the tomatoes next and admires the glossy sheen to them as he picks one up. There's a spot on the flesh that's soft and bruised and he brushes his thumb against it, absently listening to the market ladies gossiping with each other. The vendor manning the stall is included in this circle and she's telling her story of a regular customer. It takes him a moment to register that they're talking about Sung Hanbin.
"Oh yes, even more handsome in person. And," she lowers her voice conspiratorially, "I was expecting him to be different. You know, more in line with how he is on TV. He was so nice and polite, nothing at all like—oh!"
She cuts herself off and Zhang Hao glances up, only to see her staring at his hand. He follows her gaze and notices that he's unconsciously clenched his fist around the tomato he's picked up.
"My fault," he manages, forcing himself to relax. The juice trickles down his wrist. "Sorry. I'll pay for it."
He does pay for it, along with three more tomatoes (thankfully unbruised and unbroken). The vendor hands him the bag with a smile and he cautiously smiles back.
Nothing at all like what, he wants to ask. But he keeps his mouth shut. He can be patient when he needs to be.
Zhang Hao tells himself that he only goes to the market again because those apples were vastly superior to the usual Capitol fare and he's already craving them again. It's technically not a lie. His father would sagely refer to it as a half-truth.
At least it's not a one-sided interest.
"Don't take this the wrong way," Hanbin says to him, his body a solid line of heat against Zhang Hao's side, "but I sort of knew you'd be here."
Zhang Hao hides his smile as he examines an unripe peach. "You're stalking me after one conversation?"
"I prefer to think of it as our paths naturally meeting." He shifts, shoulder brushing Zhang Hao's as they abandon that stall. "You're very difficult to get a hold of. I asked around and no one knew how to reach you. I didn't want to go through your manager."
The need to defend himself flares up inside him. "I like it that way. A lot of the others would sell our conversations to the tabloids if given the chance."
"True," Hanbin concedes, "but having a friend is important, I think. You just need to know who to trust." The implication is clumsy in its boldness. "Like me."
So no longer an implication. "Huh."
"Huh," echoes Hanbin. "Anything further?"
Zhang Hao is having far too much fun with this. "So you want…what, to be friends?"
"Yes."
When he doesn't elaborate, Zhang Hao purses his lips. "Why?"
"Because you're interesting." He nudges Zhang Hao meaningfully. "And we still need to have that second conversation."
Zhang Hao wrinkles his nose, steadfastly ignoring how his heart skips a beat at Hanbin complimenting him. Although he's still unsure if he means it entirely as a compliment. "I promise you that I'm really not that interesting."
He ignores the latter statement. They are in public after all, even if this back-and-forth makes Zhang Hao feel like they're in their own little bubble.
"Hm," Hanbin says, able to convey his doubt in one syllable. But at least he's smart enough to realise that he can't fight Zhang Hao on this, so he switches tack. "It seems like you've charmed the vendors here with your good looks."
"You're the one they can't shut up about," Zhang Hao says reflexively, then winces once he realises he's revealed too much.
Hanbin's smile is pleased when Zhang Hao glances at him. He looks different when he's not framed in the severe elegance required of Capitol celebrations, dressed in jeans and a cable-knit cardigan with his windswept hair. Younger, almost boyish. It’s deceptive.
“So you have been paying attention to me,” Hanbin says in satisfaction, seeming to relish this a great deal.
They weave back to Dove Avenue, the sounds of the market swallowed up behind them. Zhang Hao ducks his head and prays that his cap saves him from scrutiny, hopes that there’s no superfans of the Games prowling around at this early hour. Although that’s a bit of a misnomer: practically every Capitol citizen is a superfan of the Games. He’s never had much patience for the autograph-signing or rambling spiels he’s subject to on the rare occasion he does roam around the city, and he finds he has even less patience for it with Hanbin by his side. Hanbin himself must not hold the same reservations, as he stands straight-backed and proud with his face in clear view.
“It’s not really paying attention if they’re talking about you right in front of me,” Zhang Hao denies as they sidestep a mahogany table being carried out of a store. He gives him a teasing smile. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
Hanbin’s ears redden and he opens his mouth to reply before he’s interrupted by a middle-aged woman blocking their path, who immediately starts gushing to Hanbin about what a big fan of his she is. Zhang Hao inwardly sighs. He waits by Hanbin's side and half-listens to her with his face turned away. It’s uncomfortable for him to listen to this, especially when the one-sided conversation starts veering into talk of Hanbin’s looks despite her being old enough to be his mother, but out of the corner of his eye Hanbin is nodding and smiling and accepting the compliments graciously. Doing all the things a good victor should do. Eventually, she bids him goodbye with a squeeze of his arm. Her handbag glances against Zhang Hao’s elbow.
Hanbin exhales next to him. “Sorry about that.”
Zhang Hao shrugs. “Better you than me.” He regrets the words as soon as he says them, but Hanbin has no outward reaction.
They come to a halt on the corner. Ordinarily, this would be the point Zhang Hao crosses the intersection and heads south. He’s not far from his apartment but having Hanbin know where he lives at this point in their budding friendship seems—a little too much, for some reason.
His indecision is likely showing on his face but Hanbin offers: “Let me walk you home?”
Zhang Hao focuses his gaze on a red luxury car cruising by. “I have somewhere else to be. But thank you.”
“Right,” Hanbin says dubiously, though he’s kind enough not to call him out on his obvious lie. He dithers for a moment with his hands in his pockets, his previous confidence disappearing and leaving behind something more unsure. “Until next time, then?”
“Until next time,” he promises with a sincere smile. He feels Hanbin’s eyes on his back as he crosses the road.
Being around Hanbin makes him feel uncomfortably alive in a way he hasn't felt in years, like his skin's been flayed and every little brush against the new rawness of it makes him flinch.
Energy fizzes through him in a way that it never has before. It's disconcerting to feel so much after years of feeling nothing at all.
Disconcerting but also—invigorating. Proof that he is still walking this earth and hasn’t completely vanished from this body, as he previously suspected.
He shouldn't be entertaining this. He should be running away from this new relationship with Hanbin as far as possible, tell him that Zhang Hao's changed his mind and isn't in the mood for friendship. He's come to learn that nothing that makes him feel good can actually be good for him in the long run. It's best to cut this off at the roots now before it grows into its own monster.
But maybe, just this once, just this once, he can get away with it. Maybe he can find solace in his first true friendship here. He nurtures that small developing bud of happiness and pretends he doesn't see the vine wrapping around his ankle, dragging him deeper into the shadows.
Next time ends up being a few weeks later. The market is held twice a week, every Tuesday and Saturday, and Zhang Hao turns up each time without fail. Hanbin is never there, not even when the sun cracks open in the sky and Zhang Hao lingers by the jewellery stalls after he’s already done his produce shopping. He keeps hoping to hear a raspy voice or catch a familiar figure in his peripheral vision or even, if he’s feeling especially wistful, a comforting warmth against his side. But he’s left alone and so he trudges back home in defeat.
At some point he begins to doubt that Hanbin still has plans of friendship in mind. Zhang Hao wouldn't blame him if he gave up on him, he honestly wouldn't. He understands that Hanbin was probably mistaken in assuming what type of person Zhang Hao was and realised that other people would suit his needs better. Zhang Hao will get over it; the hurt that sticks to the back of his throat will eventually disappear. He doesn't even know why he's so hurt over it, he muses as he walks through the shadows. Like he told Hanbin, he's never had much cause for friendship before this. But isn't that exactly why the pain of being forgotten is so acute? Hanbin is the exception to his rule and he thought he was Hanbin's exception too, however unlikely that must be.
It's pretty pathetic for him to be so hung up on a man whom he's had a grand total of two conversations with, he can admit that.
All of his moping is instantly erased when he makes his final left. He pulls up short. Hanbin is waiting for him on the promenade, hair blowing every which way thanks to the gusts of wind. Zhang Hao can’t even make out his face from this distance — and in the darkness, despite the glow of the street lights — but he knows it’s him, something about the sleek cut of his coat and the breadth of his shoulders and the solidity of his silhouette. Embarrassing, he scolds himself as he approaches.
Hanbin’s face breaks out into a smile when Zhang Hao nears. “Long time no see.”
“Long time no see,” Zhang Hao echoes in agreement, contentment sitting warm in his stomach.
Hanbin takes a half-step forward. “To be honest,” he says, head tilted to the side, “I thought we could ditch the market today and hang out in my apartment.”
Zhang Hao hesitates. It's not that he doesn't want to go to Hanbin's apartment, but he's wary of the new possibilities that spring up. The market is a safe place for them, neutral ground with no inherent loyalty to either one of them. He wishes he could stop thinking of everywhere as a battlefield to be conquered.
When the silence lingers for a bit too long, Hanbin rushes to say: “Unless you’d still like to shop, of course. I don’t want to—disrupt routine. Or have you go home to an empty fridge.”
Zhang Hao muffles a laugh with a gloved hand. “There’s not much danger of that, trust me. Especially as the produce I get from here seems to last a lot longer, for some reason.” He wraps his arms around himself as another gale of wind sweeps over them. “I'd be happy to go to your apartment and make fun of your decor.”
Hanbin cackles. He doesn't bother to muffle it. “It’s a standard victor apartment, don't get your hopes up. It's not very interesting.”
Zhang Hao refrains from telling him that he hasn’t seen very many victor apartments, if any. “I'm sure it's plenty interesting.” He hesitates again. “Can I ask where you've been?”
Hanbin's mouth shapes into an O. “Ah, of course. I had urgent business in Four which I had to take care of.” He waves a hand as if batting away an invisible fly. “It's all taken care of now. I only got back last night. Sorry, I know I could’ve passed on a message to, ah…” He cocks his head. “Taerae, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, that’s him,” Zhang Hao confirms, then backtracks once he has to reckon with the notion of Taerae asking him when he’d gotten so close to District Four victor Sung Hanbin. Not to mention how Hanbin has clearly done his research on him. “But it’s fine, don’t worry about it. I was thinking…” He braves it. “I was thinking that I scared you off or something like that.”
Amusement flickers over Hanbin’s face. “I don’t scare very easily these days.” He offers Zhang Hao his elbow. “Shall we?”
Zhang Hao takes it with a small fissure of pleasure. He can understand why Hanbin has charmed so many Capitol citizens, then immediately feels guilty for thinking such a thing. As well as disgust at himself for lumping himself in with Hanbin’s Capitol fans as if the Hanbin guiding him through the streets now and the Hanbin on TV are the same person; the Hanbin he knows is real and nothing at all like the Hanbin he must present to interviewers and reporters. He’s never had an issue with remembering that previously, especially considering his own experiences with the Capitol.
Their steps echo against the paving as the city slowly begins to wake up around them. There's only a few stragglers on the streets who don't pay them any mind; it's that blissful period of time where it's universally recognised the best course of action is to avert one’s eyes. The only people with business at this hour are, for once, too preoccupied with their own lives to care about anything else.
After a few minutes, he realises that Hanbin is leading him to a makeshift car park outside a neat row of stores. “I didn't know you drive.”
Hanbin smiles slightly. “It’s nice to have that extra little bit of freedom. Something that they can’t take away from you.”
Zhang Hao wants to clap his hand over his mouth for speaking of freedom so boldly in public, but that would only look more suspicious if anyone was surveilling. He settles for giving him a disgruntled look instead, which only serves to widen Hanbin’s smile. Nothing about this is funny, Zhang Hao wants to tell him but refrains from doing so here. Hanbin’s apartment would probably be a better setting.
He’s parked somewhere inconspicuous, hidden underneath a tree and out of range of nosy suburbanites, which Zhang Hao is grateful for. What good can come of them being spotted getting in a car together?
Hanbin opens the passenger door for him and Zhang Hao hopes his resulting flush can be blamed on the bite of the morning chill.
It strikes him that this is the first time they’re in an enclosed space, the rest of the world muffled outside the body of the car. The sound of their breathing is oddly loud in the silence and Zhang Hao’s fingers skitter across his thigh nervously before digging into the cotton.
Mistaking his jitters for shivering, Hanbin cranks the heating up as soon as he turns the engine on. It’s a nice car, he realises as they pull away. The interior is clean and well-kept with not a single streak of dirt in the footwell. Everything else beyond that, like the various glowing buttons between them, escapes him; he holds little interest in cars and less use for them.
“Being outside this early reminds me of being in Four,” Hanbin tells him abruptly. “Before the Games, obviously. When I would have to go to work.”
Zhang Hao tries to contain his surprise. The kids in Career districts generally don’t have to work, not when their parents have the luxury of either forcing them to stay in education or sending them off to hone their skills for the Games. He had assumed Hanbin fell in the latter category. “You worked?”
He nods. “I started working when I was fourteen. I already had some experience in fishing but they assigned me to be a boat mechanic on the docks, though I learnt how to operate them too. Only in the early hours, though, when the Peacekeepers weren’t quite awake enough to yell at me.” Zhang Hao allows himself to picture a teenage Hanbin tinkering away on the deck of a boat and smiles. Hanbin gestures at the leaves fluttering across the bonnet. “Doesn’t help that the weather was always like this in Four as well, especially by the sea. It takes me back to that time, walking to work each day and only having to worry about which rudder was broken now.”
He sounds off. It's the kind of yearning for a long-gone routine which Zhang Hao is used to hearing in his own head, so he steers him back on track with a teasing, “Did you have a car then, too?”
Hanbin laughs shortly. “No.” Then, quieter: “No.”
There's a tension in Hanbin's jaw which refuses to unspool. He might as well share an anecdote of his. “I worked too, except I started when I was eleven. A lot of the time they only wanted us to cut down the branches of a tree, not the trunk. They wanted that to remain intact. So the best, most nimble climbers would be sent up right to the top of a tree and have to cut down the branches with a saw.” His voice quietens. “That was what I did.”
Hanbin blinks. “That sounds a hell of a lot more dangerous than my job.”
Zhang Hao studies the calluses on his hands in lieu of answering. He supposes that he grew accustomed to thinking of danger’s embrace as loving rather than alarming.
Hanbin turns into an underground garage and parks in one of the bays further in, closest to the exit doors. All in all, the journey took less than five minutes. It's a shorter distance to the market than Zhang Hao's own apartment is — he could've walked it, easily. “You live this close and still choose to drive?”
“I don't really like walking in the dark.” He makes a face, equal parts sheepish and self-deprecating. “Maybe I lied when I said that I don't get scared easily.”
Zhang Hao makes a face too. “Well, we have that in common. I won't tell anyone if you won't.”
“It's a deal,” says Hanbin, nodding solemnly. “No one needs to know that two victors aren't so tough after all.”
Something about the statement is funny in a way he can't quite put his finger on so he starts laughing, and Hanbin joins in a second later. When was the last time he felt such genuine happiness to the point of laughter?
Stray giggles still escape their mouths as they leave the car and take the elevator up to the fifteenth floor. His hand has gravitated to Hanbin's elbow and Hanbin allows it, pink cheeks curving up in his blurry reflection on the elevator doors. Zhang Hao's heart twists in his chest.
Zhang Hao counts four other apartments on this floor, though he thinks there may be a few more lurking around the corner. The layout of this building is strange, all twists and turns and unmarked doors with handles that glow red.
"My place isn't bugged," Hanbin explains airily as soon as he closes the door behind them. "At least for the moment. Although they keep trying."
Zhang Hao toes off his shoes in the entryway, then rearranges them neatly on the rack next to Hanbin's. “They keep on trying to tap where you live?”
Hanbin has disappeared into the kitchen but Zhang Hao takes a few seconds to nose around. If Hanbin thinks this is what a standard victor apartment looks like, he doesn't want to know what his thoughts would be on Zhang Hao's place. It's not like Zhang Hao's apartment is some kind of rat-infested hovel, far from it, but in comparison to this it could give off that impression. Hanbin's entryway opens up into a cavernous living room with a ceiling so high it could fit right into the ground floor of a mansion. Zhang Hao knew there was something odd going on with the layout of this building. The decor is simple: a cream couch, a grey loveseat, plants lined up on the bookshelf, light fixtures jutting out from the walls. Most striking of all are the floor-to-ceiling windows in place of one of the walls. The sun is beginning to paint the Capitol in all of its glory.
“Don’t they do the same to you?” Hanbin calls out, and Zhang Hao follows the sound of his voice. Hanbin has two mugs out in front of him and he holds up a pack of coffee pods in a question. Zhang Hao accepts with a nod.
"I don’t know, maybe. But I doubt they would be getting much use out of tapping my place," he confesses. "It's just me in there."
Hanbin glances at him, pausing his fiddling with the coffee machine. "What, all the time?" Zhang Hao nods, ashamed for a reason he can't place, and Hanbin resumes preparing their coffee. "Sounds lonely."
Zhang Hao thinks he's spent so long being lonely that, at some point along the way, it stopped feeling like loneliness and more like the natural state of affairs. "It is, I guess." His next words are delayed. "But my mentor told me I couldn't trust anyone."
He registers how it sounds as soon as the words leave his mouth, like he's still a teenager in need of direction rather than an adult in possession of his own mental faculties. He's not really making a good impression here.
Hanbin studies him as the machine does its job. “Well, you have me now.” The statement is accompanied with a soft smile directed at him, one that makes the lines of his face less severe.
Zhang Hao offers up his own tentative smile. Hope unravels in him. After so many years with just himself — not to mention all the baggage he brings with him — he had long given up on the idea of true companionship. But Hanbin has already started to chip away at his barriers. He thinks there could be something worthwhile here, something good.
“Not that I’m judging,” Hanbin starts after taking a sip of his coffee while they sit at the kitchen table, “but why the change of heart now? Your mentor told you you couldn’t trust anyone yet here you are in my apartment, drinking coffee I made.” He widens his eyes comically. “What if I poisoned it?”
Zhang Hao raises an eyebrow at him. “I watched you make it,” he points out blandly.
Hanbin’s smile is roguish. “Do you think a victor wouldn’t be able to come up with more ingenious poisoning methods? Maybe I dropped powder into your mug before you even arrived.”
“Did you?”
“No, of course not. But I could have.”
“But you didn’t,” Zhang Hao dismisses. “So there.”
Still, it’s a valid point. The alarming, undeniable truth is that he trusts Hanbin, that Hanbin intrinsically sets something within Zhang Hao at ease even though they've only spoken a few times. He can’t recall the last time he fully trusted anyone; not even Jiayi had gotten to that point. Taerae is likely next in line but Zhang Hao will never bare his heart to a Capitol citizen, no matter what. But he doesn’t want to ruminate on this in Hanbin’s kitchen.
“Besides,” he adds in a bid for distraction, “it’s not like Jiayi can berate me for defying her beyond the grave.”
“I know,” Hanbin says neutrally. He doesn’t offer up an asinine I’m sorry like everyone else would — and has. Another thing Zhang Hao is grateful for. “But often when our loved ones die, at least in my experience, we like to cling onto their words and fulfil the promises we made to them as best as we can. As proof that they meant something to us.”
Zhang Hao shakes his head, staring down into the murky brown of his coffee. “Who said anything about loved ones? She was my mentor, that’s all. There was no love lost between us and she wouldn't care about any promises we made to each other. She—” He has to swallow around the lump of grief in his throat. Nothing he’s saying is strictly wrong but it doesn’t feel like the full picture.
Hanbin takes another sip of his coffee, watching him patiently. True to his word, there's no judgement in his eyes. He was expecting this outburst, Zhang Hao realises.
“I’ve never been able to speak about this with anyone else,” he blurts out. “Everyone just assumes that victors have a certain kind of relationship with their mentors. At least in public. They have to turn it into something familial. But it wasn't like that with her.” He smiles ruefully and revises, “But despite all that, she was my safety blanket. As much of a safety blanket as I could have here, anyway. She was the only thing I had left of home. So for her to die, it felt like my last connection to Seven was severed too.”
Hanbin nods, brow furrowed in thought. “I understand that. When it comes to Four, it's not so much that my connection with it has been severed but more like…that place belongs to the past now. In some ways, it will probably always represent home to me even if it doesn't feel like home.”
“Yeah,” Zhang Hao mutters. “I understand that.” The coffee scalds his tongue but it's a welcome distraction. “What about your mentors? Four has so many of them, I don't think I even know most of their names. And you rotate each year, right?”
Hanbin hums in confirmation. “We take it in turns. And I don’t like either of my mentors, but I never did.” He pauses and drums his fingers on the table. “Though I’m still here so I suppose that has to count for something.”
“They were useless?” he guesses. “Gave bad advice?”
Something cold sparks in Hanbin's eyes. “Not quite.” He rises from his seat with coffee in hand, expression smoothing out. “Let me show you my music collection, if you’re interested.”
Zhang Hao smiles up at him and pushes his chair back. He's received the message loud and clear — an obvious subject change, but who is he to judge? “I love music.”
The night after he won, he couldn’t sleep. Bora had offered him sleeping pills when she came to congratulate him and, for some reason, he'd declined; he sincerely regretted that decision. After hours of tossing and turning, he rolled out of bed to open a window in belief that the fresh air would help.
Instead, he was hit full-force with the sounds of people. Partygoers hooting and hollering, the faint bass travelling from the club district, cars honking, the crackle of fireworks in the sky. The Capitol celebrating his win. So this is what victory sounded like.
The hatred he felt on that night was boundless.
He was holed up on the seventh floor of the Tribute Centre in the same room he'd been relegated to a month ago. Xinyu had been in the room opposite his. He stared up at the ceiling. How could his life change more in a month than it had in seventeen years?
Tomorrow he would take the train back home to District Seven with Jiayi and—how did Bora word it? A new chapter, she'd said. Zhang Hao didn't want that; he wanted to flip the pages the other way, to return to a few chapters ago where he didn't yet know the feeling of plunging a knife into someone's stomach. He closed his eyes.
He knew why he couldn't sleep. He was absolutely petrified of how his parents would react when they met Zhang Hao, Hunger Games victor, for the first time. Would they look after him while his mind healed? Would they quit their jobs and allow his generous winning proceeds to take care of them for the rest of their lives? Would they move house with him? Would they greet him with open arms when he got off that train? Or, maybe, would they disown him as their son? Zhang Hao knew it happened. It was glossed over because the Capitol couldn't afford every tribute coming into the Games with fears of their parents abandoning them if they won — how's that for a victor's perk? — but from the few interviews he'd watched, he was an expert in picking up the real meaning behind the Capitol's empty PR training.
And then there was the matter of Xinyu. Fuck, he needed to go and see her parents, apologise for his failure in protecting her, stash some money in a drawer because he knew they wouldn't accept it otherwise. Cash would never replace their daughter's life but he hoped it could mitigate the pain a little. But what if they blamed him for her death? What if they told him that she was the risk-taker, the one who deserved to win?
Short breaths gasped out of him in panic but even that couldn't overpower the sounds from outside. He slammed the window shut and curled up into a ball in the centre of his bed. He ended up not sleeping at all.
Ultimately, he hadn't been totally off-base.
Mayor Huang was his first port of call when he arrived in Seven. Not like Zhang Hao had much of a choice — he was waiting on the platform for him with a joyful smile on his face. Cameras flashed as they shook hands and the mayor congratulated him on his win. Seven's first win in thirty years. Then the mayor and Jiayi exchanged nods and began cutting a path through the crowd with the aid of the Peacekeepers.
Everyone was here simply to catch a glimpse of him, the boy who defied all the odds. It struck him that the only time in Seven he saw this many people flocking to one place was for the annual Reaping. Naturally, the moods between the two gatherings were vastly different: jubilance was alight in the atmosphere, greetings and laughter and even snatches of old folk songs. They were drawn to him like moths to a flame, dodging the jabs of the Peacekeepers’ guns as they reached out to him and trailed their fingertips over the finery of his Capitol clothing. Yizhou had been ordered to dress him up nicely but leave his face bare, supposedly so the makeup wouldn't be able to obscure any emotion from the cameras. Such extravagant clothing, especially when the majority of Seven's people wouldn't be able to afford a shirt like his even if they spent their entire life saving up for it, also sent a message: we have taken him from you. He was, in effect, fully owned by the Capitol now. Zhang Hao had to applaud President Shen.
“I didn't like that,” he managed once he and Jiayi were alone in the car, the partition already in place. The driver inched forward slowly as the crowds streamed through the road, following alongside the car.
“Get used to it,” Jiayi said brusquely. As if it was as easy as that.
There were cameras already stationed outside of his home, pointing right at the front door. He ignored the reporters and their microphones as he steadily walked up to the house. One foot in front of the other. He was glad that Jiayi remained in the car though it wasn't much of a decision on her part. This moment, where the world-weary victor reunites with their parents after such a horrific ordeal, is what people look forward to most. He must've been on every screen in Panem.
The door opened as soon as he reached it. Time stood still. His parents, his family with their wide eyes and mouths downturned.
“Mom,” he choked out. Then he started to cry.
He doesn't really remember what happened after that. They must have embraced as the cameras flashed behind him. Cameramen probably squatted on the grass to get an unflattering angle of him sobbing. His dad likely patted him on the back, his mother stroked his hair. Then they pulled him inside. The door swung shut. He was home again.
He tried to convince himself of that, even when the three of them sat at their rickety table in a silence only broken by Zhang Hao's occasional sniffling. His father wouldn't stop clearing his throat. His mother didn't make eye contact, anxiously wringing her hands like she needed the reminder that they were still attached to her body. Zhang Hao knew the feeling; he himself felt like he was incorporeal, watching this scene play out in front of him from a corner in the room. Something had been irreparably broken.
"I'm sorry," he remembers her whispering. "I—I just need time. It's a lot to take in. Your father and I, we thought you would…”
She let it linger there. The fact of his death. And there he was, risen from the grave.
“Yeah,” he croaked. “I did too.”
Silence again, until his father said: “We watched you every day.” His parents exchanged glances. “We saw…well, everything.” A hidden meaning here too. Disappointment, rejection, perhaps even disgust.
Zhang Hao had no idea what to say to that. “I had to,” he eventually settled on, lips numb. “I had to—I don't—did you think I had a choice?”
His mother shook her head, face hidden from view as she hunched over. “My son,” she muttered to herself. Then she started to cry too.
The Zhang Hao relegated to the corner turned on his heel and walked out.
He lived in Seven for a few months, though not with his parents. It was a sparsely populated district; the surrounding forests blocked out the majority of the land. When Zhang Hao was a kid, there were rumours that those dissatisfied with their lot in life would flee and live off the grid amongst the redwood trees. It's still a possibility as far as he's concerned, as it would be impossible to map out the entire district and verify there was no one hunkered down in hiding. But as he grew older and began to spend his days working in those very forests, he became less and less convinced of it. He never saw hide nor hair of any secret forest-dwellers, and eventually he stopped searching.
He moved into the victor's village on the opposite side of town. It was a solo move — his parents had declined the invitation. He'd tried to persuade them with promises of a life of luxury, of quitting their jobs, of never needing to lift a finger. Relaxation, as they so deserved.
His mother said nothing. She still couldn't look him in the eyes. Zhang Hao wondered if she ever would.
"Relax!" his father exclaimed, like the very idea was preposterous. And that was the end of that.
It was a lonely kind of living, as he knew it would be. Lonely and boring. His victory tour was still months away and he had nothing to occupy his days with in the meantime. That was when the nightmares started in earnest, so terrible that even during his days he would lose hours to the memory of them. Jiayi had once found him curled up in fright underneath his kitchen table, shaking and staring at a corpse only he could see. That was when the drinking started in earnest too.
Eventually, after his victory tour was over, Jiayi convinced him to move to the Capitol, citing that the change would be good for him and he wouldn’t need to travel as much for events. He agreed, somewhat numbly. He couldn't muster up the courage to say goodbye to his parents, not with guilt still hanging over him.
His team had collated pages upon pages of various apartment listings for him, all located in the central areas. According to them, these neighbourhoods were where anybody who was anybody lived: victors, Capitol popstars, government officials. Zhang Hao didn't want to be anybody. He wanted to be seventeen-year-old Zhang Hao from District Seven, impoverished and entirely unremarkable. When he died, he would be forgotten in one blink to the next; he wouldn't even have a gravestone. But at least he would die knowing his parents still loved him.
That was proving to be impossible, as he was quickly learning. Still, he thought there could be a balance between the two extremes.
He thanked his team but ultimately dismissed their research, opting to carry out the field work himself. He did some shopping around in the less affluent neighbourhoods of the city — which is to say the families here only owned two cars rather than three, the horror — and eventually settled on his current apartment as the winner. He'd chosen it for its minimalistic layout and neat self-containment, but it was still too big for him. That first day, he'd stepped inside clutching the strap of his backpack and thought, the voice in his head suddenly that of a pitiful child, I want to go home. But that was out of the question, of course, so he squared his shoulders and forced himself to call this his home instead. It hasn't quite stuck, even now, but maybe he'll get there one day.
It feels fair to trade off with Hanbin. Zhang Hao had invited him around a week after their previous conversation, where Hanbin had confessed to feeling too constrained in his own apartment. Unlike Zhang Hao he chose to live right in the centre of the Capitol and one stipulation of this, apparently, was nosy neighbours. No one had outright told Hanbin they'd seen him with Zhang Hao a couple of times but the implication of it was enough to make Zhang Hao blanch. Better to be safe than sorry; he doubts Ms. Park would blab to the press if she saw Hanbin knocking on his door.
Once inside, Hanbin surveys his apartment and Zhang Hao can't help the grimace when he views it with fresh eyes: the lone bookshelf with only a few books neatly stacked against each other (Yizhou buys him any non-approved books on the black market and he stashes them away in a nook in his bedroom), the unused TV with a layer of dust on the screen, the patchwork couch with faded stains. But there's nothing else he needs. He's not much of a frivolous spender — the only reasons money leaves his account are for grocery shopping, taxis, and funnelling money back to Seven. He has no clue if the mayor uses the money to improve the district like he promised he would, just like he has no clue if his parents still work themselves to the bone.
Hanbin passes him a pre-written note from his pocket, his handwriting messy and firm. Have you checked for bugs properly?, it reads.
Zhang Hao quirks a brow and mouths back properly? in question.
That, it turns out, involves Zhang Hao's prized kitchen knife. It's only experience that muffles his gasp at the last moment when Hanbin runs the blade across the seam of one of the couch cushions. He doesn't mind; that couch is probably older than he is, a relic from the previous owners. He hovers as Hanbin digs around inside the cushion with his hand then repeats the process with the other cushion. The only thing that sticks to his hand when it retreats is fluff.
He ends up shadowing Hanbin around the small apartment, from living room to kitchen to bathroom to bedroom. He's thankful that he took the initiative to deep clean the place the day before, though he doubts Hanbin would care if he encountered too much dust. He seems solely focused on the task at hand, brow creased in concentration as he opens cupboards and drawers and — regrettably — strips Zhang Hao's mattress clean of its sheets. All of this turns up nothing and Hanbin helps him tidy up, before they finish in the living room.
“I'm a professional at this now,” Hanbin whispers jokingly as his fingers skim the underside of each shelf, feeling for bumps in the wood. He concludes his investigation with a flourish.
Nothing. Zhang Hao isn't sure whether he should be offended or not that they didn't even bother tapping him.
Now that they know the apartment is bug-free, the conversation opens up.
"Strange place for a victor to live," Hanbin comments, rotating on the spot to take it in once again. "Is it a decoy apartment?"
Zhang Hao raises an eyebrow. "You're asking me if this is a decoy apartment just because I don't have, like, two thousand square feet all to myself?"
"No, I'm asking you if this is a decoy because you own literally nothing," Hanbin corrects, gesturing to the room at large. It is pretty bare, Zhang Hao acknowledges. And his bedroom isn't any better. "And it's not like you're a huge public figure. I mean, how do you spend your days?"
"Time just—passes." He pauses. "And my team come to visit me sometimes."
Taerae usually comes to see him every two weeks so that they can sort through Zhang Hao's mail together. He brings him news from the government as well if there is any, usually to do with the Games or some new immediately-quashed rebel insurgency in the districts. Yizhou is far less frequent but she always has some gossip on hand, either to do with Capitol celebrities or his fellow victors. He only recently realised that in all of his previous conversations with her over the years, the topic of Hanbin rarely came up. He must've made himself scarce from any love triangles or drug-fueled parties.
He's satisfied with this level of human interaction. He manages.
Hanbin studies him in silence, one hand in his pocket and face unreadable. When he speaks, he sounds almost wistful. “You really have been incredibly lonely, haven't you?” Zhang Hao bristles, but Hanbin holds up a hand before he can retort. “I don't mean that as an insult. I just think it's fascinating how we had opposite methods of dealing with it but neither of them worked. I surrounded myself with people but…” He shrugs.
Zhang Hao pulls at his lower lip in thought, not missing how Hanbin's eyes track the movement. “It's hard to be lonely for something I never really had,” he admits.
“Then that makes two of us,” Hanbin tells him, shadows playing across his jaw as he tilts his head back.
Zhang Hao gives voice to a thought that's been bouncing around his skull for weeks now. “Why did you never approach me before, even just to introduce yourself? I would've been receptive. Probably.”
Hanbin rubs his chin absently. “Ah, I thought about it. Many times, actually. But,” he gives him a wry look, “I don't think you would have appreciated it, not back then. And I didn't want to make a bad impression on you so I stayed put. It seems like, to me, we both had to relearn ourselves after the Games. Individually.”
That's one way to word it. But he does agree. “I think you're right,” Zhang Hao muses. “It took a while for me to get used to,” he waves a hand, "all of this. I'm still not really used to it but this is probably the best I'll do. So, all in all, we met at a good time.”
Hanbin nods eagerly. Zhang Hao has never had much occasion to label anything as cute — the rangy dogs that Capitol natives love are incredibly annoying — but Hanbin surprisingly fits into that category.
“Plus,” Hanbin adds after they relocate to the kitchen and Zhang Hao has finished making them jasmine tea, “it means I had time to forge my own way in life amongst the other victors and their teams.”
Zhang Hao slides him his mug across the counter. “Meaning?”
“Meaning,” says Hanbin with a nod of thanks, “that Capitol connections come in very handy. I have a lot of friends in a lot of high places. Thanks to my supreme acting talents.”
Zhang Hao snorts and raises his mug to his lips. “Is President Shen included in this circle of friends?”
“Not yet,” Hanbin replies cryptically, eyes sparkling with amusement. “But maybe I'll get there one day, who knows. I'm sure he'd love to invite me around for dinner.”
Zhang Hao's lips twitch. “Shut up and drink your tea,” he chides.
When Hanbin laughs, he ends up sloshing a quarter of his tea down his front. After the frantic scramble for tissues and muttered curses, Hanbin thankfully turns down Zhang Hao's offer to pat down his (unburned) chest for him and takes the tissues from his outstretched hands. Zhang Hao is afraid of what would've happened otherwise.
Taerae's face is as impassive as ever when Zhang Hao gets into the backseat of the taxi with him. "You clean up well," Taerae says by way of greeting.
Zhang Hao's hand lifts to tug at his necklace self-consciously, before it drops back into his lap when an unbidden vision of Yizhou slapping at his fidgeting hands appears in his mind's eye. He settles for balling his hand into a fist instead. "You always say that."
"Because it's always true," Taerae says mildly, tapping away at whatever new gadget he has locked around his wrist. He offers any compliments about Zhang Hao's appearance with the same countenance one would admire a clay pot. There's no thread of emotion woven into these statements, which is why Zhang Hao lets them pass.
Taerae himself is decked out in a fiery suit at odds with his constant stoicism. Zhang Hao has yet to understand Capitol fashion — he thinks the colours clash, to be honest, and make Taerae look like a walking neon sign.
But Taerae seems content to wear these ugly outfits. As much as Taerae can appear much of anything, anyway. He's not big on emotions or opinions or anything that proves he's his own person. Zhang Hao doesn't know a single thing about his personal life and that barrier extends to Zhang Hao's own misgivings too; he's a rock that extends neither reassurance nor judgement.
He likes Taerae, even though he deems it a bad idea to like any Capitol natives. But he's been loyal to Zhang Hao for all of these years, has never leaked any of Zhang Hao's alcohol-fueled escapades or shameful secrets to the press. Surely that must count for something.
They're heading to a gala for all of the Games victors, hosted in the heart of the Capitol. Zhang Hao has usually been able to worm his way out of these events with one excuse or another, as it's not like anyone there would miss him. Last month, however, Taerae had stared him down and said his presence was required now that Jiayi's attendance could no longer act as a buffer.
Correction: maybe Zhang Hao doesn't like Taerae so much after all. Counterpoint: Hanbin will be there.
They've been meeting up semi-regularly in Zhang Hao's apartment — he doesn't want the market gossip getting out of hand — but Zhang Hao will be glad to see him tonight regardless. He always looks forward to seeing Hanbin, which is a thought he doesn't like to voice even in the privacy of his mind. They’ve grown close in an alarmingly short space of time, closer than Zhang Hao has ever felt with someone before, but now the question looms over him like a noose: to what end? How long can this go on for until the rope tightens around his neck? When will it give?
He's shoved out of his thoughts by their arrival outside of Banquet Hall, their driver pulling up right outside of the steps. He and Taerae exit the car and immediately succumb to the evening chill. The lanterns dotting the edges of the steps fade in and out of a myriad of colours, vivid pink shifting to cyan to a lime green.
As soon as they step inside into the entrance hall, Taerae allows an Avox to pour white wine for him before citing urgent business with a few of the other victors’ managers. Zhang Hao watches him disappear past the huge oak doors and into the main room. He declines the Avox's offer of wine with a shake of his head and opts for water, trailing inside after Taerae.
The hall has clearly had a revamp from the last time he was here. A couple of years ago, the theme was velvet: velvet carpet, velvet walls with wooden furnishings, even a velvet ceiling which appeared more purple than red. All of that has been stripped clean now, giving way to a polished marble look. Everything gleams with the reflection of the light. It's more tasteful than what the Capitol usually prefers, he can admit that.
There's already a host of people dotted around the room, chatting or laughing or admiring the architecture. A lot of familiar faces but not the face he truly wants to see. There's a quartet of musicians playing on a small platform against the left wall, their fingers expertly playing their chosen string instrument. Instruments are a luxury that no one in Seven is fortunate enough to covet, so before coming to the Capitol the only music he'd been familiar with was the work songs they would sing up in the trees. Here, music is still rare but celebrated on a much grander scale. Zhang Hao draws closer to them and watches them play, entranced by the sorrow in the melody.
He's unsure how much time passes but sooner or later, he finds himself jolting to awareness when another person presses against his side. Hanbin is wearing a suit in the same cut as Zhang Hao's. His blazer has some kind of swirling, silver design embossed upon the sleeves, whereas Zhang Hao's is entirely plain.
"Hello stranger," Hanbin murmurs to him.
"Hi yourself," Zhang Hao whispers back, a grin unwittingly tugging at the corners of his mouth.
He glances at Hanbin's profile and loses himself in staring at the curve of his smile, the slope of his nose. He's so pretty. Most victors are, objectively, but Hanbin is different. Zhang Hao could look at him for hours and still find something new to marvel at. These are dangerous thoughts about someone who he's not allowed to have.
Hanbin gently nudges him with his shoulder. "Want me to check for any balconies in the vicinity?"
That sounds like an amazing idea, if he's being honest. But—"President Shen is here."
He's on the far side of the room, talking to one of the more senior Gamemakers with his hand wrapped around the stem of a wine glass. The most terrifying thing about the president, he thinks, is that he's actually not very terrifying at all. He has this ability to draw people in, to make them believe they're the only one in the room that matters. It's the type of charisma many tributes set out to emulate. But Zhang Hao knows the real him, knows what he's capable of. His fingernails bite into his palm before he remembers himself.
"So?" Hanbin sneers, face hardening in a fraction of a moment.
"So it's dangerous," Zhang Hao supplies, then pointedly wanders off without a second glance.
Sung Hanbin is dangerous, a truth he's rapidly becoming acquainted with.
When it comes to victors, the only friendships the Capitol tolerates are ones built on a foundation of vapidity. After winning the Games, victors fall into a very narrow range of archetypes. A single trait is essentially picked out of a hat, depending on where there’s a gap in the market, and the victor must perfectly embody that trait. They’re allowed to have that distinction between public and private life but in public, the part must always be played.
Intelligence, charisma, looks, physical strength, an aptitude for performing. The Capitol takes their pick and schedules follow as required: a temporary stint as a talk show host, for instance, or modelling the new trend in fashion.
Zhang Hao himself is a bit of an anomaly. It makes sense — he was the first District Seven victor in thirty years. Initially, the Capitol had no clue how to treat him simply because of that fact. They were acquainted with Jiayi, sure, but before his win there wasn’t much cause for her to be in the public eye. Seven’s tributes always performed poorly and Jiayi, in the grand scheme of things, was often forgotten about. So for Seven to turn out another victor was a shock to the Capitol system, one that led to confusion in the early days of his win.
He thinks that the plans for him had involved putting his face to use and nothing else, but during his Games he’d inadvertently shown that he was much more than a pretty face and the vacant-eyed modelling he was forced to partake in was ultimately unconvincing. So the marketing had switched, somewhat abruptly, to his brain. Although always in the most condescending way possible — he would cut the ribbon at opening ceremonies for new schools that had been built in Seven and reporters would brightly remark to him wow, how incredible is it that a district like this could yield someone like you! As was expected of him, he’d grinned with gritted teeth.
Then his victory tour had happened and the schedules gradually began to slip away and soon even Jiayi had a greater public presence than him. With Jiayi’s wheedling he’s even been lucky enough to avoid mentorship, something which he’s exceedingly grateful for.
From his understanding, Hanbin seems like a bit of an anomaly too. Charisma is obvious but looks have to be accounted for too — he's sure he's seen Hanbin advertising skincare products, his face smiling down at Zhang Hao in the electronic billboards plastered on the sides of buildings. But there's also the matter of intelligence. He clearly has his finger on the pulse in a way that's a little unnerving. It wouldn't be surprising for Zhang Hao to learn that he's been invited as a tribute analyst on Kim Heechul's talk show.
He knows that Hanbin is very well-liked — friends in high places, indeed. Despite that, it’s apparent to him that being seen with Hanbin would ring alarm bells. No one likes it when two anomalous victors are seen hanging out together. It spells trouble for the Capitol; paranoia runs abound in these streets. It's not entirely unfounded — there is a constant threat of district rebellion looming over Panem — but victors are unfairly the scapegoats for this fear. He supposes it makes sense: in the Capitol's eyes, all victors are transplants from the districts that don't quite belong in a place as luxurious as this. Jigsaw pieces which only fit into the puzzle with a lot of force. Even the Careers aren't safe from this rhetoric. It's a curious dichotomy: a victor's duty is to entertain, in whatever shape or form that may take, and be loved and adored but not too loved. Zhang Hao is lucky in this regard. People respect him or flat-out dislike him rather than love him, sentiments which he's realised are preferable to adoration. He flies under the radar like this. Hanbin isn't so fortunate.
With fans and officials alike checking up on Hanbin's every activity, a public friendship would only invite more scrutiny into their lives. On-the-clock surveillance, shadowing, bugs in his apartment. More than anything, Zhang Hao values his privacy. He won't allow speculation about them to run rife, especially not when their burgeoning relationship is so—delicate. One wrong move could ruin them.
When he'd visited Ten on his victory tour, the mayor had insisted on guiding him halfway up one of their prized mountains, a bastion of copper and their subsequent biggest earner. Proceed with caution, the signs had read at every turn in the path, complete with a drawing of a skull. It's valuable advice.
Hanbin is nosy, but Zhang Hao doesn’t mind. He knows, now, that this is what Hanbin does: hop from person to person, victor to victor, and steal their secrets. Sometimes he’ll offer up some of his own secrets, most of the time he won’t. And he always moves on, keeping that relationship stagnant like a string waiting to be plucked while drawing another lonely person into his web. That’s Hanbin’s charm, he thinks — he’s so personable, so affable, that no one around him minds him being used. If they notice in the first place.
It’s different for them; there’s an unspoken understanding that whatever’s forming between them is something special, something to be poked at and coaxed into flame. He doesn’t even need confirmation that Hanbin doesn’t act like this around anyone else, that his soft smiles are reserved for him and him only, that he finds Zhang Hao more interesting than all of those other tuneless strings. He just knows.
That’s why Zhang Hao, in a faint sort of gratitude that Hanbin has chosen him out of everyone, is as open with him as he allows himself to be.
Hanbin blows on his tea to cool it down, creating ripples on the surface. Zhang Hao smiles at him in amusement. “My mother always had this saying that if you burn your tongue on hot tea it means you were telling lies. If you were an honest person then you would be able to drink it and not feel a thing.”
Hanbin laughs at him, eyebrow raising through the thin waft of steam. “Did she ever test that out on you?”
Zhang Hao’s smile falters. “She wasn’t that cruel.” He takes a sip, uncaring of the temperature. It always burns, no matter what. “Though I probably could’ve benefited from it, to tell you the truth. My teenage years weren't very fun for either of us.”
“They never are,” Hanbin says with a sigh. “How about now? Do you still have a relationship with her?”
Zhang Hao shakes his head. "I haven't spoken to my family in years."
"Oh?" He narrows his eyes in curiosity and leans forward in his seat, interest piqued. "Seems like we have this in common too."
"Oh?" Zhang Hao says, mimicking Hanbin's tone. "What's the story with you?"
"You first," Hanbin challenges.
Zhang Hao gives a harsh bark of a laugh to cover up the sudden onset of nerves. "There is no story. We just—don't speak. I think they couldn't reconcile their son with what they watched." He shrugs. "So."
He's going for blasé but Hanbin sees right through him. A sneer curls his mouth up. "I hate that, for some of us, even our relationship with our parents is destroyed by the Games. They’re supposed to be the only people we can really talk to about what happened and not feel judged but…” He spreads his hands in the universal gesture of what can you do? “Did you at least get a chance to talk about your Games with other people? Before me, I mean?”
"My mentor, occasionally." When he could bear to. She brought him bad news every conversation. "I have my team as well. My manager, my—"
"Those don't count," Hanbin dismisses. "They're from the Capitol. They don't get it like we do."
"You're from Four," he fires back before he can control it. "It's not like you get it either."
Hanbin stares at him. He looks—hurt, more than anything, and Zhang Hao instantly regrets opening his mouth. He watches Hanbin's face shutter, expression closing off. Silence reigns.
"I'm sorry," Zhang Hao mutters, ashamed at his outburst. "I don't know why I said that. Of course the districts are…" He presses his lips together, wary of incriminating himself further.
The hurt eases from Hanbin's face as he mulls something over, eyebrows drawing together. He takes another sip from his mug. "I didn't come from a Career family," he says eventually. "I know everyone thinks I did because—but I didn't. I was as scared as you were. And, like you, I don't think my family could actually handle the concept of my win once they were faced with it."
“I'm sorry,” Zhang Hao repeats. “I shouldn't have assumed you were a Career tribute because you're from Four, that's my mistake.”
Confusion mars Hanbin's face. “That's the only reason you thought I was a Career?”
His own face must be reflecting Hanbin's confusion. “Would there be any other reasons?”
Hanbin frowns at him. "Yes," he says slowly. "I just assumed—because I killed my cousin. As you know."
Zhang Hao blinks, momentarily speechless. There's not a lot about the Games that can shock him, not now that he's been thrown into them himself and is intimately acquainted with what exactly they can do to a person, but this qualifies. Hanbin's eyes widen once he sees Zhang Hao's surprise for himself.
"I never watched them,” Zhang Hao quickly tells him. “Your Games, I mean. After mine I just…stopped watching.”
“Oh,” Hanbin says faintly. He stares down at the table. Regret lines the stiffness of his shoulders.
Zhang Hao tongues the roof of his mouth. His voice is perfectly neutral when he clarifies, “You killed your cousin?”
"I didn't have much of a choice. Though I know that's not an excuse. It's a good story. The Capitol loved it." He gazes off into the empty space over Zhang Hao's shoulder. "Nothing entertains them more than suffering."
"What happened?" He shifts uncomfortably. “If I can ask.”
Hanbin examines him for a moment, considering, then exhales. "We were both Reaped. She was a year younger than me." His fingers are bone-white around his mug. "I swore to my family I would protect her the best I could. We stuck together in the arena, the two of us. We didn't trust anyone else and things were going well, but it also made us a target. A group of other tributes was tailing us and they shot her in the thigh with an arrow. We…we escaped and pulled the arrow out. I thought that was the end of it."
Zhang Hao waits, examining the table to offer some semblance of privacy as Hanbin gathers himself.
After he clears his throat, he continues. "Well, it wasn't. The wound became infected. Badly. I flat-out pleaded with our sponsors to help but they sent nothing. After three days, she was begging me to kill her." He shakes his head. "I kept waiting, even when the infection started to spread and she was in too much pain to move. I just thought, surely it's because the treatment is so expensive they need to pool their money together, and that's why it's taking so long."
When Hanbin falls silent again, Zhang Hao delicately surmises, “It never came.”
“No. It didn't. I had to…” His breath shudders out of him, eyes closed for a few moments before they blink open. “Afterwards, one of the sponsors felt so touched by my decisiveness that she sent me a veritable feast. All the money she spent on that, if she used it on medicine instead then it would've saved Jeonghwa. It felt like I was being mocked. They wanted to see what I would do, the choice I would make. My mentors too, after I got out they congratulated me on the strength it took to do it.” He scoffs and leans back. “They're all fucking sick in the head.”
Zhang Hao doesn't disagree.
"I was so angry I almost sank my chances right then and there. I thought of cursing at them, throwing all that food into a ditch. But I didn't." He shoots a glance at Zhang Hao. "For some reason, I kept going."
"You don't need a reason for wanting to survive," Zhang Hao reminds him gently. "It's instinctive."
Hanbin's hands are fidgeting endlessly, fingers twisting in repetitive motions, and Zhang Hao lies a hand over them to get him to stop. Hanbin's hands still and he looks down at their semi-clasped hands, a nameless expression dawning on his face.
"As for your cousin, it was a mercy killing," Zhang Hao goes on to say, attempting his best consoling voice. He's not sure it comes natural to him. "You did the right thing."
Hanbin finally glances up at that, Zhang Hao's words throwing him back into history. "That's not how my family saw it." His eyes drift back down towards their hands, mouth downturned. "My mom, she—she understood at first, actually. When I first got out. She said I had nothing to apologise for, that there was nothing for her to forgive, and I was so relieved. But then her sister, my cousin's mother, she started hounding my mom with questions. Asking her how I was able to do it, saying it was too easy of a decision for me. Asking her if she, my mom, would be able to kill her if they were in that arena together. And then, eventually, I guess those interrogations were all my mom needed to start seeing me in a different light too."
Hanbin appears lost in the past once again so Zhang Hao taps his fingers against his wrist to ground him. He wants to do more. To hug him, he realises. Zhang Hao hasn't hugged anyone in…too long. Maybe it would be a comfort to both of them. But he's not sure if Hanbin would welcome that right now and Zhang Hao doesn't want to be selfish, so he quashes that urge.
"I'm sorry," he says, stroking a comforting thumb over the ridges of Hanbin's knuckles. "I don't think anyone can truly understand until they're in that arena themselves. I don't blame anyone for doing what they did in the Games and, in fact, I would have done the same thing."
"She told me to win,” Hanbin murmurs. “Right before she died. That's why I fought so hard. I know everyone says that to their allies when they're dying but I felt like I had to win for her. Like it was the only way to make her death mean something.” His lip curls in distaste. “Of course, I didn’t know all of this would end up meaning absolutely nothing.”
“It's instinct,” Zhang Hao repeats. “I wanted to give up but I kept going as well. Sometimes that’s the only thing you can do, no matter what you’re fighting for.”
A touch of self-deprecation sharpens the corners of Hanbin's mouth. “Back when I thought I still was fighting for something.” He tilts his head, eyes curiously raking over Zhang Hao's face. "You said you would've done the same.”
Zhang Hao holds the eye contact. “Yes.”
“What about if it was me?” Hanbin asks, with a hint of a drawl. “Would you have done it then?"
Zhang Hao envisions it and has to stop himself from physically flinching back, away from that alternate universe where Hanbin begs him to kill him. He swallows. "I don't know."
Hanbin nods and looks away, like this is the only answer he was expecting to hear. Zhang Hao, all of a sudden, gets the impression that that was the wrong answer. He frantically casts around for something more to say but Hanbin seems to move on before he can think of anything suitable. Zhang Hao watches him drain his mug and push his chair back. “Thank you for the tea. I have to meet a friend for lunch in about,” he checks his watch, “twenty minutes. But I'll come see you tomorrow?”
“Of course,” Zhang Hao agrees after a beat. Hanbin smiles at him and turns to grab his coat, Zhang Hao following him. He seems perfectly fine but, with Hanbin, he can never trust what he sees.
“Hey,” Zhang Hao says right before Hanbin opens the door. “Do you…want a hug?”
Hanbin's hand falls away from the doorknob. His mouth opens, closes, then opens again. His ears are tinged pink. “Yes,” he says gratefully. “I'd like that.”
Zhang Hao lurches forward a bit unsteadily, mind stuck on the welcoming shape of Hanbin's body. His arms tentatively settle over Hanbin's shoulders and Hanbin immediately winds his arms around Zhang Hao's waist, hands pressed flush against his back. Hanbin's chin drops to rest on his shoulder. This marks the first time they're touching like this; Hanbin's body is broad and solid against him, a weighted blanket despite his shorter stature. Zhang Hao can trace his fingers along the dips of his back muscles.
He wants to turn his head, press his lips to whatever part of Hanbin he can reach. More, his body whispers to him. It aches in protest when Zhang Hao pulls away instead.
Hanbin clears his throat. The pink has spread to his cheeks, as if he's been caught unawares in the wind. “Thank you. I needed that.”
“It's just a hug,” Zhang Hao mumbles, decidedly not mentioning how he also needed that. He feels pleasantly warm and tingly all over.
"Still,” Hanbin says vaguely, eyes practically sparkling as he looks at Zhang Hao. He brings a hand up, slowly enough that Zhang Hao has time to stop its trajectory. Zhang Hao doesn’t want to stop it, so Hanbin's palm finds its home on his cheek. Heat suffuses through his skin, the sensation making the corners of his mouth unwittingly pull up. Hanbin considers him like that for a moment, Zhang Hao's heart stuttering in anticipation, then drops his hand. He's back to feeling uncomfortably cold and bare. “I'll see you later?”
"See you later,” Zhang Hao echoes with a smile that feels wobbly.
With one foot out of the door, Hanbin suddenly stops and turns to him. “I know there's more to your family,” he says. “Everyone has a story. But that's okay, I can wait.”
Zhang Hao watches him leave. The smile slips from his face.
The last time he spoke to either of his parents had been on his victory tour. As was customary, the victor's district was left for last and Zhang Hao was anxious to get it over with. Not only because he wasn't exactly anticipating seeing his parents again, but also because…it was a weird tour. The nature of his win meant that the districts were uneasy; there would be a strange tension simmering in the air whenever he said his speeches to the crowds gathered outside. This tension wasn't necessarily directed at him, excluding the wariness in the Career districts, but he felt like he was walking a razor-thin wire. The incident in Five was a contributing factor — after that, he was careful to only engage with the districts on perfectly neutral ground.
He would come to find out that President Shen prefers to keep him out of the public eye for this very reason, minimising his television appearances and the replays of his Games. But that comes later.
Upon his arrival to Seven, his mother met him at the train station. She only hugged him because the cameras were there; she was still an expert in keeping up appearances, after everything. The small child inside of him curled up in contentment at their embrace but the rest of him wasn't so welcoming.
“Where's Dad?” he asked in the Capitol-issued car, after they'd escaped the mob eager to see him. Jiayi told him she would see him at nine a.m. sharp the next morning. The rest of the day was to be spent with his family, if he so wished. He wasn't sure if he did.
His mother was staring out of the window. Her head didn't turn at his question, which meant Zhang Hao could admire the pearl stud adorning her ear. At least he had confirmation they were receiving the money he sent. “At home,” she replied evenly.
The rest of the car ride was spent in silence.
He doesn't think he'll ever forget that drop in his stomach, that acute loss of gravity, he experienced when he walked into his childhood home and saw his father sitting in a wheelchair. As if absolutely nothing was amiss. He stopped dead in the doorway, mouth agape in shock.
"Ah,” was all his father said in greeting. “You look well.”
Zhang Hao couldn't say the same about his father. He always had some muscle on him from the decades spent logging, a certain kind of lean quality to his body. Now that muscle had deteriorated and he looked shrunken, like he was drowning in his clothes. Even through his trousers his legs appeared boneless, like they were two sticks of flesh and nothing else. “What happened to…”
“It was an accident at work,” his father said easily. “You know how dangerous it can get out there, I got trapped under a tree which fell too early. We used some of your money on medicine but this was the best the doctors could do. I can't walk but…” He paused. “It's not so bad.”
Zhang Hao always knew when his father lied because that was another trait he inherited from him. Their eyes would dart around, their hands would lift to itch their nose before they thought better of it, their lips twitched. He watched this exhibition of falsehood somewhat numbly. On instinct, he turned to his mother for help and almost flinched. She was truly looking at him for the first time in months, face set in stone and refusing to break eye contact with him. What he saw in her eyes made something break in him beyond repair. It was the truth of what happened, shining bright and clear. The loss of his father's legs had been orchestrated.
He wished he could believe it was a simple accident at work, but he knows better. His parents do too. Zhang Hao's father will never walk again and it's all his fault. How can he possibly tell Hanbin that?
Hanbin is sitting against the door when he gets home, head tilted back against the wood and eyes closed. He'd looked peaceful in that split second it took for him to register the slide of the elevator doors, before his eyes snapped open and his body instinctively flinched.
Zhang Hao gives him a wry look as Hanbin pushes himself up and dusts himself off. “Were you that desperate to see me?”
“I thought you'd be home,” Hanbin says in lieu of answering. He hovers next to Zhang Hao as he fiddles with his key. “Where were you? You were gone for so long I think I might've started napping.”
Zhang Hao does feel bad that Hanbin is virtually at his beck and call. He would be happy to give Hanbin a key to his apartment, at one point, but the trouble is he can't: it's not that he doesn't trust Hanbin but thinking about asking one of the locksmiths in the Capitol to copy his key makes him paranoid. It's protocol for them to note down who the copy is for and he can't know who they would give that information to if offered the right amount of money. The more modern apartments only have a keypad outside with a request for a four-digit code, but Zhang Hao likes that his apartment is accessible only by key. Alas, it's unfortunate for Hanbin.
Hanbin follows him inside, delicately toeing his shoes off in contrast to Zhang Hao kicking his off. He makes a beeline for the tea bags. “I was having lunch with Yizhou and her stylist friends. She likes to drag me out to these things when they have time.” He catches the droll look Hanbin gives him. “She means well. Says it's good for me to get out of the house.”
“I’m sure the gossip was very illuminating.”
“Funnily enough,” he says dryly, “the conversation actually moved onto their favourite victors. Did you know that you apparently top all of the Capitol polls on the best victor since the last Quarter Quell?”
“Unfortunately, yes.” He sighs heavily. “It's not exactly a title I'm proud to have.”
“It was enlightening for me to hear it,” Zhang Hao tells him. “I mean, you know I don't keep up with anything involving the Games. So the way they were talking about you…it was interesting to see you through the Capitol's eyes, is all.”
A distinct caginess is starting to emanate from Hanbin. “It's a persona, Hao. It's not really me, I'm just playing up what those idiots love. They're easily entertained.”
“Trust me, I know that. But it's weird, I felt like I had some kind of claim on you. Like I wanted to tell them that they haven't seen the real Hanbin as I have.”
Hanbin relaxes, a pleased huff leaving him. “Then you would be correct.”
Zhang Hao bites down on a smile. “Aren't you supposed to tell me that I'm just as bad as the Capitol for thinking that?”
Hanbin rolls his eyes. “Don't even joke about that. You know it's different.”
“Yeah,” Zhang Hao mutters as the water starts to boil, “I know.”
Hanbin leans back against the counter. "You know, I forget there are people out there who can make the choice not to watch the Games. Up until you told me that you hadn’t, I was operating under the impression that you’d watched mine and that was why you...”
Zhang Hao crosses his arms. “Why I…?”
“Nothing,” Hanbin replies, shaking his head. His gaze lingers on Zhang Hao’s face before sliding away. “But yes, I thought you had.”
“Well, very few people have the luxury of not watching,” Zhang Hao points out. “I'm lucky in that regard. Do you still watch them?”
Hanbin shrugs. “I have to. For mentor reasons and for social reasons. I wish I didn't have to but when they're airing, it's all anyone talks about.” He pauses. “You really haven't watched mine?”
Zhang Hao runs his tongue over his teeth. He can't find a way to segue into telling him that Hanbin's Games had occurred when Zhang Hao was too busy drinking himself to an early death. "No."
"Don't." A shadow passes over his face. "I mean it."
Zhang Hao shrugs. “I won't. I have no interest in it.”
"Promise me,” Hanbin persists.
"I promise," Zhang Hao says. “There's no reason for me to watch them, Hanbin.”
Hanbin runs a hand through his hair, face empty of its usual warmth. “Just making sure.”
“I get it.” The entreaty is making Zhang Hao morbidly curious but he means what he's saying — he doesn't want to watch Hanbin being forced to kill teenagers. He doesn't want to watch anyone being forced to kill teenagers, but especially not Hanbin. “But it won't happen.”
Zhang Hao has never, not once, kept a promise. Most of the time, he doesn't do it on purpose. He simply—forgets he made the promise in the first place. As a child he would be reprimanded for sneaking a tiny piece of candy from their prized jar of sweets which his mother worked hard to covet, or punished for disobeying a teacher's pinky-promise in the years he was at school. Once, one of his peers was gossiping with him about an ill-fated romance where he was placed under strict order not to tell anyone else. He'd accidentally let it slip to a friend a week later. You promised, she snapped at him after the gossip circled back around and he had to apologise to her for her friends giving her the cold shoulder. I'm sorry, he muttered with his head hung low. I just forgot that I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone. And that was the honest truth. His brain never devoted any attention to remembering what he owed other people. Naturally selfish, he could say.
With Hanbin, the problem is born from their first big fight. Zhang Hao can't even remember how it started. They must have been talking about something innocuous enough, like the personality quirks of some of the other victors, before it devolved into the argument that followed.
“Yeah, but I don't really blame her,” Zhang Hao was saying, of a District Three mentor who was obsessed with one-upping even her own tributes. “If you've basically been told for years that the only way you have value is to make the Capitol like you, it makes sense that she can't seem to let go of always needing to be the best. I feel almost sorry for her.” Hanbin snorted and shook his head, like he was in on some kind of private joke. He looked strangely annoyed. “What?”
“Oh, please,” Hanbin snapped. “So you’re perfectly happy to talk about the—the psychological effects of the Games with me, even though you've started looking at me differently ever since I told you about Jeonghwa?”
Zhang Hao's initial reaction had been to laugh from bewilderment, which had only intensified Hanbin's glare. He sobered quickly. “What are you talking about?”
“I thought you would understand,” Hanbin said. “Of all people, I thought you would get it. The awful things I had to do in that arena. But you—”
“I do,” Zhang Hao said, perplexed. “Hanbin…what? I'm not judging you for anything. I never will. Where is all of this coming from?”
Hanbin stood there shaking his head, the set of his jaw determined. He looked like he wasn't taking in a word Zhang Hao was saying, only intent on blazing a warpath. “I could feel it after we spoke. In the kitchen. And since then, you've been acting distant with me.” He started to pace. “You're probably disgusted with me, right? I had this dream where—”
“I'm not,” Zhang Hao snapped in frustration. “Hanbin. I seriously—I've barely thought about it since we spoke. Really. It honestly doesn't bother me.”
Hanbin stopped, then. He whirled to face Zhang Hao, expression open and vulnerable. “I don't believe you,” he whispered. “Everyone has always treated me differently because of it, one way or another.”
"Since when am I everyone?” He felt angry, all of a sudden. And betrayed and upset and hurt that Hanbin would even accuse him of being just like everyone else. “Aren't I the exception? Isn't that what you've basically been hinting at this entire time? And why would I treat you any differently because of it? Do you take me for a hypocrite?”
Hanbin had been drooping in acknowledgement during Zhang Hao's tirade, but at his last question his shoulders tensed again. “A hypocrite? Killing a random tribute during the Games is a little different than killing your own cousin, don't you think?”
Zhang Hao stared at him. “Do you really think,” he whispered, “that you're the only victor that's harmed your loved ones?” The ire bled out from Hanbin's face. “I may not have killed my father outright but I practically ruined his life. He can't walk because of me, because I won and I made a stupid mistake six months later. Another reason for my mother to never forgive me.”
Hanbin took a step forward. “Hao…”
“Don't assume that you're the only one who knows what it feels like to sign your family's death warrant,” he continued snappishly. His eyes slid to the door. “Now get out. Please.”
Hanbin didn’t move. “Hao—”
Zhang Hao only pointed to the door, clenching his jaw so hard it was beginning to ache. Eight seconds later, the door had closed once more.
His weekend plans consisted of moping and staring into space. His apartment was too silent. It's infuriating how easily Hanbin slipped into Zhang Hao's life, like he always belonged there. Zhang Hao shouldn’t be sulking at his absence after only a month of knowing him. He’s lived twenty-one years without Hanbin by his side, surely he can manage a measly weekend.
Or perhaps not. He’d given in, in the end — what else was there to do than seek him out in the one place he knew he could always find him? It was a mindless decision to turn on his rarely-used TV and hunt down a supercut of highlights from Hanbin's Games, ostensibly dedicated to the most notable moments from that year. Hanbin was in so many of them.
His Reaping had been given special attention, the narrator droning on about how this was the first time in twelve years a pair of relatives had been Reaped for the same year. Zhang Hao was barely listening; he was too absorbed watching how fear contorted a seventeen-year-old Hanbin's face into something totally unrecognisable. He was beginning to regret this decision of his. Not only because it was a betrayal of Hanbin’s faith in him, but because this was the first Hunger Games he’d watched since he was sixteen. An onslaught of bad memories, memories which he’d worked hard to bury, were filtering into his mind. Numbly, his hand gripped the remote.
Time folds into itself. Zhang Hao watches in a sort of trance, not even moving to use the bathroom or grab some food. He sees everything: Hanbin and Jeonghwa holding hands while riding down the Avenue of the Tributes, their stylists managing to achieve some sort of rippling effect with their blue outfits; Hanbin's tribute interview, where he's clearly unused to the cameras but still charming and sweet and witty, in a way that wins over everyone in the audience; Jeonghwa, who is sharp and brash but immediately likable; Hanbin's training score of nine; the necessary bloodshed at the Cornucopia as soon as the countdown finishes, where Hanbin desperately grasps Jeonghwa's hand and runs.
In total, the programme is six hours. The turning point arrives at hour three.
Up to this point, Hanbin and Jeonghwa have been what the Gamemakers would call uninspiring. Keeping to themselves, not providing enough entertainment. Zhang Hao can practically hear the Capitol's frustration: we want to root for you but you're not giving us much to root for.
If left any longer to fester, the Gamemakers would have likely engineered something artificial to cause chaos, like they did with him and Xinyu. But they don't need to do that here, not with the Careers — both tributes from One and Two, plus the girl from Three and the boy from Six — doing their jobs for them. He sees everything here, too: the Careers annoyed that the Four cousins are evading capture; the decision to take them out of the running; the boy from Two shooting an arrow into Jeonghwa's thigh as she and Hanbin run; Hanbin pulling out the arrow once they're secluded, face pale with a curious combination of determination and fear.
Then, later: the Careers silent and brooding, waiting for a cannon shot that doesn't come; the gruesome close-up of the infected wound; the heated debate between Hanbin and Jeonghwa, Hanbin insisting that she just wait for help to arrive while Jeonghwa demands that he just end it now, do the inevitable, Hanbin, come on, we both know I'm not going to make it. Jeonghwa growing weak, laid out on the beach like an offering, all of that acerbic brashness from her tribute interview gone, reducing her to another dying teenager. The days flashing by. It must have felt like an eternity to Hanbin. Zhang Hao pictures him waiting by Jeonghwa's side for hours on end, silent and unmoving, then squashes this image when his heart begins to hurt.
When Jeonghwa finally dies, Zhang Hao looks away. He refuses to be a voyeur to this. It’s the very worst of the Games on show, the most sickeningly exploitative material broadcasted to the masses. He scrambles to mute the TV when Hanbin begins to scream, wordless howls of agony that cause goosebumps to erupt along Zhang Hao’s arms.
He chances a glance a few minutes later, unmuting it when he sees the camera has shifted its focus to the group of Careers that attacked the duo. They heard the cannon shot and are celebrating a job well done, laughing and passing around a roasted duck for everyone to share. Zhang Hao grinds his teeth in anger, even though they’re just kids and he already knows their fates.
Strangely, he only grows more tense the longer he doesn’t see Hanbin onscreen. There's only nine tributes left at this stage. He does the maths quickly: Hanbin had said he killed six, which must mean the Career group here likely pick off a couple more themselves before Hanbin gets to them.
He's proven correct. The footage doesn't show Hanbin until two more tributes have died, a girl from Eleven and a boy from Nine. The latter died of hunger, but the Eleven girl fell into a trap the Two tributes set up. These deaths aren’t lingered on — Hanbin, finally proving himself to the Capitol, is more important.
The camera returns to him and doesn't budge for the next hour. The Gamemakers must be pleased that their star tribute is finally putting on a show, a clear character arc of the vengeful relative. Putting on a show entails, in this context, preparing his plan of revenge. He’s good, Zhang Hao realises as he watches him sneak around and bide his time. Of course he is, he’s a victor, but his survival skills are far more advanced than Zhang Hao’s. If it were the two of them in an arena together, he knows who would emerge as the winner.
Even before Hanbin starts to go on his killing spree, there's a lost, haunted look in his eyes. The same look Zhang Hao had seen the first time they met. It only intensifies when he begins picking off the Career group one by one, though there's something else there, too. Predator rather than prey. Mowing tributes down with a trident, an ease in the way he handles the weapon evidently procured from experience, is the action the Capitol were craving to see. Hanbin receives greater odds, more sponsor gifts.
Zhang Hao knows Hanbin well, even this teenaged Hanbin he's never met, so he can spot how Hanbin wants to rage and throw those gifts away. But he doesn't; this is where he finally tapes his mask on, bowing to the drones in gratitude and promising the audience to do well.
It's fitting that he realises he loves Hanbin while he's watching him tear out another tribute's throat with his teeth. He had expected that it would be earth-shattering, maybe, something similar to the depictions in the romance novels he used to read. But Zhang Hao only traces Hanbin's form on the screen, his staunch refusal to cede victory, and thinks oh, I love him.
It's the grand finale, Hanbin and the boy from One desperately grappling with each other. Hanbin's trident lies just out of reach, rusted with blood. The boy from One, Woohyun, is flagging but dead set on victory. Hanbin, evidently not as skilled in hand-to-hand combat, is struggling. But he's dead set on victory, too.
His heart lurches sickeningly when Woohyun begins to choke Hanbin, sitting astride Hanbin and hands squeezing around his throat. It lurches again when Hanbin arches up, gaining enough leverage to break Woohyun's hold, then bites over his jugular. Into his jugular.
Hanbin unlatches his mouth, entire face covered with blood, and spits out flesh. There's an awful, feral look in his eyes as he watches Woohyun press a hand to his mauled throat before crumpling into the sand face-first. A cannon shot startles Zhang Hao.
It doesn't startle Hanbin, who doesn't seem to be hearing anything at all. The hosts are excitedly talking now — what a gripping final fight, you really couldn't ask for anything more — but Zhang Hao is only paying attention to how Hanbin has rolled onto his side, curled up, eyes closed and panting like an old dog that needs to be put down. He tracks the early telltale signs of Hanbin crying: his jaw clenching, his eyelashes fluttering, his lips pursing.
He never wants to see Hanbin like this again. He'll do anything to never see him like this again. Zhang Hao is reminded of what Hanbin had scornfully told him in his kitchen: nothing entertains them more than suffering. And there lies Hanbin, the greatest entertainer of them all.
He's expecting the knock on his door. It's been a few days, after all, and even that short period of time is enough to make Hanbin's absence be felt sorely. He supposes Hanbin has also grown used to the frequency of their visits.
He opens the door to a Hanbin who seems dulled, like all the shine has been scrubbed out of him. The way that Hanbin's eyes linger on his face tells Zhang Hao that he probably looks the same.
"I'm sorry for everything I said,” Hanbin opens with immediately, right there on his doorstep. Zhang Hao quickly glances over Hanbin's shoulder at Ms. Park's closed door. He hopes it stays closed.
“You don't need to apologise, Hanbin,” he says. It's not a thought he's had before this moment but as he says it, he finds it's true. He's already forgiven him. Hanbin was probably already forgiven the second he walked out that door.
“Well, let me do it anyway.” His back straightens, hands clasped in front of him. “My paranoia got the best of me. And you were right, about being different from everyone else. Of course you are. I've always known that, but I just…” He swallows, head hanging like a child. “Sometimes you feel too good to be true. And I'm scared that one day I'll wake up and realise that I just dreamed you up. I know how stupid it sounds. I—” He grabs Zhang Hao's hand, a sudden movement, his eyes wide and desperate. “You're the best thing that ever happened to me. And I really hope we don't but if we ever drift apart in the future for some reason, or you decide you don't want anything to do with me anymore, I just want you to know that I'll always care about you and I'll always want the best for you. I'll always be there for you if you need me.” He's almost crushing the bones in Zhang Hao's hand. “Please know that.”
“I do,” Zhang Hao whispers, touched. He feels like he might choke on his own breath. He clears his throat and tugs, his hand still caught in Hanbin's grip. “Come inside.”
As soon as the door closes, Zhang Hao is wrapping him in a hug. Hanbin shudders a little and curls around him, head nestling into the crook of his neck and arms curving tighter around his waist. He pushes into Zhang Hao's embrace, as if trying to climb into his skin. Zhang Hao knows the feeling.
“It's the same for me too,” he murmurs into Hanbin's shoulder. “You can always come to me, no matter what. Don't ever forget that, okay?”
Hanbin nods, nose brushing against his neck. He doesn't know how long they stand there — time fades into insignificance. At some point, they disentangle and Zhang Hao leads them further inside to the living room. They sit on his worn-out couch, distance between them.
Zhang Hao wants to close it, but then Hanbin is blurting out, “I'm sorry for assuming that you wouldn't be able to understand. I didn't know about what happened to your father.”
"You couldn't know." He swallows and stretches his legs out in front of him. "Like I said, I never did tell you about him."
The air around him shifts in anticipation. He braces himself and inhales, preparing how to give the most sterile retelling.
Hanbin places a hand on his knee. “You don't have to tell me if you don't want to.”
“No. I do. I need to.”
With another breath, he recalls walking into his childhood home for the first time in months and seeing what awaited him there. Zhang Hao's mouth moves of its own accord, as if he's a puppet running down the last few seconds of string. He has to double back and describe everything that happened before that: arriving home for the very first time, his mother in shock, moving out alone, the victory tour.
"They punished me for what I did. Or not what I did, but the effect it had on the districts." At least he can be proud that his voice isn't shaking. "Things were…uneasy after I won. People wanted to revolt, to show what a farce the Games were. They were looking to me as the catalyst for it all. And I sympathised with them, at first in secret and then I started…" Hanbin is utterly quiet next to him. "I wasn't thinking straight. I was in Five, giving a speech in the town square. And afterwards, everyone was applauding apart from this one man in the crowd. We have this gesture in Seven when you want to…show respect, I guess. I suppose they must have it in Five too." He mimics it, thumping a fisted hand over his heart three times. “It's something I really only saw the elders do to each other when I was a kid. But he did it to me. And I was touched by it, you know, grateful to have this older man's respect just for winning. So I smiled and did it back to him. I didn't know that the reason I only saw the elders in my district doing it is because the Capitol had started to treat it as a rebel symbol years ago.”
"So what did they do?" Hanbin asks with that same eerie calmness. "Did they shoot him?"
"No. I mean, probably. But not in front of all those cameras." Hanbin nods as if this makes perfect sense. "Jiayi, she pulled me offstage so it was just the two of us. I've never seen her so angry. And she told me that I did something very, very stupid. She was right, of course, but I didn't—I was so shielded from everything that I didn't actually know how bad things could get. The Games are one thing but then we finished up our tour in Seven and I saw my father and…" He blows out a breath. "And then I knew."
"And then you knew," Hanbin says softly. "Thank you for telling me. And I'm sorry."
He places his hand on the couch, palm-up so Zhang Hao has the choice of lacing their fingers together. Which he does.
"Mm," Zhang Hao replies, suddenly exhausted. "Not a first-conversation type of discussion, is it?"
"Not with you," Hanbin says thoughtfully. "But you'd be surprised at what other people have told me within minutes. I'm the unofficial secret hoarder amongst our peers, you know that. Especially relating to our glorious rulers."
Zhang Hao studies his profile. "Why?"
"Why?" Hanbin echoes, like he doesn't understand how this is a question. "Because I hate them. They've taken everything from me. They take everything from everyone, ad infinitum, and we're expected to put up with it. They're insidious. Like what happened with you — their goal was to make you blame yourself for what happened to your father or any other rebels in the districts, but really it would've all happened at some point anyway. There's always talk of a revolution and the Capitol are always determined to quash it. You were just the poster boy for it this time. What they wanted was to scare you into submission and that's exactly what they did."
He's sure Hanbin doesn't mean it as a dig but it still smarts. "I didn't really have a choice. And I don't see you protesting out in the streets."
"It's not meant as a slight against you. I have a family too. Had. But lately I…" He bites his lip, oddly reticent.
"What?"
"A conversation for another day, I think.” He sighs and squeezes Zhang Hao's hand. “All I'm saying is don't blame yourself for what happened to your father. I'm sure they would've found a way to harm him regardless, some other made-up rule that you broke to supposedly justify what they did.”
“Perhaps,” he allows. He doesn't like thinking about this in too much depth — it was better for him to shove it away behind a locked door, like he did with everything else. Hanbin has changed that. “After I saw what happened to my father, I sort of retreated into myself. The people of the Capitol were pleased because that was the image I was supposed to have, anyway. Quiet and mysterious. And I still sympathised with the districts, with the rebels, but I couldn't be a figurehead for them. Not with the Capitol holding my parents over me.”
Hanbin's thumb is stroking the thin skin of his hand now, gentle sweeping motions which help to smooth out the jagged memories he's recalling.
"In the districts," Zhang Hao continues quietly, "they started calling me the boy who gave up. My mother can't bear to look at me anymore so I never visit, even though I know it's unfair for me to blame her for it. President Shen practically has me locked away in case I incite another quasi-revolution. My mentor told me I should be grateful that I can still walk on two legs and now she's dead. I almost died from liver poisoning a few years ago. I don't know why I'm still here." He fixes his gaze on the blank stretch of wall where a painting should be hanging. "Those are all my stories. Or secrets, whichever you prefer." Apart from one, but Hanbin doesn't need to know that. “So there you go. All yours for the taking.”
Hanbin squeezes his hand again, smiling ruefully. “I always knew you were hiding so much behind that closed-off exterior of yours. Even now, I bet you're still holding your cards close to your chest.”
Zhang Hao snorts. “And you don't?”
“Not with you.” He repeats himself, quieter: “Not with you.”
Zhang Hao doesn't know what to say to that. He'd always suspected that Hanbin had placed his full trust in him, had practically known as much, but to receive verbal confirmation is another matter. Especially after their first fight, when the atmosphere between them still isn't quite calm. Not because of any lingering resentment because clearly neither of them can bear the other any ill will, but his teeth still itch with something.
In return for Hanbin's confession, he bares another part of himself. "I broke our promise. I watched your Games after we fought."
Hanbin swallows, eyes briefly closing before they open again. “Oh.” He tries to remove his hand from Zhang Hao's grip but Zhang Hao holds fast, refusing their separation. Hanbin huffs out a small laugh, shaky and humourless. “You know I've had children scream and run away from me on the street?”
Zhang Hao stares at the side of his face, willing him to turn his head so he can see Zhang Hao's sincerity. "Like I told you, I don't judge anyone for what they did in the Games."
"I killed six people," Hanbin reminds him evenly. "A quarter of all the tributes. That goes beyond—"
"As revenge for your cousin," Zhang Hao shoots back.
Hanbin shakes his head in refusal. "No one believes that. I don't believe that anymore. I…I killed them because I wanted to win. And I was angry. And I was angry that I was good at it." He tilts his head back against the couch. "The natural born killer. That's what the headlines were after I won, you know. Across the entire nation. Even though I was a crying mess after each one but of course they don't show that in the highlights, do they? And I hated every second of killing them, those people in the same situation as me, but I still did it. So what does that say about me?" His hand twitches in Zhang Hao's grip. "I think those headlines were right."
"They weren't," Zhang Hao insists. When Hanbin scoffs, he changes tack. "And even if they were, who cares? That's what the Capitol made you into. It's not like they have any room to criticise."
“I care,” he stresses. “I care because the way they presented me has changed me irrevocably. Even more than the Games themselves, maybe. Their image of me hangs over me everywhere — back in Four with my family and friends, here. I can't escape it. You're the only person to see me for who I am. And the worst thing is that it's affected me too. My own sense of self. Even years later, I still think about whether that…killer prodigy was always locked inside of me and the Games just brought it out. That's why I got so paranoid with your reaction to what happened with Jeonghwa.”
"Hanbin," he says seriously, brushing his hair out of his eyes before cupping his cheeks. Hanbin's skin heats against his palms, which is more distracting than it has any right to be. "I'm not here to judge you, okay? I'm not exactly an angel either. I'm sure we could talk for hours about all the terrible things we both did in the Games, but what would be the point?"
When Hanbin only stares at him, he regretfully gives him his personal space back.
“I do want to do that, though,” Hanbin tells him quietly. “Not to argue about it — I just want to hear you talk about it.” He gives Zhang Hao a wry smile. “I've found things are always a little less scary when they're said out loud.”
“I don't like thinking about my Games any more than I have to,” Zhang Hao admits, drawing his knees up. “But, I don't know, it might be…good. I didn't even speak about them with Jiayi.”
Hanbin lifts a shoulder. “I never really spoke about mine either. Not until you. You're the only one that understands.”
You're the only one that understands. Zhang Hao allows the words to wash over him, buoyed by the sweet lightness they carry. It's a heavy statement, but one he knows that Hanbin means wholeheartedly.
“You said you don't hide anything from me,” he murmurs, thinking back to Hanbin's earlier declaration.
Downstairs, his neighbour's TV is blaring an obnoxious game show. “I didn't say that. Not quite.”
“So,” Zhang Hao prods, head turning towards him. “Do you still have any secrets of your own to trade?”
“Believe it or not,” Hanbin says, “you already know most of them. But…” He shoots Zhang Hao a sidelong glance.
“But?”
“But.” Zhang Hao stares at him. Hanbin doesn't say anything else for a few moments, mouth twisting in contemplation. Then: "I rewatched your Games the night we met. So I could merge the two of you together in my head. You felt like separate entities to me until I did that."
Zhang Hao frowns. “Who felt like that?”
"The man I met on the balcony and the boy who pissed off the Capitol." He laughs, hollow and devoid of any joy, then scrubs a hand over his face. "I think I've always been a little bit in love with you, you know."
Zhang Hao feels out of time with his own body, his heart thundering in relief while his brain is still catching up. A small voice in his head utters yes yes yes in a loop. Denial wins out. "We've known each other for—"
"I know," Hanbin interrupts swiftly. "I don't expect you to say it back. But I trust myself to know what I'm feeling."
Zhang Hao, too, trusts himself to know what he's feeling. He hadn't quite mustered up the courage to entertain the notion of Hanbin reciprocating. He would've been happy to live as they are now; the trust Hanbin gifts him is more than enough to appease him. All this is is another layer of complication, another risk to add to the mountain. But what does it really matter? He's grown tired of rolling over and accepting the lot he's been given in life.
He'll try out this one singular moment of freedom, just to see what it tastes like. What Hanbin tastes like. “Tell me if you want me to stop,” he warns as he advances, heart shaking in his chest. There's a flash of awed surprise on Hanbin's face, but he doesn't move away.
Zhang Hao has kissed and been kissed numerous times but, at least on his part, there was never any emotion behind it. It was always a means to an end for him. An absent movement which his mind could drift away from uncaringly, like scratching an itch on his arm or tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. He never felt like he was there, like all of the different parts that make him up were fully engaged in this one act.
Kissing Hanbin is different. He knows from the first millisecond that one taste isn't enough, not at all. It's for this reason, and this reason only, that he regrets making the move to kiss him. Now he has to live with the knowledge that this has the potential to ruin him. And he'll allow it to happen, he knows he will. When it feels like something slotting into place, like he's been blindly stumbling around in the dark for eternity and has finally found a warm, glowing light, then he has no other option.
Hanbin's hands lightly settle on his waist, tentative at first before he strengthens his grip when Zhang Hao doesn't pull away. His mouth is soft against his — Zhang Hao realises that Hanbin is allowing him to take the lead, which only makes him want to kiss him more. But he can't get too carried away; he could do this forever, which is time they don't have.
He exhales heavily when they break apart, a hand on Hanbin's shoulder to keep him from surging forward. He goes cross-eyed trying to decipher Hanbin's expression as they rest their foreheads together.
"Been wanting to do that since the moment I met you," Hanbin says into the miniscule gap between their mouths. His breath fans out over Zhang Hao's lips. "Maybe even before then."
"Yeah, I was total crush material when I was starving and hadn't washed in weeks," Zhang Hao mumbles.
"To me, yes," Hanbin says seriously, hand migrating upwards to caress Zhang Hao's cheek.
Zhang Hao closes his eyes in trepidation. Nothing that makes him feel this good can be good for him in the long run. He knows this. But he's still reluctant to pull away; he can't quite bring himself to do it. Instead, he stays put and allows himself to savour this non-intrusive touching, Hanbin's infinite reverence.
He sighs and knocks his forehead against Hanbin's once. "What are we doing, Hanbin?"
"Living," Hanbin answers immediately, a fierceness in his voice as if he's inviting Zhang Hao to contest him. "For once, we're living."
They stay like that for some time, soaking in the other. When the notion of Hanbin's lips grows too appealing once again, Zhang Hao reluctantly separates from him completely. Too much temptation right in front of him.
Hanbin smiles, as if he can hear Zhang Hao's thoughts, and begins to stand. “I should probably get going. I have to be up early tomorrow.”
“Okay,” Zhang Hao says, a little confused at his abrupt departure. Then again, it's not like they have anything else to discuss. He stands up as well. “I'll see you out.”
At the door, he draws Hanbin into another hug to stave off any awkwardness or second-guessing. Hanbin allows himself to be touchier here, slowly rubbing a palm up and down his back. It's so nice; he wishes he had the power to freeze time at this very moment, have them remain encased in this apartment forever.
After a few beats, he gives Hanbin a kiss on his cheek for good measure. A parting gift for him to remember. Hanbin blinks at him, dazed, and Zhang Hao smiles. “Come back to me soon.”
Hanbin squeezes him in his arms and kisses his temple. Now it's his turn to be dazed. “You know I will.”
After Hanbin leaves, Zhang Hao tests a theory.
He painstakingly combs through his apartment for bugs, copying how Hanbin would search every nook and cranny. It takes him at least two hours — the roar of the Capitol quietening around him and the moon lurking behind his blinds — and he comes up empty, but at least he can be sure.
If he focuses hard enough, he can physically feel the depth of his own solitude. The heavy weight of being left with only his own thoughts. As if he's standing at the bottom of a very deep pit and cupping his hands around his mouth to call for help, only for his cries to fall on deaf ears. No Capitol agents listening in but, more importantly, no Hanbin pressed against his side or smiling at him from across the kitchen table. He doesn't like it.
Zhang Hao grips the back of his sofa for support and announces to himself, "I'm in love with Hanbin."
Hanbin was wrong. It's not less scary when he says it out loud. If anything, it's worse. Now that such a declaration is out in the world, he has to do something about it.
When he was a child, he broke his arm.
It wasn't a rare occurrence in District Seven. Unless one's family was wealthy, there was very little entertainment, especially for children. Like generations of Seven kids before him, he occupied himself with playing in the encircling forests, either alone or with other children. The world of children’s games was vast and expansive, but this one was simple and well-loved: a tree-climbing competition. Zhang Hao was the undisputed neighbourhood champion in their age group. He knew exactly how to lever himself up through knots of branches, how to twist his limbs just right to avoid an angry hive of wasps.
The yells and shouted praises of his peers below only spurred him on, and he grinned as his hand grasped the highest branch. Another win to add to the stack — Bingwen, still tentatively climbing up the tree to Zhang Hao’s left, was so far behind that Zhang Hao could barely spot his mop of dark hair through the foliage. In celebration of his victory, he balanced his weight and sidled horizontally across the branch his feet were braced on, then triumphantly punched the air with his free hand.
He was getting too cocky, but he couldn’t be aware of it then. Children only understand consequences once they’re hit with them.
Zhang Hao knew people that described their own falls as time slowing down. That's not how it felt for him. It took place in the blink of an eye, really: the loud crack of the branch beneath him, his body pitching to the side, the heady sensation of flying through the air, then the jarring thump of impact. No pain as his body was still catching up to what had been done to it, still processing that moment of being suspended and waiting for the inevitable crash, then he inhaled and—pain. As if his body was protesting that weightless stretch of time, yelling don't forget about me, I'm still here. Like he needed the reminder.
He burst into tears, then, and Yichen ran to fetch Zhang Hao's father, who was working nearby. Zhang Hao wasn't thinking about his father — he was thinking about how much it hurt, so badly that the edges of his vision blackened and each inhale made him feel like he would never be able to breathe again. All this agony building up inside him with nowhere to go.
Falling in love with Hanbin feels a lot like falling out of a tree, only now there's no Yichen to run and find help, no father to gingerly lift him into his arms, no doctor to clinically prod his bruised body and wave away offers of payment.
He's only left with himself and the hurt reverberating throughout his skeleton, wave after wave of it like he's a glass being struck in search of its resonant frequency.
And Hanbin, curled up in his own pain in a neighbouring forest, both of them unable to drag their heavy, uncooperative bodies against the forest floor and lay healing hands on the other. Playing a losing game against nature.
Immediately after he won and they extracted him from the arena, he had one final interview. It was standard to mark the transition of a tribute to a victor, so the Capitol could get one last good look at the boy from the arena. After that he was to become a cog in the well-oiled Capitol machine. One of them, forever and always.
The hovercraft snatched him up and took him to the same building where his tribute interview had taken place a few weeks ago. Ten minutes ago he'd watched Nara die. A little over a month ago he'd been Reaped. Seventeen years ago he was born. More than seventeen years ago he didn't yet exist. That was what he craved more than anything.
Yizhou, forever unflappable, conducted her team to quickly wash the blood out of his hair and off of his face. The bloodstains on his outfit would have to stay. The Capitol liked that dichotomy, Yizhou was telling him as she expertly drew his eyeliner on: pretty tribute with a torn outfit that was covered in blood and dirt. He stayed mute and disembodied throughout her ministrations. From his vantage point in the wings he could see Jiayi and Bora sitting on stage in their velvet armchairs, watching Kim Heechul hype the audience up.
“Congratulations, Hao,” Yizhou whispered right before he was set to go on. “I didn't think you had it in you but—”
The backstage director cut her off, waving him on.
“Well, we’re all dying to know,” Heechul said good-naturedly after the audience had stopped cheering and Heechul finished congratulating him, leaning forward in a show of interest. “It’s been years — decades, in fact — since a tribute from District Seven has won. Many people even thought it would be impossible for Seven to snatch another win but here you are! Surely you must’ve been doing something different back at home, something to set you apart from all of Seven’s former tributes.” He winked at the camera and a few members of the audience giggled. “Extra iron in your diet, maybe?”
His fingers dug into the plush armrests of his seat. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. His eyes found Jiayi, up on the raised platform and her face blank. “Tree-climbing competitions,” he managed, and the audience laughed.
He wasn’t joking. It was true. As soon as he'd shot up into the arena and drank in the miles and miles of forest around the Cornucopia, in that ten seconds before the countdown finished he'd thought okay, I can work with this. Zhang Hao can’t do a lot of things but he can climb trees.
“I'm tired,” Zhang Hao announces, head propped up on Hanbin's shoulder. His heartbeat jumps in hope.
Hanbin shifts, readying himself to get up from the couch. “Mm, it's late. I'll get home.”
Zhang Hao clings to him. “No.” His head eases off of Hanbin's shoulder and they face each other in the dim light of the lamp. Hanbin's stubble is beginning to shadow his chin. “Stay the night. It's late, like you said.”
Hanbin hesitates, face rapidly cycling through emotions. Zhang Hao manages to catalogue a few of them. Disbelief, hope, wariness. “You're sure?”
“Would I ask you if I wasn't?” He stands, pulling Hanbin up with him. “Come on.”
“Well, I can sleep on the couch,” Hanbin protests in vain, though he allows Zhang Hao to lead him through the apartment. Zhang Hao almost wishes that this is the one time Hanbin doesn’t bend to his will, but it’s a fleeting notion.
After that initial kiss a few nights ago, they haven’t progressed into anything further. They haven’t even kissed again, period — he thinks Hanbin refuses to initiate anything out of respect for Zhang Hao’s boundaries, which he greatly appreciates, but he doesn’t know how to go about it. He’s aware that kissing isn’t an exact science but physical affection is so foreign to him as a concept, to the point a beginner-friendly manual would be helpful. He can’t remember the last time he welcomed being so intimately touched by, or touching, someone other than himself.
He throws on his bedroom light as they enter, gaze automatically drawn to his queen-size bed. It’s just his bed, as familiar as ever, but in this moment it appears in his mind as an obstacle that has to be conquered.
“I have spare clothes,” he blurts out, keen to not allow the silence to veer into awkwardness. “Just give me a second.” He rushes over to his wardrobe and rifles through his minimalistic collection of clothing, before passing grey shorts and a T-shirt over to Hanbin. They’re pretty much exactly the same size, so he doubts there’s anything to worry about on that front. He’s only worried about his own reaction to seeing Hanbin in his clothes.
Hanbin takes his new pajamas with a grateful nod and disappears into the bathroom to change. Zhang Hao follows suit, stripping quickly by his bedside.
It’s not as awkward as he thought it would be. He bought another toothbrush yesterday in preparation, adding it to the lonely ceramic holder by the sink. The motions of his nighttime routine are so mundane to him that it calms him, even with the new inclusion of Hanbin brushing his teeth and washing his face by his side. Zhang Hao can’t stop thinking about how good he looks.
When they climb into bed together, facing each other in the darkness, Zhang Hao crosses the area of no man’s land that Hanbin purposefully left between them. Hanbin holds himself still as Zhang Hao leans over him, brushing his soft hair back to kiss his temple. He hovers there for a moment, breathing him in, before contorting himself to kiss his cheek and his mouth. Hanbin tilts his face up, hand cupping his jaw. Zhang Hao greedily inhales the air from his mouth, pressing closer.
He breaks away when that air supply runs out, blinking at Hanbin. Strange, how he can be disoriented so easily by something so small.
“Goodnight,” he whispers, settling back down next to him and pulling the covers over them. The warmth of Hanbin’s hand lingers.
He can feel Hanbin’s eyes on his face as he closes his own. “Goodnight.”
As if that burst of courage has taken all of his energy out of him, exhaustion sinks into his bones. His ears prick at every rustle from Hanbin.
"I feel like this is worse," Hanbin murmurs after a few minutes, quiet enough that it doesn't burst the bubble of peace forming around them.
Zhang Hao's eyes remain closed. The black ocean of unconsciousness laps at his feet. He thinks, vaguely, that this must be what District Four looks like at night. "Why," he mumbles.
Hanbin is quiet for so long that Zhang Hao is already shoulders-deep when he speaks again. "Because I see the life we could've had together."
The water closes over his head. Zhang Hao dreams of nothing.
Hanbin is still there when he wakes up, which shouldn't feel like an achievement but does. Their bodies have gravitated towards each other overnight and the small distance between them has been erased, like it never existed in the first place.
Hanbin doesn't bother to hide that he was watching Zhang Hao sleep. He greets him with a soft smile and a, "You snore kinda loudly, you know."
Zhang Hao laughs and Hanbin's eyes widen cutely at the sound. "In the arena I had to tie my jacket around my nose and mouth whenever I slept, so that it acted as a sort of muzzle." He snorts derisively at the memory. "It meant that I would wake up in the middle of the night gasping for air, but at least it was quieter than my snoring."
Hanbin laughs too. "I always slept during the day. For only a few hours at a time. We took shifts, me and Jeonghwa. I guess it was inefficient, looking back on it, but at least we knew our backs were always covered." He sobers, eyes losing that brightness. "Up until the end."
“If it worked then it worked,” Zhang Hao says lightly, reeling him back from the land of memories. He pokes Hanbin’s cheek and Hanbin blinks at him, slow and amused. “Are you doing anything today?”
Hanbin shakes his head. "Nothing I can't push aside for you.”
Zhang Hao realises, all at once, that his selfishness never left him. He wants this Hanbin all to himself: the morning stubble, the husky quality to his voice, the relaxed sprawl of his limbs in his bed, the shine of contentment in his eyes. He can't fathom having anything less.
"Okay," Zhang Hao says after a pregnant pause, abruptly struck dumb at how right this feels. “Let's spend the day together, then.”
Hanbin smiles, cheeks indenting. “Any plans in mind?”
Zhang Hao takes a leap of faith. “This, maybe.” He leans forward and presses a kiss to Hanbin's mouth, feels the smile disappear as Hanbin raises a hand to his neck and kisses him back. Zhang Hao curves a hand around his waist. Selfishness, he decides, has never felt so good.
“I agree,” Hanbin murmurs after they separate, their noses nudging together. Of course he doesn't have morning breath. “I'm looking forward to it.”
Zhang Hao kisses him only to wipe the smirk off his face.
Trouble finds him in the form of a lanky soldier who looks barely old enough to be in uniform. Zhang Hao's step falters when he sees him waiting outside of his apartment, but he recovers quickly.
The soldier's attention is drawn away from the gadget on his wrist when he hears Zhang Hao's footfall. His expression is blank. “Mr. Zhang.”
“Good afternoon,” he says smoothly, coming to a stop. He pointedly doesn't look at the soldier's pistol peeking out from his holster. “Has something happened?”
“There's nothing to worry about,” the soldier assures. “Just a small matter of business. The president wants to see you.”
Zhang Hao has been media-trained; he possesses the ability to keep his face perfectly blank. “Alright.” He pointedly hefts the bag in his arms up. “Just let me put my shopping away first, please.”
The soldier nods and steps to the side. He keeps the door propped open with his foot as Zhang Hao disappears inside, something he bristles at. He forces his mind to stay focused on only keeping to his fridge system; this soldier can likely detect the scent of panic, like a bloodhound.
The fridge door closes with a thud.
I didn't even get to say goodbye to Hanbin, he thinks as he watches his reflection on the wall of the elevator, and finds that he can't think of anything else the entire journey there.
The presidential palace is an impressive building, though far too ostentatious for Zhang Hao to appreciate. Gleaming gold detailing and ivory columns and perfectly-pruned rose bushes bordering the steps to the front doors, complete with sprawling gardens tucked away behind the palace itself. All he can think about is how many families in Seven such wealth must be able to feed.
Zhang Hao has been here only once before, after his permanent move to the Capitol and victory tour. Jiayi had accompanied him. What happened to his father was still fresh in his mind and he had been distantly afraid of what he would do if left alone with the president. Which is laughable looking back on it now, as that time period is when cowardice welcomed him with open arms.
That meeting, Jiayi talking for him and his lack of mental resilience in becoming a mentor while he kept his head bowed, went quickly. He hopes he can say the same for this one, too.
"Ah, Hao,” President Shen greets from behind his desk. The young soldier bows his head and doesn't follow Zhang Hao inside. “Please, sit. It's lovely to see you again.”
Carefully, Zhang Hao lowers himself into one of the chairs opposite him. He thinks there might be sweat beading on the back of his neck.
“I hope you've been keeping well,” the president continues, thumbing through a thin sheaf of papers now. His face wears an affable, warm smile. The grey streaks in his beard quiver with the force of his maintaining that unnatural expression. “I don't believe we've spoken since before Jiayi's passing. I was so sorry to hear the news. She was a great woman, undoubtedly valuable. I'm sure you must miss her tremendously.”
“Yes,” Zhang Hao manages stiffly when he realises the president is expecting him to answer. “Thank you for your condolences.”
“No need to thank me for something so trivial. Offering my condolences is the least I could do. I only apologise that I couldn't make it to the funeral.” Zhang Hao nods and even musters up a faint smile, though it's probable it looks more like a grimace. The president discards his papers with a sigh. “Well, onto business. I won't keep you long. I only thought it necessary to tell you the news of your mentorship in-person.”
Zhang Hao's heart stops in his chest, then begins to pound. “My what?”
The president’s smile loses its warmth. “You will begin mentoring both tributes from District Seven for the annual Hunger Games each year. As you're the only District Seven victor, you will undertake this task alone. Li Yizhou will be the lead stylist once again, I believe you're familiar with her. I'm afraid we're still organising the escorts but I assure you that you'll receive help on that front too.” He pauses. “If you grow tired of mentoring alone, well, all the more motivation to secure another victor.”
If his chair was closer to the desk, he could pinch himself without the president seeing, just to make sure that this is real. He's sure he's had a nightmare like this right after he won. Several, probably; mentorship is one branch he would have preferred to never reach.
"Sir," he starts, fighting to keep his tone deferential rather than confrontational. "With all due respect, I'm not sure I—”
"Come now," President Shen cajoles. It's evident that he thinks Zhang Hao is being unreasonable and has little patience for it. "I've been lenient enough with you these past few years because your district at least had Jiayi. She insisted to me that she could manage things by herself just fine, but you're aware that's no longer an option now." He spreads his hands. "They need someone, Hao. Don't forget your duties."
What else can he do but agree?
Wen Jiayi was the sole District Seven mentor, their only victor in the past thirty years. By the time she had Zhang Hao thrust upon her, she was a hardened, no-nonsense woman. She had no tolerance for teaching undernourished teenagers how to try and survive in a world that would much rather see them dead.
Never forget that you are from District Seven, she would frequently say to Zhang Hao in the lead-up to his Games. She always said it like she was delivering a tried and true speech, year after year to every tribute that was placed under her care. In their eyes, you are expendable and worthless. Good for absolutely nothing. See to it that you remember that.
A different mentor would have twisted those words into motivation, into a desire to prove the world wrong. Jiayi, however, only meant them as fact. She wasn't even necessarily cruel about it. But he did wonder, sometimes, if there would have been other victors from Seven if she never spoke those truths.
Zhang Hao went to her funeral six months ago. She had no immediate family left in Seven so it was held in the Capitol, even though she likely would have preferred not having a funeral at all. He can't know for sure — they never spoke about their death arrangements.
He sat in the back row and listened to people he peripherally knew share anecdotes of what an amazing woman she was, how she beat all the odds in her Games to emerge victorious as District Seven’s first — and, for a very long time, only — victor, how she grew up with nothing and submerged herself in knowledge in the precious days between the Reaping and the Games.
Naturally, it was all bullshit. Jiayi was the daughter of Seven’s mayor at the time and he’d asked his Capitol connections for more than a few favours. She won in her own right — every victor did, in Zhang Hao’s opinion — but it wasn’t the underdog rags-to-riches story he’d been led to believe. Jiayi had told him all of this herself. Then she’d smiled with all of her teeth on display and said seems like even in this, we’re nothing alike. Zhang Hao hadn’t needed the story of her past to know that.
Wealth or no wealth — it didn’t really matter in the end, he supposes. She was dead either way, with no one to truly mourn her and Zhang Hao left as the sole Seven victor. He felt, perhaps, more alone than he ever had. How did she do this for thirty years, he thought miserably as he sat on that chair, and bowed forward at the waist to give the illusion of someone ensconced in deep grief. It wasn’t her that he was mourning, he believed, but rather what she represented. The gaping hole of companionship, the loss of his fellow countryman. That felt more correct.
Afterwards, when the proceedings were over and the would-be bereaved filtered out so only a few stragglers remained, he finally lifted his head. Even the crown of his head must have been recognisable but no one had stopped by his row to offer their condolences, which was something he was grateful for.
A beam of light slanted in through the angled window and struck the wood in front of him, temporarily obscuring his vision. Then his eyes adjusted and he saw Zhong Chenle hovering by his side. District Eight victor, though Zhang Hao couldn't remember which year. It can't have been that long ago — he'd won at fourteen, the youngest victor in several years, and he didn't look older than seventeen now. Zhang Hao couldn't imagine winning at fourteen; he'd barely escaped the ordeal of winning at seventeen.
Cradled in Chenle's hands could only be Jiayi's remains, locked away in an urn. The urn was smaller than he thought it would be, as if he believed that it was impossible to capture the life essence of Jiayi in a single item. Could this really be all that was left of her?
As the nausea rolled in his stomach, Chenle thrust the urn out to him in offering.
Zhang Hao stared at him blankly. "I'm not family."
Chenle shrugged. "You were probably the closest thing she had to it by the time she died." He gave the urn a little shake for emphasis. "Come on, just take it. Otherwise it goes to the state and you know they'll just make it some weird attraction or something."
Grudgingly, Zhang Hao accepted it. It was black and held no design. It was all he had of her. Wen Jiayi, reduced to ashes in his palm.
It still sits on a shelf in his living room. His plan is to scatter her ashes in one of the forests in Seven and allow the soil to take her as it takes everything else. From soil we are born and to soil we return — it's the unofficial motto of Seven. Zhang Hao used to know a boy who had that illegally tattooed across his ribcage in thick, spidery writing.
But to do that, he'd need to travel back to District Seven in the first place. He wouldn't be able to book the train ticket without the media catching wind of it. The cameras would follow him there, likely begging for a family reunion, and he would have to oblige. He can't do that, at least not now. Maybe not ever.
So the urn stays.
When he was officially crowned victor at the end of his exit interview, Jiayi was all smiles. She jumped up out of her seat, the cameras trained on her every move. She ran to hug him, uncharacteristically affectionate, and whispered in his ear, "You've just made the greatest mistake of your life."
If nothing else, at least Zhang Hao could count on her to deliver the cold, hard truth.
He isn't like Jiayi. He knew he wouldn't be, theoretically, but theory and practice are two different things entirely. Anyone can study the smooth blade of a knife or the pointed edge of an arrowhead or the spikes of a trident and describe how, exactly, pain can blossom from these tools. One wouldn't even have to touch them to get the answer right, just merely point and declare if you twist your wrist then the knife cuts at an angle and your opponent spills their guts out all over the ground.
In practice, getting the answer right involves another level of fortitude that not everyone possesses.
Zhang Hao counts himself lucky that he does own this power. He has the power to shed tradition, to twist his own wrist into Jiayi's mentorship methods and watch as they flutter to the ground in scraps. There will be no more backhanded pep talks, no more grinding weary bones down into dust. He will be different.
It's not exactly optimism because that would be going from one extreme to another, but it's—a chance. A clean slate, an opportunity for every tribute to prove themselves. Skills, he decides, can be built up from even the most basic level. He turns this around in his mind as he sits alone in the train carriage, the world only a blur of green through the windows. They're speeding into Seven now, mountains folding into the flat expanse of endless forests with only the railway cutting a path through the trees.
He wonders how the people of Seven will react to having him back for the first time in years. Their boy wonder and, now, sole victor. His mind slides to Jiayi again. He suspects that will be happening a lot over the next few weeks. She must've made this same trip by her lonesome year on year, continuously returning in this train with nothing to show for it. Only her thoughts and the Avoxes to keep her company. Until Zhang Hao, of course. Except he wasn't a comrade to her either — she continued to make this trip alone, even after he won. He sees that she was protecting him from the horrors of mentorship but perhaps he should've put up a greater fight, claimed that he could wrangle two teenagers with her and they would teach them together.
It's a half-hearted regret. He is, above all, selfish; he's grateful that he could escape his duties for at least a few years.
He'll make good of what's expected of him. Tonight he'll arrive in Seven and have dinner with the new mayor and his family, then turn in early in his too-big house. He'll wake up early, hours before the Reaping, so he can follow through on his promise to scatter Jiayi's ashes in one of the forests. Then, after all the public spectacle, he'll mentor these tributes to the best of his ability.
Zhang Hao had told Hanbin of his plans before he left. Before they left: Hanbin is mentoring this year too, for the second time. At least it means they'll be able to catch glimpses of each other in the run-up to, and during, the Games. Zhang Hao had asked him for any mentoring tips, any wisdom he could impart considering that Zhang Hao has no experience in this department. Hanbin had told him everything he knew: both the more general advice, like the necessity of sponsors and media training, and the more specific, like highlighting the tributes’ strengths and what combat skill gives them the winning edge.
He's not sure how much of the latter will come in handy. It turns out tributes from Four don't have a lot in common with tributes from Seven. Still, he reminds himself, they can learn. Or get lucky. All he had to his name was climbing trees and swinging an axe in the exact same arc every single day. A lot of kids in Seven can boast of the same.
He gazes down at the notes he's already made, important dates to be aware of and potential sponsors and design ideas to share with Yizhou and speculation about the arena setting. The train rolls along.
He's a victor. He aged out of the Games years ago. It's impossible that he'll ever be a tribute again. He knows all this, yet the day of the Reaping still brings him a heaviness in his stomach which refuses to dissipate.
He repeats those facts to himself as he sits on the stage, absently cataloguing the old and new faces that pour into the town square. Old Man Yang, who could frequently be spotted shouting at the air next to him. Li Meng, who always slipped him an extra pouch of flour with a small smile. Han Yuanqi, missing an eye and one of the women his mother worked with. Lin Zhai, his best friend when he was young. He's grown up enough to have a jaw that cuts. Zhang Hao follows what his eyes are desperately fixed on and sees his younger brother in the crowd of cordoned-off boys. What kind of act of cruelty would it be if he had to mentor his childhood best friend's fourteen-year-old sibling?
There's a brief moment of wondering if his parents are in the crowd. They must be, he decides: attendance is mandatory for all citizens. Is his mother forcing herself to look at him, to study the stiff form of her adult son and take stock of all the changes in him that she's neglected to witness through the years? Or are her eyes trained on the podium or the pebbled ground or the stiff form of her husband? He lowers his own eyes and stops wondering.
He'd learnt over braised pork last night that the mayor had been sought out by the Capitol government after Mayor Huang's transition out of politics last year. The mayor is a fool, Zhang Hao thinks privately. He believes that the Capitol picking him was a sign that they trusted him to do their dirty work, that he was being praised for his good citizenship. He couldn't see that his promotion from Peacekeeper meant that they thought he was weak and easily moldable. The perfect vessel for the Capitol's wishes. Zhang Hao had naturally kept this to himself, and only chewed and smiled as the mayor eagerly chattered away about proving himself. He had no interest in making the target on his back larger.
The anthem of Panem drags him out of his musings, signalling both the arrival of Mayor Chen and the commencement of the film. President Shen's voice, less gruff than it is now, narrates. There was a time when Zhang Hao used to have this monologue memorised. He's sure every kid in Panem did.
Once the film is done rolling and silence has returned to its place, Zhang Hao recognises that as his cue. He feels the weight of thousands of eyes physically drop onto him like an anvil. It's only through focusing on every action as it comes — one foot in front of the other, clear throat, adjust microphone, open mouth — that he doesn't collapse or, even worse, go blank.
He had been ordered to keep his speech short, so short it is. He wishes everyone in the square luck and vows to support the two tributes as best as he can, before he returns to his seat next to Kim Kibum. He tries not to make his relieved exhale too obvious. Kibum's extravagant furs tickle his hand. He supposes Bora was promoted to a different district in the years he’s been out of the loop. Or demoted.
Kibum stands and does his own spiel about what an honour it is to be the escort for Seven this year, complete with a promise to turn around Seven’s reputation in the Games. He caps his speech off with a charming smile and, “Although success does not find this district easily, I promise all of you that me and Zhang Hao are more than ready to lead the chosen tributes to victory.” Zhang Hao wonders how many times he rehearsed that in the mirror.
All too quickly, it’s time for the main attraction. He can physically feel the camera lenses zoom in and he subtly slides his hands underneath his thighs.
Kibum saunters to the glass bowl on the right. It’s completely silent in the square, just like it was during his own Reaping. His chest feels like it might cave in. He’s seriously, instantly gripped with the fear that he might be sick right here. He watches as Kibum fishes a name out of the bowl and pauses for dramatic effect. “Song Yuqi,” he reads out.
The crowd parts to reveal a girl who looks about fifteen. Small with bushy hair, but a fierce tilt to her mouth. She holds her head up high and walks with determination in her stride.
She doesn't spare him a glance as she stands in her spot on the stage, which isn't totally unexpected. She probably wasn't even a teenager when he won. Jiayi, who continued coming out here alone, must be a more familiar figure to these people. Maybe all he is is a name.
“Now for the boys,” Kibum announces, mouth drawn into a distracting pucker as if all he can think about is posing for the cameras. Zhang Hao, abruptly, hates him. The slip of paper unfurls in his hand. “Huang Renjun.”
A pale, skinny boy who looks about the same age as Yuqi. Zhang Hao's stomach turns. So young. Why are they both so young?
Hopeless, Jiayi's voice whispers in his head. He ignores it.
“And there we have it,” Kibum chirps, bright smile on his face. “Our two tributes from District Seven for the 46th Hunger Games, Song Yuqi and Huang Renjun. May the odds be ever in their favour!”
District Seven, as a single, monolithic mass, silently stares at the stage. Zhang Hao tries not to already feel like a failure.
The Peacekeepers lead them to the Justice Building so Yuqi and Renjun can say their goodbyes to their families. Kibum disappears once they're inside, presumably locating the adjoining door that will take him back to the train station, but Zhang Hao waits out in the hallway. Two of the Peacekeepers stay with him.
The chair creaks as he sits down. They must only see use at this time of year. He stares at his knees and pointedly ignores the imprints of memory clawing at him.
He wishes, not for the first time today, that Hanbin was here with him. He wouldn't even need to touch Zhang Hao or say anything, he could just—be. The solid comfort of his presence at Zhang Hao's side. He closes his eyes and allows himself to imagine it: the warmth radiating from Hanbin, the even sound of his breathing, the acute sensation of safety he offers. Zhang Hao could wrap himself in that sensation like a quilt; it's dangerous to feel safe anywhere in Panem. But he does, thanks to Hanbin.
Danger and safety. Only his Hanbin could be such a tangled mess of contradictions.
He wonders if Hanbin is thinking of him too, if he misses Zhang Hao just as much as Zhang Hao misses him. He must be in the process of couriering his own tributes right now, possibly also waiting for them to finish up their goodbyes even though he has a much shorter train ride ahead of him than Zhang Hao. Zhang Hao imagines him tapping his foot impatiently and sitting straight-backed in his own Justice Building. His chest constricts with want. Soon, he promises himself, and holds fast to that lifeline.
Yuqi and Renjun reappear in the doorway as one and hover there expectantly. They look like they've both been crying, their faces blotchy and eyes puffy. Jiayi's judgement resounds in his mind again. Then the grainy, falsified image of a teenage Hanbin in that arena, crying after each of his kills. Crying isn't an indicator of anything at all.
He stands. "This way."
It's difficult enough to fall asleep without Hanbin in his own apartment, let alone in a place as unwelcoming as the Tribute Centre. He’s already resigned himself to a long night. He lies on his side, staring at the faint pinpricks of artificial stars on the wall projection.
It's the same for Hanbin; they have matching dark circles whenever they sleep apart, their bodies grown accustomed to the even rise and fall of a chest pressed against a back. It's not like they can't manage, especially when either one of them is staying the night with a client, but it's different knowing that Hanbin is within reach. He's somewhere along this very hallway, in fact.
Zhang Hao worries his bottom lip, considering his options. He knows which room Hanbin is staying in. This morning, Zhang Hao had passed him locking his bedroom door on the way to the elevator. All of the mentors are residing on floors fourteen and fifteen, which had initially seemed like a terrible idea to him until he remembered the necessity of the backdoor deals that the Games fosters.
After dinner, he'd spotted Hanbin and his fellow mentor from Four — Sooyoung, he thinks — huddled together in the hallway with one of the mentors from Two, their heads bowed together and muttering furiously in whispers that didn’t quite carry over to Zhang Hao. He didn't need to hear them; it was obvious they were discussing the tried and true alliance between their tributes. He remembers thinking it would be funny if he marched up to Hanbin right there and demanded that the Seven tributes be included in this agreement. Would Hanbin blanch or would he accommodate him, to the resentment of the others involved? He genuinely doesn't know.
It would be a stupid move, anyway. He's not personally fond of the idea of alliances — by design, they have to end badly. And he doesn't trust the other tributes to follow the orders of their mentors. Yuqi and Renjun will have to stick it out by themselves.
Another stupid move would be genuinely considering spending the night with Hanbin. He could pad the short distance there, three doors down, and slip back into his own room before dawn. He could hope no one would spot him in the hallway or hear him knocking. He could hope there are no cameras glaring down the length of the hallway. He could hope there isn't an electronic log of which doors have been opened and when.
A lot of risk for objectively very little reward. Life in the Capitol has softened him — he almost smiles thinking of telling District Seven tribute Zhang Hao, starving and on the constant verge of death in that arena, that future him will need another man wrapped around him to fall asleep. That Zhang Hao would probably spit in his face.
He's still debating with himself when there's a soft knock at the door. He tenses. It could be Yuqi or Renjun, he tells himself as he gets out of bed, coming to seek comfort with him because they can't sleep. But he knows it's not.
Hanbin puts a finger to his lips when he opens the door, asking permission with a dart of his eyes. Zhang Hao lets him in wordlessly.
"I don't think you should be here," he whispers regretfully as soon as the door is closed.
Hanbin dismisses him with a sharp shake of his head. “If not now, when? We're going to be so busy.” He amends, “We have been so busy. And I missed you.”
Zhang Hao's resolve to kick him out wavers. “I missed you too. A lot.” He purses his lips. “But you can't spend the night.”
Hanbin softens. “I know. I just wanted to see you like this. Alone.”
He holds out his arms and Zhang Hao falls into him a little too enthusiastically, too tired to attempt to temper his urges. Hanbin squeezes him and Zhang Hao sighs, head dropping to his shoulder. He hadn't realised he was practically vibrating inside his skin before this.
Hanbin's breath skitters across the nape of his neck. "And I wanted to tell you something. Don't get too close. To your tributes, I mean."
Zhang Hao pulls back, indignant. "I'm doing my job. I'm helping them."
"I know," Hanbin soothes, but there's something in his tone that Zhang Hao doesn't like. "I know but…" He sighs and leans up to press a kiss to Zhang Hao's temple. "Never mind. Forget I said anything. You're doing your best, I know that.”
“Well, good,” he says, appeased. He snuggles into him again and pokes Hanbin's back. “So you missed me, huh?”
“Mm. All these people are so…” He trails off but it's obvious to Zhang Hao what he means. The phoniness of the Capitol natives goes without saying, but a lot of the mentors are just as bad. He's unspeakably glad that he has Hanbin.
"I wish you could stay," he says, muffled by the cotton of Hanbin's shirt.
Hanbin exhales against the shell of his ear, his arms tightening around Zhang Hao. "Me too." He nudges his nose into Zhang Hao's cheek, touching for the sake of touching. "Me too."
He doesn't know which of them initiates the kiss but what difference does it make? All that matters is having Hanbin exactly where he should be, the casual, familiar intimacy doing wonders to calm him. He already knows that he'll replay this moment in his mind as soon as he returns to his cold bed.
It's a sweet kiss, not going further beyond their mouths gently pressing together, and he pulls away when Hanbin's hold on his waist loosens. He realises belatedly that the sound of it was startlingly loud and he flushes, hoping that the walls here are as soundproof as they appear.
Hanbin appraises him and murmurs something in the language of Four, the sound of it only known to him because he likes to eavesdrop on Hanbin singing in the shower.
"What was that?"
"I called you beautiful," Hanbin says softly, thumb pressed to the corner of Zhang Hao's mouth. He repeats the word, slower this time.
Zhang Hao clumsily copies the unfamiliar lilt to it and then offers another translation, unsurely, in his own language. He hasn't spoken this tongue since before Jiayi died and the syllables feel strange in his mouth, like there's a real possibility he may have forgotten to speak it in the interim.
Hanbin repeats it after him smoothly, his accent already refined. He's a quick study, just like he is in everything else.
"Sounds a lot prettier in your language," Hanbin whispers. "Or maybe that's just because it's you saying it."
"Too cheesy," Zhang Hao complains in a half-whine, though it's offset by how Hanbin must surely be able to feel his heart rate speeding up embarrassingly.
But he can one-up him. He speaks a different phrase, his tongue curling around the syllables. The last time Zhang Hao said this must have been when he was a child.
Hanbin diligently repeats after him. Then: “What does that mean?”
“It means…” His hand curls into Hanbin's sleep shirt. “It means I love you.”
To have Hanbin say that phrase back to him in the language of Seven makes his heart soar but also, embarrassingly, makes him yearn for a different life. One where he and Hanbin never grimly fought their way through the Games, one where Hanbin is another boy of the neighbourhood, one where they study together and live together and work together in Seven before dying of old age. It's the life they deserved.
Hanbin exhales shakily, a hitch in his throat like the whisper of the leaves. “Oh.” Then his mouth is on him again, nothing at all like the previous kiss. This is desperate, harsh, pleading. He'll replay this one too. Hanbin is simply far too good of a kisser. "I love you,” Hanbin copies again. He says it in Four's language too. It sounds like music.
Zhang Hao imitates him, clutching at his shoulders as he presses their foreheads together. "I love you. I love you.” An inelegant kiss, teeth catching Hanbin's bottom lip. "I love you. I really do, Hanbin. There's so much of it that it scares me.”
Hanbin laughs quietly and curves tighter around him, if possible. “Now you know how I've been feeling since the moment we met.”
“The moment we met?” Zhang Hao questions, amused. “Moving a little quickly, don't you think?”
“Not really,” Hanbin replies, thumb brushing the skin underneath Zhang Hao's eye. “Knew you were special from that first conversation. I think I always believed that we would get here some day.” He pecks the tip of Zhang Hao's nose. “And soon our schedules will be back to normal.”
"Soon," Zhang Hao agrees, though it's not really soon at all. The Games usually take a few weeks and they'll be stuck here for that duration, as they're required to be at hand in case something urgent crops up with one of their tributes. Not to mention the constant hashing out of deals with sponsors. There would be sleepless nights with or without Hanbin, he figures. Speaking of sleepless nights: "You should really get going."
"Just a few more minutes," Hanbin negotiates, palm brushing up and down Zhang Hao's back.
His eyes fall shut. They stand there for so long that Zhang Hao's arms start to cramp, but it's worth it.
The Games roll around far too quickly. Zhang Hao tries his hardest — he truly does want to be a good mentor, wants to help his tributes in any way he can, so while they're busy training he whiles the days away liaising with sponsors. It's flat-out exhausting since all the mentors are vying for their attention, like birds crowded around a single breadcrumb. He can turn up the charm when he needs to but after so many hours of this, his reserves are depleted. He can only refuse so many shots of soju before it begins to wear him down.
His energy isn’t entirely wasted. He manages to procure a few potential sponsors who promise to keep their eyes on Yuqi and Renjun. If they manage to survive the first few days then the sponsors’ attention and gifts will follow. Zhang Hao thinks the promises only came because of his flirtations rather than any interest in his tributes’ skills, but he needs to provide the kids with some good news. So he’d employed all of his well-worn tricks, coy smiles and fluttering eyelashes, and steadfastly ignored both Hanbin’s searing gaze on him across the room and the queasiness in his stomach.
Setting aside sponsors, he has his work cut out for him regarding training. Mentors can't join tributes in the heart of the Tribute Centre, or even watch their tributes train, but he can glean information from Yuqi and Renjun themselves. As he suspected, both of them only have experience working in Seven's forests. Yuqi is small, light, quick on her feet. She told him, on the train ride to the Capitol, that she could leap from branch to branch. She's determined, too, a spark in her eyes that refuses to extinguish. He likes her.
He likes Renjun too, although he's conscious of the problem that had presented itself to him. Also on that train ride, Renjun had shown him the long scar running across his back, from shoulder to shoulder. From just a couple of years ago, when one of the wood chippers had malfunctioned. He had been lucky to escape with his life. It means he can't lift anything onto his shoulders, or aim an arrow at a point higher than himself, or use his back muscles in any way.
Yuqi scores a five in her training evaluation. Renjun scores a three.
On the day the Games are due to begin, he picks at his food listlessly. Yuqi is doing the same, her face noticeably ashen, but Renjun is rapidly filling his stomach like he’s planning to stock up for a few days. It’s not a bad idea at all but: “Slow down,” Zhang Hao chastises. “You’ll be sick if you eat any quicker.”
“Oh, let him eat,” Kibum mutters, scrolling through his tablet. “This will probably be the last time.”
Zhang Hao glares at him and has to remind himself that so much as kicking Kibum would get him thrown into the Capitol’s cells.
After breakfast, he leads them to the stylists’ quarters. He can hear Yizhou’s boisterous laugh through the door. From here on out, they’ll be out of his hands entirely.
“Listen to me, both of you,” he says, hoping they ignore the rasp of his voice. Yuqi is visibly trembling but she stares up at him, almost defiantly. “As soon as the countdown finishes, you run. It doesn’t matter how nice the packs or food or weapons look, you turn away from the Cornucopia and start running as far as your feet can carry you. Remember everything I’ve told you about finding shelter and water, all the things you’ve learnt in your training sessions. That can be put to use after you make a break for it and find somewhere viable. Don’t bother with the Cornucopia, it’s not worth it.” He looks between them. “Do I make myself clear?”
Renjun is staring at the floor, arms wrapped around himself, but Yuqi whispers, “Yes.”
“Good,” he says with finality, then squeezes their shoulders simultaneously. He knocks on the door to announce their presence. “Good luck.”
“May the odds be ever in your favour,” Yizhou echoes brightly as the door swings open. “Morning, Hao. You two, in here.”
He musters up a faint smile for Yizhou and watches the three of them vanish inside. He’s always hated that saying; the odds have been stacked against them since birth. But maybe, maybe, the scale will tip the other way for them, just as it did for him.
The mentor lounge, a sloping lobby which seems to stretch out forever, is directly next to the Tribute Centre. This is where the mentors — and most sponsors and escorts — spend their days, so it holds everything one could desire: a bar, a holographic multiplayer game that he doesn't recognise, a pool table, Avoxes lined up against the wall waiting to take food orders. Zhang Hao thinks he even spies a swimming pool and jacuzzi out back. And, of course, the main attraction: the TV which holds an entire wall hostage, complete with couches and loveseats dotted alongside it.
Silently, so as to escape attention from the crowd of other mentors that have already gathered here, he lowers himself into one of the few unoccupied loveseats on the outskirts. No one spares him a glance, which he's absurdly grateful for. Hanbin must still be finishing up.
The TV is playing at a low volume, Kim Heechul and Kang Mina running through the standard pre-Games commentary together. Most of the other mentors are chattering away to each other, predictions of the Games or idle small talk, but some — like him — are lost in thought. The woman to his right also seems to be a solo mentor and he stares at her for a moment, trying to place her name. It doesn't come to him. Her eyes flick once to the left, like she's detected his gaze on her, but refocus on the TV. There's a blank, resigned cast to her face. How many years, Zhang Hao wants to ask, but follows her lead.
A clip of his speech from Seven's Reaping is thrown up on the TV and he instinctively startles at seeing himself, though barely anyone else seems to be paying attention. The noise around him means he can't work out what the hosts are saying about him, but Heechul has a genial smile on his face. Although when isn't he smiling? That man will probably die laughing.
The footage moves on, then, to clips from various tribute interviews, plus a reminder of their training scores. There's no shot or mention of Yuqi and Renjun anywhere. Zhang Hao bites his lip but tells himself that's totally expected. He himself had been largely invisible to viewers and sponsors until he reached the top ten.
The door slides open once again, the hiss of it blending into the general noise. Except the two people stepping in bring a few wayward, raucous cheers from the mentors in the centre.
“Oh, Hanbin!” Jiwon shoots up from where she'd been nursing her cocktail, patting the couch cushion next to her. “Come sit, I saved you a space.” She forces a giggle and bounces a little in place. “I'm so excited!”
Sooyoung looks amused at this display but Hanbin smiles rakishly, dipping his head. “Thanks, Jiwon. I appreciate it.”
Zhang Hao watches him as subtly as possible while they make their way into the circle. It strikes him that this is the first time he's seen Hanbin interact with their fellow victors. Knowing Hanbin as he does now, it's shockingly easy to detect how much he clearly doesn't care for those around him.
His face has all the necessary animation to it, as if he's picked up a manual on how to seem warm and approachable and is following all the instructions to a T. But his eyes hold no spark of life; there's only a cold blankness present whenever Jiwon nudges him or Park Jihoon makes a joke, as if he's simply operating on autopilot. It's nothing like how he is with Zhang Hao.
Somewhat mollified, his gaze drifts back to the TV. Studying Hanbin was a welcome distraction from what he's really here for. His skin itches restlessly; Yuqi and Renjun must be about to step into their pods.
Out of the corner of his eye, Hanbin's head swivels around as he takes quick stock of his surroundings. Some of the sponsors have begun to dot the edges of their little circle, holding glasses of champagne in their hands, though most of them have opted to gather around the projection outside instead. Zhang Hao feels Hanbin's attention stop on him like a searchlight before continuing on.
“And now, the moment we've all been waiting for,” Mina announces, too-bright grin taking up half of her face. Zhang Hao crosses his fingers. “Our first look at the arena, how exciting.”
The camera cuts away from the hosts to pan to the Cornucopia with the twenty-four empty platforms circling the horn. There's a collective swell of tension in the room as more of the arena is revealed: a rainforest, dense and all-encompassing, stretching out as far as the eye can see. The Cornucopia is stationed in a clearing, lush vegetation snaking around the platforms. The camera shifts to a bird's-eye view and he can see a lone waterfall in the far distance. He frowns to himself; surely that can't be the only source of water in the entire arena.
“Looks a lot like home, don't you think?” one of the men on the other side of the room says, nudging Chenle sitting next to him. He's right. The Eight tributes are at an advantage here, if only slightly.
Then, so suddenly that one of the mentors close to Hanbin shrieks, the tributes simultaneously shoot up onto the platforms. Zhang Hao rests his elbows on his knees, hands clasped in front of him. The woman next to him is doing the same.
“Ten seconds on the clock!” Heechul announces cheerily.
Zhang Hao looks around the screen wildly, trying desperately to locate Yuqi and Renjun, but the camera is constantly cutting away from the wide shot to give close-ups to some of the other tributes instead. Hanbin's tributes are both shown, Jang Wonyoung and Myung Jaehyun. Wonyoung's eyes are flitting around, clearly cataloguing which tributes are also planning to run forward rather than away. There's a variety of packs dotted around within the circle, along with individual items such as food cans, water flasks, a jacket, and even a roll of bandages. The weapons are closer to the horn.
“Five,” Mina begins, the countdown glowing in the corner of the screen as well. “Four.” Finally, a shot of Yuqi; her eyes are roving over the pickings spread out in front of her. Zhang Hao mentally pushes her away, turning her to the forest behind. “Three.” A tribute from Two, a lazy smile on his face. “Two.” Where is Renjun, Zhang Hao thinks despairingly. “And…let the Games begin!”
The lounge seems to explode, the more exuberant mentors yelling directions at their tributes as if they can hear them. He can hear some of the sponsors jeering outside, already drunk and baying for blood. Zhang Hao doesn't engage in any of this verbally, but inside he's screaming run run fucking run. A thin layer of sweat is covering his palms.
He spots her first — Yuqi, making a dash for the netted bag of pears about ten feet in front of her. For the first time since meeting her, she looks panicked. Zhang Hao curls into himself, unable to look away. “Don't,” he whispers, but no one hears him.
Wonyoung has skewered Yuqi's throat on the tip of a spear five seconds later. The pears crash to the ground. Yuqi only blinks, chokes, blinks, chokes. Wonyoung has her teeth bared in a feral grin. The spear slides out, blood with it, and Yuqi collapses next to the pears.
Wonyoung whirls around, intent on finding her next target. And find him she does: Renjun is limping away towards the treeline, hand clutched around a can of tuna. A knife seems to have grazed his thigh. There's a terrified sheen to his eyes. Zhang Hao feels like he's right there in that arena, waiting for Renjun at the treeline, screaming at him to hurry up.
The spear, launched by Wonyoung at his back, sinks into his skin. He must let out a garbled cry of pain but Zhang Hao doesn’t hear it; there's a cacophony of noise both around him and on the TV. He can distantly hear another tribute begging for their life.
Renjun falls to the floor like a sack of potatoes, the can still caught in his grip. He dies quickly, at least. Wonyoung liberates both the can and the spear from him, long braid falling over her shoulder.
Zhang Hao rips himself away. Hanbin's eyes on him make him stumble but no one else spares him a glance, still engrossed in the scenes of carnage broadcasting in front of them. Yuqi and Renjun are already forgotten, remembered only by their families and friends in Seven.
And that's it. Over just like that. Yuqi and Renjun lying there dead, at the hands of Hanbin's tribute. He stumbles again and curses softly. His body and brain are refusing to connect, his mind blaring out distress signals that his body can't hear.
Don't get too close to your tributes, Hanbin had told him. Like it was an inevitability that his tributes would soon meet their demise. Had Hanbin instructed his own tributes to pick off Yuqi and Renjun, knowing what easy targets they make? Knowing that Zhang Hao was both worried and protective, losing sleep because he was drafting strategies for them? Perhaps he saw it as an opportunity to teach Zhang Hao a lesson in getting too attached.
He's not thinking rationally, he knows. But he can't dismiss the idea as quickly as he'd like to.
He finds himself at the bar at the other end of the lounge. A bottle of his old favourite is standing proud behind the Avox. His tongue unglues itself from the roof of his mouth but he can't form the words, as if his tongue has twisted itself into a knot. The Avox merely watches him.
“Just a soda water,” he manages after what seems like an eternity. “Thank you.”
Hanbin comes to find him there, finally back from striking new deals with sponsors. The communicuff on his wrist won’t stop pinging with notifications. That girl, Wonyoung, will go far. Hanbin will be busy for the next week or so, possibly longer than that if she manages to clear the competition. Zhang Hao has a feeling she will.
He's sitting at the very end of the curved bar where only the Avoxes can see him, which is why he allows the brief touch of Hanbin's hand on his shoulder. A worse person, someone like Zhang Hao, would utter a snide I told you so. But Hanbin only offers: "I'm sorry.”
"For what," Zhang Hao says dully, and stalks off back to his room.
Wonyoung ends up winning. She's the shiny new addition to their little group. He stayed at home and watched the first minute of her exit interview before switching the TV off. The Hanbin sitting on the stage with her, wearing a thin, well-worn smile on his face, had been a Hanbin he didn't recognise.
Zhang Hao can't believe this is what he has to look forward to every year. He sees now why Jiayi had given up; to her credit, she'd lasted thirty-three years of being a mentor. He can't even manage one.
As predicted, Hanbin's hands are full with juggling his duties of integrating the new sparkling victor of Panem back into society. Zhang Hao hasn't seen him in weeks, since Yuqi and Renjun were killed and he himself had been unceremoniously booted out of the Tribute Centre. He considered taking a train back to Seven to see their families, maybe try and give them some of his own earnings, but ultimately decided against it. Too familiar. Possibly they would hate to have him there, which he can't blame them for.
That first week afterwards, he’d curled up in bed and resolutely stayed there even as day shifted to night to day again. He was a mere shell of himself, much like he had been after his own Games experience. The realisation had disturbed him immensely; was it a given that he would withdraw into himself every single year for the rest of his life? He couldn’t afford to relive that fugue state that had gripped his teenage self so harshly. It was an impossible ask. Decades of dead teenagers ahead of him. Even another victor would provide no reprieve — yet another child would spring up to take their place the year after. An endless supply unfolding into the distance. He had to drag himself out of bed to throw up in his bathroom.
A part of him had been grateful that it was impossible for Hanbin to sneak out and see him in this state, but a much larger part of him craved the comfort he would bring. He even considered sneaking into the Tribute Centre himself — how, he had no idea — just to track Hanbin down and sit by his side for an hour. A foolish, unrealised plan.
He thought he would at least have time to briefly meet him immediately after Wonyoung won, despite the risk, but Hanbin had had no choice but to stay by her side — she was whisked off back to Four the next day with Hanbin naturally accompanying her, so they didn't get a chance to say goodbye. Taerae, who turned up at his apartment shortly after the Games to discuss how his newfound mentorship went, told him that Wonyoung is coming back to the Capitol on Wednesday. The Capitol love her, apparently, and she has a whole host of schedules already lined up. He couldn't care less about that — what matters is that Hanbin must also be coming back on Wednesday. Tomorrow.
He's busy getting ready to sleep, attempting to rearrange the pillows on his double bed into a structure that feels less lonely, when he hears the knock on his front door.
He stills, hope lancing through him, then hurries to the door. It's a tad desperate of him but it's not like anyone is around to judge him. The door unlocks with a resounding click and his heart settles once he sees who's on the other side.
"I thought you were coming back from Four tomorrow," Zhang Hao greets, a little breathless.
Hanbin looks tired, there's no denying that, but his eyes land on Zhang Hao with an intensity that borders on unnerving. He's clearly driven here straight from the train station, backpack slung over one shoulder.
"I was," Hanbin murmurs as he steps closer, his palm warm against Zhang Hao's cheek, "but I got an earlier train. Needed to see you."
The door locks behind him. And then, it turns out, the pillow rearrangement is definitively useless.
Afterwards, when he's tracing the shape of the jagged scar on Hanbin's stomach, his tongue loosens to ask something he's been wondering for some time now.
"Hanbin."
"Mm?"
"What do you think…" He tries again. "How do you think things would've turned out if we were Reaped together?"
"We would've been the last two standing," Hanbin answers without even a second of thought, like he's considered this before.
Zhang Hao shifts, looking up at him. "And then?"
"And then," Hanbin says calmly, "I would've made you kill me because at least it would be you—"
Zhang Hao's hand flies up to clap over Hanbin's mouth. Hanbin instinctively flinches away from the movement, then stills. The warmth of his breath hits Zhang Hao's palm.
Zhang Hao realises, somewhat belatedly, he doesn't want to hear it spoken out loud. "I know what you meant by it. And it's the same for me too. But don't say that to me again."
Hanbin blinks at him in understanding. He removes his hand.
“I won't,” Hanbin says dutifully. “You know now. I don't need to repeat it.”
He bends his head to kiss the bare skin of Zhang Hao's chest. Zhang Hao closes his eyes and tries not to think about two boys in an arena who would be prepared to die for each other, who would kill each other only so that no one else could get there first.
There are nights he finds himself sitting on the kitchen floor, the cold tiles a welcome shock to the system. He's led here, slumped shoulders and head bowed, by an inexplicable energy, a tug that compels him to leave the warmth of his bed and carve out a bubble here instead. It's easier to think about Yuqi and Renjun, about mentorship, without Hanbin next to him.
It's not so easy to talk about it. Hanbin is worried about him; he'd told Zhang Hao as much, had said that Zhang Hao needed to talk to him. Had said that when Hanbin was upset he took it out on his surroundings, while Zhang Hao turned all of that inwards. Neither option was healthy but at least the damage from the former could be seen.
But Zhang Hao has nothing to talk about, not really. The experience itself was novel, for him, but what happened wasn't — two tributes dead in the Hunger Games. And so what? Countless mentors can say the same. Hanbin himself can, from his first run as mentor. The only detail that's unique here is how miserable Zhang Hao is over it. He reasons with himself that it will get easier each year, that it has to. He only feels this empty because it's his first time.
Despite how often he repeats that to himself, he can't help dreading next year so severely that his stomach hurts. He can't help replaying the last time he saw them in the Tribute Centre either, sending them off to their deaths with asinine advice.
He isn't sure how long he sits there but Hanbin comes to pull him away from himself, eventually.
“Come on, baby,” he whispers, carefully guiding him up from the floor as if he’s a wild animal about to snap. “Come on.”
Zhang Hao’s been sitting cross-legged for so long that his legs have gone numb; he has to use Hanbin as a leaning post for a few minutes while sensation returns to him. Hanbin holds him tightly, like he thinks Zhang Hao will crumple to the floor the second he loosens his hold. There are dark shadows under his eyes — both of them haven't been sleeping well lately, though a lot of Hanbin's own sleeplessness is related to Zhang Hao's.
“They were just kids,” he says to Hanbin as soon as he's slid into bed next to him, an indefinable emotion rising in him. “They were all just fucking kids. We were kids.”
Hanbin pauses. “We were,” he replies evenly, massaging the nape of Zhang Hao's neck. His thumb digs into the cropped hair at the base of his skull. “Don't you still feel like one, sometimes? I know I do.”
Zhang Hao smiles bitterly, eyes closed. “Only all the time. That's why it's ironic. The blind leading the blind.”
“What's ironic?” Hanbin asks, but Zhang Hao has already slipped away.
Zhang Hao's fellow tribute from Seven had been a girl the same age as him, Yang Xinyu. Even by Seven standards, she was small. It's one of those details he remembers most about her: how her head failed to reach the top of his ribcage when they stood next to each other, how she asked if they could train together so she could learn for herself the strength difference between them and Zhang Hao had her pinned in two seconds flat. It was natural for him to feel protective of her.
Before the Games, she lived in the same neighbourhood as Zhang Hao, though he didn't see her much. That was the poorest neighbourhood of Seven and once you reached a certain age, you practically disappeared from public life in order to devote yourself to working for a meagre pittance. It wasn't much but it lessened the burden. Zhang Hao, being an only child, had joined the workforce at eleven under his father's watchful eye. He knew Xinyu had done the same at nine: she was the eldest of four children. When the both of them were still enrolled at the local school, he helped her with some classwork once but that was the extent of their interactions. Even in that liminal reality of freedom as a young child, he never saw her or her siblings running wild in the forests.
Jiayi had taken one look at them, two skinny slips of things, and sighed to herself. He's filled out over the years, a combination of age and good Capitol food, but he often has to hide his startle when he passes a store window and sees that same child with sunken eyes reflected there. Worse than that is seeing her. She always appears when he least expects it.
Most of the time, he only sees her when he's out and about in the city. He'll spot a wave of dark hair, feline eyes, a downturned mouth. He'll come dangerously close to shouting out Xinyu! despite the terror that grips his heart in its icy clutches. Then the stranger will turn, or a cloud will pass over the sun, and he'll discover that she was never there at all.
Rarely, she visits his apartment.
When he still drank, he used to believe that seeing her was only the consequence of alcohol. Sorrow-induced hallucinations, the type of sorrow that could only spring from a well of insobriety. Time has proven him wrong.
He’s just slipped out from underneath Hanbin's arm to head to the bathroom; it's only when he's finished his business and is throwing a sideways glance at himself in the mirror that he spots her. Zhang Hao gasps, loudly and breathlessly. He's rooted to the floor, eyes boring into the mirror as if she's on the other side. Her figure has disappeared, now, so he's only staring at the empty space over the shoulder of his own reflection. But she had been there, a shadow hovering at the edge of his vision.
He must have stayed there for too long because he hears the familiar sound of Hanbin's footsteps approaching. Hears him stop in the doorway for a moment, peering inside and attempting to put together the pieces.
He comes to a halt behind Zhang Hao's other shoulder, concern twisting his mouth. "Come back to bed."
Zhang Hao is frozen. "I can't," he whispers, lips barely moving. Over his shoulder, if he stares hard enough he can shape the air into Xinyu's silhouette.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees understanding dawn on Hanbin's face.
"You can," Hanbin says patiently. When Zhang Hao doesn't react, Hanbin lifts his hand slowly, telegraphing his intent, and blindfolds him. His eyelashes flutter against Hanbin's palm. "It's just me, Hao. Only you and me. No one else."
Zhang Hao is shaking his head before he's even finished speaking. There's a deep swell of panic surfacing inside of him, animal instincts inexplicably ordering him to run. Run from what, he doesn't know. He cringes away from it, that feeling of his body straining against an invisible force, and burrows into Hanbin's warmth.
Hanbin's warm breath puffs against his ear. "Do you trust me?"
Unquestionably. Far more than he should. "Yes."
“Then trust that I'm telling you the truth. It's just you and me here, Hao. Like always.”
“Like always,” he echoes, beginning to calm. His heart is beating too fast. Sweat prickles at the back of his neck. When Hanbin removes his hand, the empty air over his shoulder remains only that. Zhang Hao exhales, noticing the exhausted droop to Hanbin's posture. “Sorry.”
Hanbin only shakes his head. “You scared me,” he mutters.
“Sorry,” Zhang Hao says again, unsure of what else to add without sounding crazy.
“Stop—” His voice cracks out like a whip, anger increasing its volume, and Zhang Hao flinches. Hanbin cuts himself off and briefly closes his eyes, then continues, much softer now, “Stop apologising.” He leads Zhang Hao back to the bedroom without another word, his touch gentle.
"I couldn't save her," Zhang Hao whispers into the darkness once they're back in bed, his back to Hanbin's chest. It's both, paradoxically, the surface and the core of the story. His mouth tastes like ash.
Hanbin's throat clicks when he swallows. "I know."
By Hanbin's request, they're partaking in an activity Zhang Hao hasn't visited in years: berry-picking. It was a simple demand, whispered into Zhang Hao's hair that morning: let's do something fun that you did back home. The last time Zhang Hao had had fun, truly unfiltered fun without the threat of the Games and the Capitol and his family skulking behind him, had been climbing Seven's trees as a kid. Reaching the topmost branch and perching there smugly had always felt like freedom, even though all he was doing was moving from one end of his cage to the other.
Naturally, all of those memories have been ruined for him now. Sometimes he can't even glance at a tree without seeing his teenaged self there, crouching between the branches and hand gripped around a knife.
So, berry-picking as the far safer option. This, too, is marred, though he doesn't have the heart to tell Hanbin that. It was only when he grew older, when his own earnings contributed to the small pile of coins on the table every week, that he realised his mother had taken him berry-picking because they had nothing else to eat for dinner. She'd hidden it behind a veil of exuberance and smiles and oh, look how big this one is!, so that as a child he'd been none the wiser and had cheerfully joined in. He'd stumbled after her blindly and followed her lead in what could be eaten and what had to be discarded. He remembers her praises and shoulder-squeezes more than the subsequent mealtimes, so it was a job well done on her part. She was a good mother, back then.
Although perhaps not really a fun memory any longer, it was useful: knowing which berries were safe to eat had saved his life in the Games. He'd prowled around more than a few times on the forest floor, a constant pain in his stomach accompanying him like an old friend, and passed the days on handfuls of berries.
Hanbin has driven him to a sparse woodland on the outskirts of the Capitol, an undertaking which he insists they're well within their rights to do. Zhang Hao isn't so sure but Hanbin is likely more acquainted with the inner workings of the Capitol ecosystem than he is. If needed, it might be possible to fall back on Hanbin's quote-unquote friends in high places.
The trees here are different from the ones in Seven, much more short and spindly, but the trees aren't the object of their scrutiny today. They hike up the overgrown path and split off once Zhang Hao deems this particular spot to have ample bushes of raspberries, though they don't stray too far from each other. In his peripheral vision, Hanbin is roughly pulling the berries off their stalks and dropping them into the bucket, its handle looped over his arm. Splashes of red adorn his fingertips.
“You need to do it more gently,” Zhang Hao tells him, walking over. He demonstrates. “Like this. Otherwise you're just making them all mushy. And check for worms inside as well, they're white and tiny.”
Hanbin copies him, one eye squinting as he turns the berry this way and that. His face wears a small smirk. “Teacher Zhang Hao.”
“Mm-hmm. I expect you to return the favour.”
Hanbin considers it as he resumes his picking, Zhang Hao watching in approval. “I'd like to teach you fishing one day. I think you'd take to it well.”
“Fishing, then,” Zhang Hao decides, moving back to his own bush after a light squeeze of Hanbin's elbow. “I expect great things from you, Sung Hanbin.”
They work in tandem, flitting from bush to bush along the path and orbiting each other. A comfortable silence settles into the air, broken only by Hanbin's faint humming and an exclamation of discovering a particularly misshapen berry. The breeze rustles the leaves above them. Birds don't live in the Capitol, for reasons unclear to Zhang Hao, and he finds himself missing the sound of their trills.
After some minutes of this, Hanbin breaks the silence fully. "Do you ever dream about the Games?"
Zhang Hao pauses and considers the question. After he won, he would dream about the arena basically every night. Sometimes he would be back in that arena and forced to face events that didn't happen, transplanted from Games of the past. An electrical storm that never burned, a flood that never bulldozed the trees from their roots. But, mostly, his dreams were his memories coming back to haunt him.
It's why he turned to the alcohol in the first place; it's a proven method of self-medication for a reason. Even though he no longer drinks, Zhang Hao thinks it must have permanently fried one of the centres in his brain or something as he hardly dreams of the Games now. His mind offers him a semblance of peace during his nights, at least.
"Not really," he answers as he inspects the insides of a berry. "I used to but I don't get that many dreams nowadays. And when I do, they're mainly about my district."
He has a recurring dream which crops up whenever he's especially homesick. He starts off running through an empty, silent forest with only the sound of his panting and footfall to keep him company. Then he bursts through the treeline, still running, and passes a row of empty, silent houses until he arrives at his own empty, silent house. The interior has been scrubbed clean of anything belonging to his parents.
It doesn't take a genius to work out the meaning behind it. District Seven isn't home for him and it never will be again.
When Zhang Hao turns to look at Hanbin after the silence has gone on too long, his smile is sad. "Guess I get the worst of both worlds, then."
"You dream about the Games a lot?" he asks, even though it's a pointless question. Zhang Hao has woken up too many times with Hanbin's arms rigid around him and harshly breathing into his neck to not know the answer.
"Too much," he says dryly. "But they're not so bad nowadays. I think sleeping with you helps." If that's what Hanbin's dreams look like when Zhang Hao is helping him, he doesn't want to know what they look like when they have to sleep apart. "The worst ones are when it's something that's actually possible."
His voice has grown tight at the memory of it and Zhang Hao glances at his back, Hanbin drifting further away from him. "Like what?"
"I had a nightmare recently where they said all reapings would be from the existing pool of victors. With the same number of tributes but they would all be past winners."
He scoffs. "Don't give them any ideas."
"It felt so real," Hanbin continues, somewhere off to Zhang Hao's left now. He should probably lower his voice. "I had to check the TV as soon as I woke up, so I could make sure that I hadn't accidentally dreamed it into reality."
"Well, you're from a Career district," Zhang Hao tells him in an attempt at reassurance. "Plenty of tributes to choose from for Four. You probably wouldn't even get Reaped." He rolls a berry between his fingers. "Not like me. I would automatically go through."
"Yes," says Hanbin, slow and even. "That was the nightmare."
Forest fires in Seven weren't all that common. The climate, humid at the best of times and downright apocalyptic at the worst, meant there was very little opportunity for a fire to spark. One of the women he occasionally worked with once joked that those Capitol idiots have no clue, paying so much for those fancy saunas when I have one right here. Even the Peacekeeper overseeing them had smothered a laugh in his helmet. Zhang Hao hadn't reacted, only because he didn't know what a sauna was and felt too embarrassed to ask.
Nothing in Panem is strictly impossible, however.
When he was thirteen or so, they had an unrelenting dry spell. It lasted for days — dry heat that chapped his lips and darkened his face, no moisture in the air to abate the overpowering scorching feeling. Sweat clung to him like a filmy second skin.
He'd been working up in the canopy, shimmying along a branch to hack at the bark, when he spotted it. An orange glow in the distance that was rapidly nearing the area where ten of them were working. He squinted and saw, with a degree of horror, that trees were going up in flames. The orange was so vibrant that it was a brand new colour. The smoke coalesced into a cloud, thick and dark grey.
“Fire!” he called out, already diverting his route to begin his descent. The birds around him squawked and took flight in protest. “There's a fire!”
The call was repeated from tree to tree and Peacekeeper to Peacekeeper. His father was waiting for him on the ground — everyone, even the Peacekeepers, understood that work for the day would have to be paused. The smoke was beginning to darken the sky above them.
His father clutched his hand as they ran. He was sure one of them was transferring splinters to the other's hand but he couldn't pinpoint who was at fault, and at this point there was little room in his head to care about the dull flash of pain. The grass was yellow beneath their feet as the soles of their shoes pounded the forest floor. He tried to twist around to see if the fire was any closer or if anyone was lagging behind, but his father pulled his arm in silent reprimand.
Afterwards, when the Peacekeepers used the precious reserves of water from their trucks to stop the fire from advancing into town and the two of them sat waiting at home for his mother to return from the market, Zhang Hao fidgeted restlessly. “Is the sun really powerful enough to light entire trees on fire? Just like that?”
His father shook his head. "It doesn't have to be as grand as what you’re imagining. One spark is all that's needed to bring everything down."
Zhang Hao can't help remembering that conversation as he gazes at Hanbin's slumbering form now, his lips parted and a slight furrow in his brow even in sleep. One spark. Ready to blaze into an inferno at a moment's notice.
What, he wonders, would his father say about that?
The following night, he dreams of a girl. He knows what this is immediately; it's not the first time he's watched this scene play out in front of him, but it is the first time he's an active participant rather than a voyeur.
Zhang Hao had been incredibly lucky with the environment in his arena. He's seen the debates on late-night television that his arena gave the tributes from Seven a massive advantage, that the setting of his Games was so alike to his home that it would've been embarrassing if neither Seven tribute won. Though there's such a wide array of landscapes in Panem that a similarity in setting is inevitable every year — Twelve with frozen tundra, Six and Ten with craggy and unyielding mountains, Three and Four with the ragged snarl of the coast. Zhang Hao doesn't understand why it's only a problem when a tribute from Seven uses that to their benefit. Still, he can see their point: he doubts he would have survived more than a few nights in this arena, sandy and exposed.
It's only a dream but Zhang Hao feels uncomfortably sticky anyway. The sun beats down on the two of them; the rest of the beach is deserted.
"Please," she begs him, tears tracking through the dirt on her face.
She has the same eyes as Hanbin, a fact he notes with distant revulsion. But what truly forces his attention is the inflamed wound on her thigh, swollen red and seeping a sickly yellow pus. Necrosis is already setting in, black tendrils snaking through the underside of her flesh.
"I don't want to," he rasps in a voice that doesn't sound like himself. Whether it's because he's crying or because this voice doesn't belong to him, he doesn't know.
"Please," she says again, breath hitching. "You have to do it, Hanbin. It's only getting worse. We both know I'm not going to make it.”
His hand is calm and steady around the knife. She glances down at it, a joint understanding passing between them, and her body relaxes back into the sand. She glances back up at him again, their eyes meeting. He sees forgiveness pooled there.
"I don't want to," he repeats in that foreign voice, but his hand is already moving.
There's a sudden presence at his side which sets the hairs on the back of his neck on end. He doesn't need to look to know what — or who — it is. But where Hanbin's presence is usually a comfort, this only sends alarm bells ringing. There's an oppressiveness to the way his breath skitters across Zhang Hao's neck.
"Would you do it if it was me?" this Hanbin murmurs, a dark sweetness to his voice like an overripe fruit, and Zhang Hao wakes with a jolt. It's been a very long time since he had a dream like that.
Hanbin is with one of his clients tonight (all he'd said was a curt I'm busy but Zhang Hao had read between the lines), so his side of the bed is cool and bare. Zhang Hao briefly presses his splayed hand into that side of the mattress, needing to see an imprint so he can ground himself in reality, before he yanks it back. He can't stay in this bed and contend with the Hanbin-shaped emptiness tonight.
He wrenches himself out from under the covers and stumbles into the bathroom unsteadily. His heart is still hammering. It was only a dream, he tells himself as he reaches over to the wall to flick the switch. Just a dream. That's all. The harsh light makes him wince but it chases away the shadows clinging to him too, so he accepts the flare gratefully.
His eyes and breathing adjust but his wariness to head back to that empty bed is unshakeable. He grips the lip of the sink and tries to clear his own mind, perforate the grey matter of his brain so thoughts simply leak through him like a sieve. It's his go-to grounding technique but, frustratingly, his mind refuses to obey this time.
Would you do it if it was me? He stares at the chipped porcelain of the sink and is unsure why he expects to find an answer there.
Zhang Hao discovered the forcefield a week into his Games. They were down to only nine tributes and it was the first time in years a tribute from Seven, let alone two, was in the top ten. He and Xinyu were even starting to receive sponsor gifts, something which Jiayi had told them to lower their expectations for beforehand. But here was their bounty: a slow trickle of relatively insignificant and inexpensive items, yes, but gifts nevertheless.
He split the last protein bar with Xinyu as they trekked through the underbrush as stealthily as they could manage, which was stealthily enough. It was a miracle both of them were relatively uninjured — Xinyu was ever so slightly favouring her left leg and Zhang Hao's arm wouldn't stop twinging from the uncomfortable positions he had to contort himself into at night, but he knew there were worse-off tributes out there.
The evidence of that appeared right in front of them: a fresh trail of blood which would have blended right into the dirt if it hadn't spattered onto the blades of grass too. They exchanged a look in silent agreement and tracked the blood along the makeshift path, until it disappeared into an opening between the bushes to their left. They would need to duck through the twigs and continue. He couldn't see — or hear — anyone beyond that point; from the little window afforded to them, it appeared as empty as the rest of this area.
Xinyu turned to look at him hesitating, axe swinging loosely from her hand. “What are you waiting for?”
He shook his head and backed away. He was tired; he didn't have the energy to fight another tribute. And hunting down fellow tributes with Xinyu just wasn't what he wanted to do. Better to let them die from their own wounds. "I'm going back to our base."
She scowled at him. "Seriously? This is our chance, Zhang Hao. Whoever it is won't hear us coming.”
Fear clogged his throat. "Xinyu, this is…"
"It's an easy kill," she said defiantly. Cicadas squealed around them in agreement. "Look at how much blood there is, they must be so injured. One less tribute for us to deal with."
Neither of them mentioned that this us would soon have no choice but to also splinter off and die.
Zhang Hao didn't have the strength to argue. Half a protein bar isn't exactly conducive to the art of persuasion. "Fine. Have it your way. Just be careful. And meet me back at our base afterwards.”
Xinyu nodded at him and silently ducked through the bushes, her figure disappearing a few seconds later. Zhang Hao turned away, feet pointing back the way they'd came, until the movement brought him a faint shimmer out of the corner of his eye. He froze as if expecting something to jump out at him, then slowly turned his head when all he heard was his own breathing and the rustle of the leaves. He couldn't detect anything out of the ordinary, even as he squinted and drew closer to where he'd seen the shimmer in the air. All he saw was the rest of the forest, the exact same landscape he'd been marching through for days now.
He kept walking, further and further away from where Xinyu had left him, until the grass thinned out and there was utter quiet around him. He tilted his head and—there. An unnatural warp in the air above him, like a mirage. Only this was no mirage.
He picked up a rock and threw it at the shimmer with minimum strength. Then again and again. It neatly bounced off, no matter where he aimed. He chewed on his lip, careful to maintain his expression. Absently, he wondered if they were broadcasting this right now. He couldn't recall seeing a tribute find a forcefield in any previous years. But if something was in the arena then it was fair game for him.
After a moment's consideration, he rummaged through his backpack for a marker he could put to use. There was an orange bandana which had been largely useless to him up to this point. Now there was a use for it. Its colour was stark against the grass and, more importantly, any tributes passing by would dismiss it as insignificant. A strip of fabric which had been carelessly discarded on the forest floor. He walked back to that gap in the bushes Xinyu had disappeared through and placed it there, making its position look a little less deliberate, then readied himself to head back to the tree he and Xinyu had set up camp in yesterday. It wasn't a long walk. He could only hope that that injured tribute was the only other competitor roaming around. The faint hum of electricity disappeared as he moved out of range.
He didn't tell Xinyu about the forcefield when she returned later that evening, twenty minutes after he heard the cannon shot. Maybe the knowledge would have helped her if he did, but he doubts a forcefield would've been much use against a wall of fire. He tries not to dwell on it so much now, tries to pretend that guilt doesn't twist in his stomach when he remembers her. Even if the forcefield did save her that time, there would have been rabid boars a day later or the massacre at the Cornucopia a couple of days after that or the slow sickness of starvation after that. Then, finally, after surviving all of those trials she would have only been left with Zhang Hao himself. One of them would have had to die either way, and it just so happened to be her.
His marker was still there over a week later.
He'd been hunted down to that exact same spot by the sole remaining tribute other than him. He was scared out of his mind and had been running for far too long. But he still retained his wits enough to remember where the forcefield was, to effectively lead her to it, to spot the bandana lying there perfectly unassumingly, to dodge her throws up until he could be sure the forcefield would take care of her, to duck when she hurled that axe at him.
The axe had bounced off the forcefield, returning home and lodging into her skull a few seconds later. Her eyes rolled upwards, blood running from the wound in thick rivulets, and then she'd made a high keening sound and collapsed. A cannon shot rang out in the dead silence. And there he stood, the victor of the 42nd Hunger Games.
Her name was Jung Nara from District One and she was the favourite to win. He didn't know that she was the one both the public and the government were rooting for. Sometimes he wonders if he would still go ahead with it now that he's armed with the knowledge of what life has in store for a victor. Of what life has in store for him specifically: his father wheelchair-bound and a rupture in his family which will never heal, that dark first year after his win which is locked away somewhere deep in his brain and will remain so forever, scared teenagers trotted out before him year on year and anxiously awaiting his guidance.
He wouldn't have to deal with any of that if he swapped their fates around. He would have died in that arena, painfully but likely quickly, and there would be no Zhang Hao to speak of. A neat and simple end to the exceedingly boring book of his life. The concept has a certain appeal to it.
But that would leave Hanbin alone, and then where would they be?
Jiayi had once taken it upon herself to show him a segment of a televised debate regarding his win. Zhang Hao never watched these programmes but he knew they were commonplace — the pundits and people of the Capitol liked to revisit the Games whenever they were bored, discuss the best winning game of the last decade or so.
This debate took place a few months after Hanbin had won, though of course in that time Hanbin had been nothing more than a name to him. What Jiayi had pressed play on here was only about himself. He remembers thinking that he was surprised they would even show the clips of his win, of running to the edge of the arena and using the forcefield. He wondered if the Career districts were watching this.
“It only depends on his intention,” a woman with midnight-blue hair and streaks of neon green on her cheekbones was saying. “Because it would be such a shame if he took the coward's way out. That was no way for a final fight to go down.” She sighed in disappointment. “Look at what we had the fortune of witnessing in the most recent Games. That's how a victor should fight for their life.”
“Now, of course that's the big question,” Heechul agreed. “Did Hao lead her there intentionally, hoping to evade any kind of physical action with her? Or was he running for his life and only thinking of survival?”
“I don't see why one cancels out the other,” another woman with pink eyes — Zhang Hao recognised her as Han Minyong — said primly. “Certainly he was thinking of survival, as all tributes do. But he's smarter than he lets on. He remembered where that bandana was and led her right up to the forcefield. He was still scared, no doubt about that, but I believe he wanted someone — or something — else to launch the killing blow.”
A member of the audience stood up after receiving a nod from Heechul. He cleared his throat pompously, combing down his lengthy sideburns with his fingers. “It's unfair. We all assumed Nara would win. She was more skilled, more likeable, the one to root for. And this means Hao only killed two tributes. Technically one, as the forcefield killed Nara. I think there should be a certain level of disgrace to that, as a victor. Not to mention how boring he was to watch; he didn't do anything the entire time. He hasn't proved himself to be worthy.” A few mutters in the audience at this.
“Perhaps you can take this as a teaching moment on the dangers of assumption in the Hunger Games, sir,” Minyong suggested. “I believe that Hao won fair and square, no matter if Nara is counted as one of his kills or not. In fact, I'm inclined to say that tributes who manage to win with fewer kills to their name are more intriguing. Not every victor has to follow the playbook of—”
Jiayi switched the TV off and fixed him with a stare. If Zhang Hao didn't know any better, he would say it was almost sympathetic. “This is what you're dealing with, Zhang Hao. What you'll be dealing with. Do you remember what one of the first things I said to you was? Never forget that you are from Seven. You will always be unworthy here. Everyone has a place in Panem, somewhere they belong, but some of those places are naturally inferior to others. Even now, you can never forget this.”
Zhang Hao shook his head at her. “You say this like I don't know this already.”
“That being said,” she went on, ignoring him, “you are here now, in the Capitol. I wouldn't recommend going back home. Just like I wouldn't recommend shutting yourself away from the rest of the world. You are not the only person that doesn't quite fit anywhere. Don't fall into the trap of thinking you must live life entirely alone.”
“Who else is there?”
She smiled. She never smiled warmly, but this was at least humorous. “Me, for one.”
“I think I'll take my chances,” Zhang Hao said snidely, and sidestepped her jab.