Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

In a ditch tucked away amongst the folds of the 66th Hunger Games arena, an unlikely pair of tributes endured another night. 

Elliot woke up to a nudge on his shoulder in the small hours of the morning. No more than a suggestion of the sun teased the far horizon in a haze. He was bleary-eyed as the first figure tessellated into his vision, and he found Atlas’s face above him, moonlight in a halo behind his head. They sat upright, side by side, with most of Elliot’s weight leaned over unto Atlas’s side. When Elliot fell asleep, they weren’t quite as close, but in his rest the hearth of warmth was hard to resist.

He let his grogginess excuse the unmasked stare with which he studied the other tribute, taking in the freckles and scars across his face as he’d done before, the rich evergreen in his eyes that never wavered, the few strands of dirty-blonde waves that stuck out in front of them. The man opened his mouth to speak, and caught most of it in his half-awake ears,

“-li? You okay to switch?”

Elliot sighed into Atlas’s shoulder, unconsciously pulling him closer with the arm he had thrown around his torso. Finally, he sat up and took his head off Atlas’s shoulder. What sleep he’d amassed was well needed, and settled in with a yawn and a stretch of his arms above his head. 

On his right, his arm flinched back down towards his body sharply. He was shoved back into his reality as his soreness and injuries reminded him of where he was. He’d been worn by the fights and struggles they’d endured so far in the arena, in the Hunger Games, no less real than they were last night. His shoulder, emanating waves of pain now that he was awake enough to feel it, was sliced by a small hand ax thrown two fast for him to evade. Three tributes had died due to his and Atlas’s actions, and more before them. This was real.

“Your shoulder?” Atlas asked, rubbing his eye with the heart of his palm, “d’ya need me to fix the bandages?”

The words pulled Elliot back to his body. Now that his eyes could focus in the dim moonlight, he could see the call for sleep etched onto Atlas’s face. Dark circles that were hinted at before the Games began were darker, and maybe his eyes themselves were reddish, too, the shade coming down unto the top of his cheeks. Had he been crying?

“No, it’s okay,” Elliot said, rolling his shoulder slowly. Truthfully, the bandages were still firmly in place and holding him together well.

“‘M sorry, I woke you up early,” Atlas said, voice slurring slightly with fatigue, “was afraid I’d knock out on watch. ‘N that’d be bad.”

“You need the rest, Atlas,” Elliot said. 

Admittedly, Atlas’s fight with Cyrus was more physically taxing than his own with Quin. Atlas needed his full strength at all times last night, constantly fending off and clashing with the double blade of Cyrus’s axe, wielding his own heavy sword to counter. Elliot sat up straight and found his knives, preparing to stay on guard for the remainder of the night. He leaned towards the exhausted tribute, offering his left shoulder for Atlas to rest on as Elliot had done earlier.

“Don’t be afraid to wake me up if y'need,” Atlas said.

He set his sword aside and slumped down beside Elliot, part of his weight shared with him. The gesture was simple in that it was so incredibly complicated. Days of tentative alliance melding into something like trust, death and companionship and desperation and hope all in the little lean of Atlas’s head on his shoulder. Elliot welcomed the warmth. 

Atlas stirred in his sleep often. Now more than any previous night, the man at his side flinched at nothings, his body closing in on itself as it had when Elliot found him washed up at the river bank; his brows knitted in pain or fear, arms wrapped around himself and trembling despite the heat that always seemed to radiate from his body. 

Vulnerability like this was why Elliot disliked sleep, being completely exposed and unguarded. It was why he hardly got any of it, even home at Seven. Ironically, the sleep he had that night was the best he’s gotten in months. With the fragile expression that cast shadows over Atlas’s typically bright face, he had half a mind to wake the man up to calm him down. Instead, Elliot slung an arm around his shoulders. He kept his right hand tracing patterns into Atlas’s upper arm while his left spun a knife in its palm. Maybe Atlas felt it - the little motion seemed to lessen his restlessness. 

The few hours that he waited awake in silence passed quickly, but the dread that pooled in Elliot’s stomach was slow and viscous. How many days did they have left? How many hours until the last three canons rang out and only one of twenty-four was sent home alive?

A couple of hours after sunrise, Atlas’s eyes started to open. The sky was the clearest it had been since the Games began.

“G’morning, Eli,” Atlas said, his voice rough with grogginess. He adjusted his posture but didn’t forfeit their closeness.

“Morning,” Elliot said, picking up the water canteen and passing it to him, “you okay?”

“Okay? I’m - yeah, why?” Atlas took a swig of water, wiping his mouth with the side of his hand. A faint streak of blood followed, dragging across his chin where a half-dried cut lie.

Elliot reached out and smudged the red off Atlas’s face with his thumb, watching the glow in his eyes as he completed the motion, 

“You moved a lot in your sleep. I hope you got enough rest.”

Atlas’s face fell before he picked it up again, “S’ nothing. I’m alright. Anythin’ happen last night?”

“Not a sound,” Elliot replied, “that… they’ll probably want to start something then, won’t they?”

“Probably. We should eat. And get moving, probably,” Atlas said, stretching with a groan as his sore muscles stirred awake with the rest of his body. He spoke like there weren’t only two tributes left beside themselves, like their worries were few and far between. After all the days they’d spent together, no matter how many times Atlas repeated that they would remain allies until they were the only two tributes remaining, Elliot still found himself shocked. Whether at Atlas’s naivety or his altruism, Elliot couldn’t tell.

“Where to?” Elliot asked.

“Cornucopia. They had a lot of supplies in that stack, but not everything. They must’ve left some stuff behind.”

Atlas reached into their backpack and handed Elliot a package of beef rations and crackers and took some for himself. Elliot tore the pack open with his knife and they both started to eat. A few bites in, Atlas uncapped the medicine bottle and took three or four of the little round pills, swallowing them dry. He offered Elliot two, and he only took one of them, forced down with a gulp of water.

“Just Pierce and Aria now, yeah?” Elliot asked.

“M-hm. They probably won’t separate knowing there's only two of ‘em left. But they don’t know we’ve teamed either, so they might be hopin’ to pick us both off,” Atlas said between bites, looking at Elliot with wistfulness between his eyes and a smile dancing on his lips.

“What?” Elliot asked.

“‘S nothing,” Atlas said, but his smile grew wider.

“What is it?” Elliot pressed, and hell was that smile contagious. Hell was it dangerous, infecting him like this when the stakes were so high.

“Had a dream you kissed me.”

Elliot scoffed, his own smile too stubborn to leave his face, and he pushed Atlas’s shoulder, 

“You’re an idiot.”

Atlas raised his hands in mock defense, eyes twinkling with the still-rising sun’s glow or maybe a glow of his own, “Hey, not my fault. Can’t control what happens in dreams, y’know,” he teased, and when Elliot kept an eyebrow raised, he spoke lower, “c’mere.”

For all of Elliot’s stubborn grudges and swears he made to himself at the start of the Games - to prioritize nothing but his own survival and keep his head on his shoulders - he didn’t hesitate for a second. With all the same desperation of their first, the unlikely pair kiss in the little ditch deep in the woods, as if they’re the only two people left on earth, and time is immeasurable. Elliot gently threaded his hands through Atlas’s hair, knotted all over but soft in its curls. Atlas’s hand was on his cheek, cupping his face carefully but fervently, with all the nervous care of protecting something delicate. What should have been bittersweet was all but nectar between chapped lips; for as long as it lasted, the moment was infinite.

When they broke away, they leaned so that their foreheads met between them, and Elliot shook his head minutely. Because this was ridiculous, because he really truly knew it was, but it wasn’t stopping either of them,

“You really are an idiot, Atlas.”

“How so?” he replied, just as breathless.

Elliot should’ve ranted and raved about how this wasn’t the time or place for something so delicate as affection, as the whining voice in his head warned incessantly. And with both of his hands still winding through Atlas’s mess of dirty blonde hair, he realized again that he was unarmed. The fear that came with the lack of a weapon in his hand had shifted, a slow motion that he hadn’t gained consciousness of until now; he no longer wanted a knife to defend from Atlas, but to defend the both of them from those remaining. Elliot didn’t tell Atlas why he was such an idiot. Elliot was not a hypocrite.

“We should get going, right?” he asked as he pulled back and started to stand. Atlas frowned like a petulant child while Elliot extended an arm as he always did.  

“Yeah,” Atlas said, taking the offer and making his way to his feet, their arms clasped and lingering in their hold, “but be careful, alright? I don’t know what kinda shit they’re gonna pull from now on.”

Elliot nodded, fixing his strap of knives back into the loop of his pants and adjusting how they sat on his thigh. The weight had rested there for most of the Games, their presence a comfort. Atlas suited up to leave, slipping their backpack over his shoulders and taking his sword from the ground. The pair clambered out of the ditch, then trod carefully down the steep incline it sat in, reaching the ground floor of the forest once more. The snow from the blizzard had almost completely melted away, the shy bits of green and natural earthy browns of dirt emerging under their feet and spanning into the depths of the forest. 

As had occurred to him more than once during the days of the Games, the setting was reminiscent of his home at 7. Far too liminal and lifeless, though, what with the lack of familiar landmarks and intentional scarcity of wildlife and useful resources. Regardless, Elliot couldn’t deny the shallow resemblance in the few still moments he found in the arena. White patchy birch and darker, equally wiry trees surround them here, littered bushes and bramble across the floor, deep green moss between the ridges of bark, and the beautiful way morning light filtered through the leaves and branches to dance across everything Elliot could see. Atlas spun around himself a few times, staring at the setting with confusion across his features,

“Uh, you’re the tree expert here, 7,” Atlas said, “where the hell are we?”

Elliot took a moment to orient himself; it was difficult for him to get lost in the trees, but he needed a few slow rounds of his gaze to remember where they were, where they had run from, how they got to the clearing from the camp. All the paths took him back in time until his first entrance to the woods, scatterbrained and terrified by his fleeting glances as the Bloodbath.

“To get to the Cornucopia,” Elliot started, turning to a direction they hadn’t walked before, “I think we need to go this way.”

“Whatever you say,” Atlas shrugged, already starting to surge forward.

The Career let Elliot lead the way to the center of the arena, where they hoped to find more gear and bolster the already dwindling food they had scavenged from Sable’s pack. Flakes of remaining flavor from the beef rations soured on Elliot’s tongue. The thought from when they first collected the supplies returned - he had earned this food, hadn’t he? In a circular fashion, the supplies belonged to him. He had saved Sable from sure death at the end of Quin’s ax, allowing her to get away with the backpack in the first place. And he’d been the one to spot the gleam of her arrow across the river, allowing him and Atlas to duck in time. They won, and so they got the food and supplies in the pack. That was all there was to it. Right?

“How’s your shoulder, Elliot?” Atlas asked, disrupting the spiral before it formed. Atlas seemed to do that often - snapping him out of winding thoughts. Elliot began to think he was doing it purposefully.

He rolled his shoulder back, his eyes squinting with some discomfort, "It’s definitely better, I can move it. Still sore, though. Thank you for patching me up last night, I think it helped.”

“‘S nothing. Lucky it’s your right arm at least, yeah?”

“Yeah. Left is fine,” Elliot said, flipping his knife in the air and catching it smoothly, “and you? How are your injuries?”

“Alright. Painkillers took care of most of it, and nothin’s bleeding.”

Elliot nodded with content as he pressed on through the forest, unconcerned with the tribute trailing behind his every step. At this point, the shadow following him was a comfort as much as his knives were. Moreso, even. All it would take was a slash of the heavy blade in Atlas’s hand to whittle down the tributes to three, but with the new tinge of blue in the sky and the little humming tune behind him, it was easy to forget that danger. Elliot turned over his shoulder and slowed to be in even step with Atlas. 

They faced each other after the trickle of running water became audible - a narrow tributary of the arena’s large river was nearby, found by the pair with little difficulty in the still forest. They finished what was left of the water in the two canteens and filled them again, dipping the edges of the bottles under the water’s surface and letting the weak current fill them. Beside him, Elliot heard a little tune wrapped up in the sound of the running stream, and saw Atlas absentmindedly watching the clear sky as he collected water.

“What’s that song?” Elliot asked, noticing the melody’s warm timbre.

“Huh? Oh-” the corners of Atlas’s mouth picked up, “I forgot it ‘til just now. Somethin’ we used to sing as a kid when the sun came out after a long rain spell. I guess the lack of clouds made me think of it.”

“Sing? Are there words?”

“There were, but I don’t remember ‘em,” Atlas chuckled with bittersweet nostalgia, “I started singing it when I fed the cat, and every time she heard the song she would run up to her food bowl expecting more.”

A cat. How oddly befitting of the man before him. They weren’t very common pets in Seven; most didn’t find the rewards of having a cat stronger than the money it cost to feed it. Though, some of the shopkeepers kept them to ward off rats. Elliot recalled the taste of mint toffee, and with it came the image of the little gray cat that would butt its head against Elliot’s leg every time he came back with sweet berries from Mastiff’s end of the forest. It wasn’t like him to ask more, but when wasn’t Atlas an exception to Elliot’s curiosities? With only four tributes of the original twenty-four, there couldn’t possibly be much time left. The wistful memories dancing behind Atlas’s eyes seemed kind and forgiving; Elliot thought he wouldn’t mind a bit of that to share.

“What’s her name?”

“Minnie. Lil’ brown calico,” Atlas smiled fondly, and turned to face Elliot, “she woulda liked you.”

“You think so?”

“Know so. You’re calm, an’ you don’t make sudden moves a lot. She’d warm right up to you.”

Elliot shared the smile, imagining something so simple as meeting his friend’s cat. He filled the canteen and capped it, standing next to Atlas as he did the same.

“I hope she’s keeping my sister company,” Atlas said.

Words with far too much feeling for the arena fizzled out into the winter air; though it’d lost its bite, only dusting the risen parts of the tribute’s faces in rosy red where it had once rocked ice into their chests. Elliot didn't prod for more information; he knew Atlas to share, if he wanted to. The pair packed away their water bottles and continued their trek through the forest toward the center of the arena. 

The forest revealed a steady incline, the pair hiking up together. Elliot grabbed for Atlas’s hand when his foot got caught on a tree’s gnarled root, stabilizing himself and not letting go. Atlas hadn’t put the gloves back on, and perhaps he didn’t need to as the sun’s warmth coated the arena. He even unzipped his jacket and rolled his sleeves up his forearm. Elliot thought fleetingly that the hand in his right palm was more comforting than the knife in his left.

“Do you think they made it warmer on purpose?” Elliot asked as they scaled the slope,

“Probably. They wouldn’t want anybody dying to somethin' as boring as the cold, at this point,” Atlas reasoned, “from what I’ve seen in other Games, they want an interesting finale to make the Games more…” Atlas searched for a word.

“Satisfying?” Elliot offered, ignoring the foreboding jolt that the word finale wracked through his bones

“Yeah. Somethin’ like that.”

The pair of tributes reached the top of the incline, and the forest opened up. To a familiar sparsity, pale birch dominated and whited out the landscape. Elliot had seen this before - his very first hour of running into the forest. They were on the right track.

“We’re getting close, aren’t we?” Atlas asked.

Elliot nodded, and with that lingering feeling of dwindling time he asked, “What was the first few hours like for you?”

Atlas’s face darkened, and Elliot felt his hand twitch in his own. He recalled the fragility of his voice days ago, what felt like years - wavering as he recalled the tributes he'd slain at the Bloodbath. More than any of the Careers, faster than anyone else, sure to be the highest kill count of the 66th Games. Elliot shouldn’t have asked, but he yearned to discover what thoughts roamed Atlas’s head to give him such rage mere seconds after the countdown rang out.

“It was a bit of a blur, at the start. I jus’... pretended I was training, I think. It’s - it’s a little fucked, but I convinced myself that if i was quick, it was an easy out for the weaker ones. Better than what the arena or the others might have done to em’, at least.” 

Elliot found himself following the logic, morbid as it was. Once selected, there was no escaping the arena unless you emerged victorious; if Elliot were a Career, he couldn’t imagine he’d think differently. Atlas’s solution was the gentlest the arena would allow. Mercy.

“After everyone else ran off, the Careers regrouped an’ sorted out weapons. I wanted to stay near the center, but Pierce convinced everyone to scout around until nightfall and pick off anyone nearby.” 

The tribute from Seven hummed in acknowledgment. Images of the other tributes he and Atlas had killed spun around in his mind again, persistent. Were those deaths any sort of mercy? The girl with the spear that Elliot hit before she got Atlas, the boy from 11 that Elliot got his first knife from - Milo was killed at Atlas’s hand, and the other girl the two of them teamed up on. Sable had fallen to Atlas’s sword, but the knife Elliot stuck her with would’ve bled her out otherwise. Quin was a close call, and so was Cyrus.

All of the deaths the pair had seen were in defense of themselves, weren’t they? Although Finn… Elliot wasn’t sure what came over him, seeing a living reminder of a failed throw. Finn was not a threat, but the way Elliot’s fingers twitched around his knife before he threw was nearly as passionate as if his life was in danger. The feeling was dark and Elliot disliked that it was becoming familiar. He shook his head, dismissing the memory. He didn’t want to dwell.

Atlas seemed similarly deep in thought. His gaze was cast down at the forest floor, watching his own boots trod over dirt and weeds as he blindly followed Elliot to the center of the arena. Their hands were still clasped in silent understanding. Elliot was typically the quieter of the two; when more than a half-hour went by without Atlas saying a word, he gave his hand a squeeze.

“You okay?” Elliot asked, echoing the question from a few hours earlier.

Atlas’s response was far more hesitant, “I think so,” he reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a once white strip of cloth, now stained with dirt and blood. Elliot recognized it as the headband Cyrus wore - he hadn’t realized Atlas took it before they fled the clearing, “I wish I could’ve left it, but I was afraid it wouldn’t get back to his family. I jus’... wish I could get his face out of my head.”

Elliot’s chest was hollow. He didn’t know anybody here before the Games started; he couldn’t empathize, not really. He wondered why Atlas’s contempt at his friend’s betrayal had diminished so soon. Leading up to finding him, he’d been filled with rage, and even in the few tense moments before they crossed weapons the fury was clear behind his eyes - yet the sorrow in his voice now trumped that. Elliot said nothing of this; he knew better than to open fresh wounds. Most of all, he couldn’t understand why Cyrus did it in the first place. In the end, Elliot gave the only statement he thought might have comforted himself,

“You did what you had to.”

“Yeah,” Atlas mumbled, “I know.”

Had they said these words before? Elliot found them eerily familiar. Up ahead, a larger clearing grew visible between the trees. Directly in the center was the Cornucopia, the hulk of bright silvery metal catching stray bands of sunlight and reflecting off its edges. Atlas was right; though not as extensively bountiful as they had been at the start of the Games, there were clearly some scattered crates and bags left untouched and astray in the center. The morning had grown into the late afternoon, the sky now dusted with sparse clouds. Winter days were short, and sunset would follow soon. Last time Elliot was here, snow fell and dusted the ground, leaving it a haze in his memory. The veil over the metal, dirt, and supplies had been since lifted.

“We should be careful. We’ll be easily visible once we step out of the forest,” Elliot said. 

“Maybe we should wait here for a lil’ while, see if anyone else is around.”

“Good idea,” Elliot said, “we can go out at dark.”

The two tributes settle down a few yards into the treeline, with a clear view of the Cornucopia and a decent amount of cover. They sat beside each other with their backs against adjacent trees, and Atlas opened the backpack to hand Elliot more food.

“We should save these, no?” Elliot asked, but he took the rations as he protested.

“There’s a lot of supplies left at the center. We’ll grab ‘em when it’s safe. Plus, even if it’s bone dry for food there, we can go catch more fish.”

Elliot nodded, happy to have an excuse for a more than half-full stomach. Atlas’s optimism was kind, if not so misplaced. Foreboding air filled Elliot’s lungs as it had on the day of the Reaping what felt like millennia ago, as it had when they were found by a group of now dead tributes early into the Games. At this point, he figured the feeling would only grow as their time in the late stages of the Games continued. The more minutes passed without a cannon, the more restless the Gamemakers and their audience grew.

When Elliot finished eating, he leaned over and let his head rest on Atlas’s shoulder. In response Atlas wrapped his arm around Elliot, carefully resting it so as not to put too much weight on the injured right arm. The waning ebbs of the sunset wove together over the far horizon, fiery orange hues between the trees and clinging to the underside of the clouds. Atlas took Elliot’s hand in his own again, and he offered no resistance to the return of warmth in his palms. He traced the rough skin with his fingers, timeworn and calloused by years of Career training. He ran along the ridges of his knuckles, the veins that stuck out on the back of his hand. 

“Eli?” Atlas said into the crepuscular air. His voice was small.

“Hm?”

“Thank you.”

Elliot lifted his head and turned to look at the Career beside him, “Me? For what?”

“All of it,” he shrugged, “all of this,” Atlas said, and didn’t elaborate.

Sunset suited him well. It brought out raw shades of burnt umber that spanned along the freckles that dusted his face. It highlighted the warm reddish flush on his cheeks, his nose, the tips of his ears half hidden by hair that was almost golden with the help of the sun. The fading glow left specks of honey in his green eyes, bidding the pair of them farewell as it tipped over the horizon.

“I guess I should thank you too,” Elliot said, remembering those same eyes bent in anger, in protection, in concern, “I’d be dead a few times over without you, I reckon.”

“Somehow I doubt that,” Atlas said, a smile growing from his dazed expression and leaving behind the twinge of fear.

“You’re an idiot,” Elliot said, turning his face back to the end of the sunset to, with great failure, avoid sharing the smile.

“Y’know, you keep saying that,” Atlas leaned over to place a kiss on Elliot’s temple, the heat from which bloomed along his skin, “but somehow I doubt you believe it.”

Amongst easy silence, the pair watched as the sun finally finished its path and disappeared completely, tucking away under the line of trees. With its departure, its cyclic return to darkness, returned the fear of the end of the Games approaching, the awareness of the growing scarcity of the time they had left. Elliot took a deep breath, scanning the clearing around the Cornucopia. The pedestals, in the exact place they had been at when Elliot rose from his starting platform, were a grim symbol of the last two weeks. They reminded Elliot of the Bloodbath just as the Cornucopia itself did, and for a fleeting moment, he wanted to dart off into the forest once more. He shook free of the thought, gripping his knife and inspecting the perimeter of the clearing. Aside from the newfound twilight’s breeze, there was little motion.

“Do you think we should grab the supplies now, Atlas?” Elliot said, half out of a determination to deter the fear churning in his stomach.

“As good a time as any,” Atlas said, grunting as he heaved his weight to stand and put on their backpack. Elliot followed, the pair of them holding their weapons and carefully watching the treeline as they approached the edge of the clearing. Moonlight, artificial in its persistent brightness, made the setting more visible and Elliot’s eyes adjusted easily in the sun’s absence.

“Eli - you should stay back here.”

“What? Why?”

“Just in case they’re hiding out around here, or they send more mutts out,” Atlas referred to the two Careers and the Gamemakers with similar disdain, as if they were two halves of the same whole enemy, “I don’t want ‘em to see you.”

“I’m not letting you go that far alone. It’s over thirty meters away, I can’t cover you from back here,” Elliot asserted.

He could see the strain on Atlas’s face, wrought with worry. There was no need for this - there was no sign of Pierce and Aria nearby, no screeching from mutts - but the mere chance of the two tributes looming admittedly had Elliot clutching tighter to his knife. It was never wrong to be overly cautious in a setting like this, but they were more likely to be in danger as hours ticked by in the arena with few drastic events to keep their audience entertained. The warmth of Atlas’s concern for him swelled in Elliot’s chest, mixing with his own worries that they were missing something hidden in the dark.

“Okay,” Atlas said, “but stay close, alright?” Elliot nodded, watching Atlas’s eyes soften. 

Before they turned to step out, Elliot shifted forward to return a kiss to Atlas’s cheek, 

“We’ll be fine,” he said with uncharacteristic optimism. Atlas nodded, scarlet growing on his face, and the two turned to face the center once more.

With a deep breath and his sword out in front of him, Atlas started to walk out into the center of the arena, Elliot beside him. Neither spotted any motion from the surrounding forest, carefully glancing over their shoulders and around the tree line’s perimeter. They walked hurriedly to the Cornucopia, open to face them and offering the remainder of the supplies. Grass brushed against their boots, and the wind seemed to pick up behind them, susurrations from the leaves growing in a chorus at their backs.

They reached the Cornucopia without issue, surrounded on two of four sides by dense metal. The structure was similar to a hallway, and there appeared to be dim lighting within the creases of the unnatural shape. Elliot and Atlas both took an audible sigh of relief at their arrival and began to pilfer through the supplies. 

“No wonder so many tributes sprint here right away. A bag full of this stuff is better than I normally eat in the winter,” Elliot remarked.

The tribute found a pack not unlike Sable’s with a mix of supplies and food, scavenging the matches and crackers and shoving them into their backpack. Atlas added a mesh bag of fruit, Elliot dumped a crate of sealed tin cans left on one of the tables, stuffing the bag full with food until Atlas needed to empty a similar backpack to fill as well, just to be safe. Soon, they had two backpacks heartily filled with food and supplies, even two sleeping packs they could use tonight when they got back.

“Hey,” Atlas called, turning to Elliot with four sharp pieces of metal in his palms, “could you use these?”.

Atlas held a few knives that were left on the pegboard of weapons, probably discarded for their small and unthreatening nature, but well suited for throwing. Elliot’s eyes met them with a twinkle of admiration for the well-crafted blades.

“They’re perfect, thank you,” he took them and cut a few more slats into his knife holster to equip them alongside the rest. 

Atlas smiled when Elliot accepted the knives and soon found a proper sheath for his own sword, fixing it over his shoulder and picking up another sword to wield while he kept his original weapon to rest on his back.

“Are we all set?” Elliot asked.

“Can’t imagine we’d need more than this,” Atlas said, picking up one of the backpacks, “let’s make sure the coast is clear and head back the way we came, yeah?” Elliot nodded, then leaned down to grab his pack so they could seek cover in the woods again.

A sharp, echoing clang! of metal against metal sent Elliot jolting upright and covering his head with his arms. A silver rod clattered to the ground not a foot away from him. If he hadn’t reached down to grab the backpack, it would’ve gone straight through his skull.

They were here.

“Eli!” Atlas shouted as if the thunderous crash of the spear wasn’t loud enough. Elliot had already ducked under a table, adrenaline pouring into his veins. They were here.

Before he took cover, Pierce came into view yards away in the field surrounding the Cornucopia, closer to the right end where Elliot was. It was his spear that flew inches from his head, landing on the ground near his feet. Once hidden, Elliot looked to his left to see another figure emerging seconds later from the dark field into the dimly lit space of the Cornucopia.

“Look out!” Elliot yelled, unable to throw with Atlas so close. 

Atlas slipped the heavy backpack off his shoulder and used it to shield a blow that threatened to slice down his middle - Aria’s machete. With the momentum he had from swinging it in front of him, he shoved the bag forward blindly, sending the shadow - Aria - shuffling backward with the weight of it. Elliot peeked his head out to the right to see that Pierce had disappeared, no longer on the end of the metal case he peered through.

Elliot took his chances, shooting upwards and getting closer to the exit while copying Atlas’s strategy of using the stuffed pack as a shield. He heard metal slice against metal behind him - Aria and Atlas were fighting. Elliot looked over his shoulder, where Pierce's shadow sprinted toward the grass beside Aria. This was bad. They were too easily pincered within the confines of the Cornucopia; Elliot felt trapped already.

“Atlas! This way!” he called, sprinting towards the open clearing with Atlas following behind. Night air was cool as it spread across their faces, meeting the red heat of fear that tore up from their chests.

The two emerged panting, both leaving the food-filled backpacks behind and holding their weapons defensively, eyes flitting told every moving branch in the open field.

“You okay?” Atlas said between heavy breaths, giving Elliot a once over.

“He missed me and joined Aria to try and overpower you,” Elliot swallowed hard, “are you okay?”

“Fine. They fucked up their timing,” Atlas scoffed, shaking his head. 

The two tributes stood with their backs to the forest, overlooking the Cornucopia at the center. Moonlight painted the arena a cool blue. The pair of Careers in their all-black jackets and pants blended into the night; they watched carefully for their opponents to reappear, Elliot positioning himself behind Atlas. As he had done during training, Elliot made himself small, lowering his shoulders and shrinking his frame. Better Pierce and Aria dismiss him for now than be on alert for his every move. Elliot slipped an extra knife up his sleeve and made sure his bandages were visible under the collar of his jacket despite the pain that had mostly subsided.

“I haven’t thrown yet,” Elliot said, lowering his voice though the Careers were yards away, “don’t make me seem like a threat. They’ve seen me, but they can still forget I’m here.”

Pierce was the first to reappear. Blonde hair was backlit by the faint lighting of the Cornucopia behind him. He was shorter than Atlas but taller than Elliot, shoulders broad to wield his heavy spears. In a similar harness to Atlas’s newly acquired sheath, he was outfitted with two more of the metal spears fitted to his back and a third in his hand -  it seemed he’d picked up the spear from his missed attempt at Elliot’s head. Elliot got a chill. Had he been standing in this exact spot when Pierce sent one of his spears through a tribute's chest mere seconds into the Games? It had been over a week and he was beginning to think the image would never burn out of his memory. Pierce glowered at the pair of them from yards away, out of Elliot’s range. 

Behind him, Aria emerged from the Cornucopia. Her long hair was pulled back tight, her curved machete held out in front of her. Elliot kept an eye on her. If she was angry, she was hiding it better than Pierce was; quiet focus knitted her features as if she was still deciding whether she should fight. 

“Long time no see, aye Atlas?” Pierce sneered. He slowed his walk as he approached, hardly entering a distance Elliot could throw from. With nothing to distract them, it would be too obvious to make any moves now. His fingers twitched anxiously - or perhaps eagerly - against his knives.

Atlas took a few steps forward, passing in front of Elliot, “How have the Games been treating you, Pierce? Everything you hoped for?” his voice was low and chiding.

From Elliot’s position behind him, Atlas's presence grew, his broad figure and intimidating sword creating a deep shadow in his wake.

“Y’know,” Pierce started, “I could’ve sworn you and Cyrus were close.”

In the open field of the arena, a silence fell. Had Pierce seen them leaving the clearing, or was it only a good guess? Regardless, Elliot hoped Pierce wasn’t close enough to see the shiver in Atlas’s shoulders at the mention of his old friend’s name or the tiny slip of white cloth that stuck out from his pocket.

“We were,” Atlas said simply, “I wasn’t the one who complicated things.”

“Oh?” Pierce grew a lopsided smile that made Elliot’s stomach churn, “well, whatever bickering you two did, I hardly see what Quin and poor little Five had to do with it.”

Elliot furrowed his brow. Pierce and Aria must have made it to the bodies before the airship picked them up; he and Atlas only escaped last night by a moment. A brief requiem of Finn and Quin’s faces resurfaced when Pierce’s mentioned their deaths, dissipating with the urgency that two armed tributes before him presented. Something about the smirk Pierce wore wasn’t sitting right with Elliot, the knowing look raising hairs on the back of his neck.

“What aren’t you telling us?” Elliot asked.

Pierce snickered, shaking his head, “Don’t believe we’ve met. Elliot, right?”

Elliot frowned in response. This is how Atlas should have been, how Cyrus might have been with any other tribute, what Quin was distracted from. The jeering confidence, the lack of fear. Pierce is what he had expected of all Careers. The man before him made it easy to remember why he’d been so stubborn to distrust Atlas when they first met. 

“Must have been your pretty knives cutting through tributes last night, huh?” Pierce said, “some of those wounds were a bit too small for Atlas’s sword.”

Elliot knew what this was; Pierce was clawing at strings, trying to prey on his and Atlas’s guilt. Atlas huffed, air swirling into a cloud of cold at his lips, 

“Enough, Pierce. You wanna fight, right? So shut up an’ fight. Unless you don’t think you can take me head-on.”

And there it was; the challenge. With the way Pierce scowled, Elliot knew Atlas had done it on purpose. Aria seemed unaffected, watching the interaction carefully. Atlas paid attention to Elliot’s suggestion, making it seem as if Atlas was the only contender in their fight. The Career from 4 fixed his grip on the metal spear in his right hand and bit back with venom on his tongue,

“Bastard. You should’ve died from that fall.”

The words, projected loud to their receivers, reverberated throughout the span of the clearing, burning into the trees and singeing their leaves enough that the air smelled of smoke. Even the wind slowed, quieting if only to ensure that the words had been said, heard, and understood. Elliot’s mind ran miles a minute.

The gut feeling Elliot had last night was proven accurate; Cyrus was telling the truth. 

“Atlas…” Elliot said, too quiet for their others to hear. Atlas shook his head slowly, not turning back to face Elliot.

Elliot was at a loss for words. What comfort was there to seek in killing a friend, a scenario so uniquely terribly and befitting of its setting? Only seconds had passed, enough time for thousands of thoughts to crowd his head; how he should have held Atlas back, how Cyrus even in his dying moments wished the best for his friend, how dark the relief was when the cannons went off. And if he was feeling this way, he couldn’t imagine the hollow in Atlas’s chest. Elliot stepped forward before he could give his legs the command, leveling with Atlas to monitor his face. 

“You - ” Atlas seethed, finally speaking over the fury and confusion and ebbs of regret clashing in his chest, “you pushed me?”

Pierce furrowed his brow, narrowing his eyes for a moment until a dark understanding brought a smile to his face.

“Oh, Atlas - you thought it was Cyrus, didn’t you? Shit, that’s rough!” Pierce said, eyebrows raised to bolster his mocking tone.

Atlas’s hands adjusted on the grip of his new sword, the rise and fall of his chest becoming harsher. Elliot had seen this before as if a fire was crackling off of his skin and ready to raze the forest. He recalled Cyrus, voice raw as he called out for his lifeless friend with a similar fire in his eyes; though it wasn’t on purpose, the emotion was enough to distract from their fight. The image was enough to break Elliot out of his own worries; Pierce was still smiling, crooked and proud.

“Atlas,” Elliot whispered, “he’s trying to make you lose composure. Stay focused, there's two of them.”

Almost unnoticeable, Atlas nodded.

“Were you in on this too, Aria?” he called, and she cast her eyes away. Atlas shook his head, “enlighten me, Pierce, when did you all get together and discuss how to kill the only person you knew wouldn’t lay a fuckin' finger on you?”

“Don’t blame us for how naive you are, Atlas,” Pierce said, starting to walk towards them. He walked with confidence, spear proudly in hand. Aria followed, allowing a few steps of distance between herself and Pierce.

“Why me, huh?” Atlas pressed, “not Cyrus, not Quin, or either of you. Why single me out?”

“Why you? Because you’re a fucking liability, Atlas! Because it never sounded like you were here to fucking win!”

It might not have been visible to Pierce and Aria even as they drew in closer, but Atlas flinched slightly at the words. Elliot noticed, from his position a few steps behind Atlas, the blatant contrast in the pairs of them. The two Careers, dark as night in the black uniforms, were approaching Atlas and Elliot in their white-stained clothes. They blended in with the forest when the sun was up, but now in the clearing they were stark against the night. They didn't belong here. Neither of them died. Atlas collected himself carefully before he spoke,

“You and I both know you struggled to win spars against me, Pierce. Is this what you were scared of? Having to fight me without bein’ able to tap out?” Atlas taunted.

Pierce and Aria grew nearer still, near enough that Elliot took a step back and fidgeted with the position of his knives in his palms. Should he throw? If he did and it landed, it would make the fight two-on-one; if he missed, it would put their opponents on high alert, likely placing a stronger target on his head than Atlas. Adrenaline returned, manifesting more strongly now than it had when they fled the Cornucopia. Adrenaline told him to run and save himself, to let the last three Careers kill each other and stay alive in the shadows.

Adrenaline told him he could throw well enough to hit all three of them before the first hit the ground.

Atlas stepped forward in front of Elliot, and before he had fully snapped out of his thoughts, Pierce and Aria were feet away and picking up speed. By the time he could raise his arm, Pierce would have a spear through his chest. Instead, Elliot adjusted the grip of his knives to better suit close contact. His hand-to-hand fighting was quick and flighty to make up for the short slack on his knives, consisting of sharp jabs and sending his opponent off balance. Considering the stature of Pierce growing more intimidating by the step forward, he was thankful that he and Atlas had already locked eyes.

Aria must have been thinking the same thing; she was scanning Elliot carefully, eyeing the knife in his left hand, and the bandages on his right shoulder.

“If you kept your mouth shut, Pierce, maybe I’d be hesitating,” Atlas said, readying his sword.

“By all means, hesitate. See how that works out for you,” Pierce replied.

And, as if a gun had sounded off the start of a race, the fight broke out.

Elliot shifted his attention from Atlas and Pierce back to Aria, watching in slowed time as she darted forward. Her machete, edge twinkling with moonlight after she’d sharpened it the previous night, was jutted out to the side to slash across his chest. Elliot saw Mastiff in her strike; bold and confident the way his old mentor had been. And, so far - predictable. Elliot stepped back sharply, barely out of reach of the blade’s tip. With the overextension of Aria’s swing, he shoved her arm back around towards her, almost succeeding in making her cut herself on her own weapon.

Aria gasped as she forced the blade away from herself, looking back at Elliot with wide eyes. He met them with a smile that rose up from his chest, one he wished didn’t feel so natural. She wasn’t expecting him to be trained at all beyond the training days, much less for years with a consistent teacher.

In the dull seconds they were separated, their attention was called to the fight adjacent to them. Metal clanked and crashed against metal, sparks flying at the collision of the edges of Atlas’s sword and the ends of Pierce’s spear. Now close up, he wielded it like a staff, weaving it between his hands in a blur that Elliot was glad he didn’t have to counter.

Atlas matched Pierce strike for strike as he had Cyrus, but his demeanor was entirely different. He wasn’t quite on the defensive, but his attack lacked the push, the surge forward that he had forced upon Cyrus only a day previous. Most moves he met with a step backward rather than ahead, and he was ducking away more than he was slashing. Was he held back by his injuries? Elliot hadn’t noticed any serious wounds last night.

He watched for too long; a crunch of the dirt and grass at his feet alerted Elliot that Aria was still his opponent. Her face was steely again, staring him down. She tried a similar move again, though Elliot figured she had come up with a counter to his own. So he chose to strike back, movement sharp as he stopped the crest of her slash with the knife in his left hand and butted his wrist against her right. It almost worked, Aria’s bandaged knuckles smashed inward against the grip of her weapon causing her to grunt in pain and recoil. But she didn't allow him to disarm her, recovering fast by shaking out her right hand and slashing again from above.

Elliot ducked and used his knife above him to stunt the blow, pushing the weight of her machete off to the side to throw her off balance. Another half-success as she stabilized herself before Elliot could make his next move. Once more: Aria struck the body of Elliot’s knife instead of his heart, force redirected, causing her to stumble out of range for him to do any damage. 

“Where’d you learn all that, Seven?” Aria asked. If his heart wasn’t thrashing in his chest, it might’ve sounded like a genuine question.

Elliot ignored her, opting to refocus his attention. He struck first this time, his knife tight in his fist as a sharp contrast to the fleeting rip he held when he intended to throw. Such a direct move proved to be wishful thinking as the back of her forearm cut off the motion at his wrist before its completion, and Aria tried once more to slice his chest with the sharp edge of her machete.

Elliot dropped, crouching smooth as a boxer with his guard up in front of his face as he swung with his knife. He narrowly missed digging it into her lower abdomen, swearing under his heavy breaths. Aria took a few steps back following her evasion of the hit, shaking out her right hand again.

“Tell me Pierce,” Atlas jeered few feet away, “how scared were you when I wasn’t projected the first night? Were you scared I’d come an’ find you?”

“Shut the fuck up and pay attention,” Pierce spat, followed by a harsh crash. Elliot’s stomach flipped.

“Focus,” Aria scolded. Elliot wished he had the time to ask why she warned him instead of taking advantage of his distraction.

Aria scowled as she strode forward, the distance enough to make Elliot debate whether he should throw. The movement of his opponent was too quick for such deliberations, the distance between them already closing. A new idea wracked through his brain; Aria and Pierce didn’t know Elliot threw his knives yet, but they knew what it looked like. He mimed the wind up to a throw, swinging his arm out to his left as Aria returned to continue the fight. As he suspected, Aria recognized the motion, likely from Quin’s similar form. She flinched, stuttering her stride to evade the knife she expected was leaving Elliot’s hand and shielding her head instinctively. Her dodge was towards the ground, but she kept her momentum forward, slimming more of the distance between the two of them.

Elliot could afford no hesitation- his arm drew upward instead of its assumed trajectory, the knife not leaving his hand as Aria thought. Elliot flipped the grip of the knife in his hand as he did so often in idle fidgets, fixing his grip so the tip of the knife pointed at the ground instead of outwards. While she was still ducked down, likely rejoicing that the knife Elliot had ‘thrown’ missed her head, that very blade sliced through the air landed deep in the back of her right arm. Elliot ripped it out to ensure he remained with a  weapon in hand, wincing at the force it took to wrench the weapon from her arm.

The Career cried out, clutching her arm as it started to bleed.

“Behind you!” Atlas shouted. A second later and Elliot would’ve had a spear through his chest.

Pierce had turned suddenly out of his and Atlas’s fight to make a move on Elliot, one he narrowly evaded with a moment’s warning using a swipe of his bloodied knife to send the spear off course. Elliot didn’t have enough time to completely escape; the tip of the spear grazed his side, cutting through his jacket and shirt and barely slicing into the skin of his abdomen. Elliot winced, unable to look down and assess the damage.

“You’re a little too confident for a nobody,” Pierce said to him, not veering back for another strike.

He made no nod to his teammate behind Elliot; there was no concern in his expression, and Elliot felt a chill run down his spine finding tenacity and bloodthirst in shock blue eyes and a crooked smile. Pierce stepped back to look over his shoulder as Atlas barreled towards him. 

Pierce met Atlas’s sword with the body of his spear, both Careers bearing their weight against the weapons between them before separating to clash again. As it had been with Cyrus, the fight between Atlas and Pierce was a constant barrage from both parties, the bursts of silence found in the short moments where either of them whipped their arm back only to meet in the center again. From the brief look Elliot spared, both of them sported a few new scrapes and cuts, none deep enough to swing the fight in either’s favor. 

Elliot turned once more to spot Aria, machete raised and halfway down a vertical swipe. Jutting his knife out in front of him, he caught the machete.

“Fuck,” he swore under his breath. That was far too close to his face.

“I warned you to focus,” Aria deadpanned, irritation at the near success clear on her face, “I want a fair fight.”

Elliot narrowed his eyes - was he only alive because Aria held back? Was his life so fragile?

The pair traded blows again, consistently being evaded or redirected by the other until they both huffed with frustration alongside their dwindling energy. His body moved on pure instinct, hardly thinking at all as he responded to each move and used the gaps to initiate his own attacks. Now both he and Aria were injured, though Elliot suspected the blow to her right arm was more detrimental than the graze on his side. Blood stained the ground in a mirage around her swift figure. 

How was Atlas faring? Elliot’s mind wandered had he ducked and weaved through Aria’s attacks, trying not to exert all his energy at once. He and Atlas had taken a battering during their time together; multiple fights, bitter cold, falling down hillsides, and tackling mutts, all in the span of two weeks, give or take. The Careers had all seemed so perfectly unscathed, likely that they had whittled down their share of tributes at the blood baths and had enough supplies to stay put and remain well-fed and sheltered. Not to mention the sponsors the Careers received from their wealthy districts, surely healing any minor ailments they might have compiled in the early Games. Atlas may have beaten Pierce easily during training, but at their staggered conditions, Elliot was wary of how his strength would compare.

As if to mock him, Aria reached particularly far, out of tune with the rest of her attacks. He’d earned a new injury; a thin, fine line on his cheek, not far from the scar he’d gained on the first day of the Games. Distantly, he wondered whether she had been aiming for it out of spite. The cut must have been shallow - he could hardly feel any of his wounds, not the gash in his side or the new slit on his face, not the ache he’d earned all over his body from the two weeks of the Games’ torment. 

“Even looking right at me,” she said between slashes, “you’re distracted.”

Between dodges and his own attacks, Elliot figured that the violent pulse of adrenaline was masking whatever severity the wounds held. Maybe it was the adrenaline, then, that made him mirror the sinister expression that he saw in Pierce as Aria’s words sent him on a thread of word associations - distraction. Did frustration feed her own distraction? Did he seem weaker, with the lack of presence on his face? 

The word reminded him of the cool press of steel against the skin of his clothed right arm. It had been completely concealed until now, waiting for the moment it was needed, or he was disarmed. But why prolong the process?

Elliot freed the knife tucked away under his right sleeve. The old trick served him once more, electricity lining the skin of his wrist as the metal slipped past into his palm, finding a deep sense of belonging in Elliot’s control. Without a moment spared for Aria to be alerted to the knife’s presence, Elliot blocked an attack with his left, the telltale clang of metal against metal resounding louder than it had the duration of their fight. 

And with his newly armed right hand, he drove six of the ten inches of his knife into her side.

Aria didn’t scream. If not for the hitch in her breath and the dime stop of her body, Elliot might have thought he missed entirely. Her eyes bore deeper into him than any weapon could achieve, piercing enough that Elliot let go of the knife and stepped back as she shuddered. It was no spell of cold that caused him to tremble as he retreated, hands shaking. 

He was too close. He had never killed from this close before. For the centuries that elapsed at that moment, he couldn’t rip his eyes away from hers. They spoke too fast for him to keep up; they damned him to hell, they swore to stay alive, they gaped at his skill, they scoffed at his show of fear so far into the Games. Blood poured from her wound onto the already bloodied ground, some from their fight and some from nearly two weeks ago when eleven lives had been taken in the span of an hour. Every pair of eyes flashed through his vision- Milo, Sable, Finn, Quin, Cyrus, Aria, and the little deer in the woods all those years ago. They spun around him in a blur, whizzing past as Aria staggered her steps, falling to the ground.

A misplaced thud against the frozen dirt behind him and a grunt of pain broke Elliot out of his shock, turning to the sound.

Further away than they had been the last time he checked, Pierce and Atlas saw a break in their duel. Atlas had been the one to hit the ground, his sword out of reach in the grass. Pierce was knocked off balance, but still standing, his back to Elliot and strained breaths obvious in his heaving shoulders as he slowly straightened his posture. Again? This was happening again? Atlas must have been feeling his injuries, fighting Pierce beside the battery of injuries he’d acquired throughout the Games. 

Elliot blinked uselessly, trying to assess the situation as quickly as he had the last time Atlas was cornered, looking for an out, for a simple target. His vision flashed with dying eyes, final breaths, and last words. Elliot’s hands shook around a tight fist and a bloody knife.

As it had time and time again, the thought returned to do nothing. The thought returned that he could remain still and not interfere in their fight, letting Pierce kill Atlas and finishing off the final tribute himself. He promised Mastiff, he promised his father he would try to win. It was natural to want to win. Nobody could blame him for choosing his own life over a near stranger’s, the way the Games assumed everyone would.

“Was this what I was supposed to be scared of, Atlas?” Pierce said. He was walking towards Atlas casually, so casually Elliot thought he might offer him a hand. The pair of them were meters away from Elliot, and Pierce apparently hadn’t noticed that his fight was over.

Atlas groaned, lifting himself unto his elbows and sitting up as his opponent approached. He spat at the floor with blood Elliot hoped was from a cut in his mouth and not an internal injury. Pierce was empty-handed, reaching to the holster on his back to arm himself with another spear. As if he had forgotten it was there, Atlas did the same, reaching over his shoulder equipping the sword he started the Games with, pushing himself onto his feet and shaking his head sharply like he was warding off sleep in the morning.

Elliot chided himself. Atlas had made it clear that he’d never intended to hurt him once throughout the two long weeks they’d been here. Guilt seeped into his chest.

“You say that like this is already over,” Atlas said, finally seeing Elliot from across the clearing. 

The Career wasn’t angry that he hadn’t helped sooner or pleading with his eyes for help now that his fight was over. With a fair distance between him and Pierce, Atlas rested his sword over his shoulder, quickly moving his eyes away from Elliot so Pierce wouldn’t take notice. If anything, relief soothed his expression seeing Elliot alive, and that made his hesitance to help Atlas all the more shameful.

Atlas raised his left hand with his palm up, curling his first two fingers towards himself in a silent taunt to Pierce as he lowered his sword and readied for the Career’s approach. It meant little, in the end; Elliot already made his decision.

With the trembling in his body lost to the wind, Elliot raised his left hand and the knife that rested in it, feeling a drop of blood fall onto his jacket. He watched Pierce start to approach Atlas, increasing the distance from himself. The tribute from Seven waited for him to take several steps to study the rhythm of his gait, nearing 30 feet away, until he knew exactly where to aim. And then, as simply as he was hitting a target amongst the evergreens of his home, Elliot send his hand shooting forward, timing the smooth glide of the knife from his hand.

Fly.

As if by Mastiff’s hands, the knife left his fingertips, hitting the back of Pierce’s right shoulder.

Pierce cried out, hunching forward with pain. The knife tumbled to the ground, not deep enough to stay submerged with the force left after it had traveled so far. He turned his head over his shoulder to face Elliot, a move that surely cause shockwaves more of pain to shoot through his body given the grimace on his face as he did so. Atlas took a step back, unstable on his feet, looking between Elliot and Pierce with his lips parted in heavy breaths.

“You little fucking- ” Pierce seethed, heaving his arm back and stepping in as he launched the spear in his hand without warning, yelling as the motion stressed his new injury.

Elliot noticed the windup immediately and threw himself at the ground, knocking his head hard enough that his vision was consumed by white spots for a few seconds. He got up as fast as he could, swearing when he saw the point of the spear dug into the ground yards before him. The end stuck out of the dirt at a small angle where it completed the arch that, had he been a second slower, would have crested at his own skull. By the time he had gotten to his feet, trying to ignore the patch of red he left on the ground, Pierce was sprinting toward him. As he closed the distance, he pulled the last of his spears out from the harness on his back with venom in his eyes.

There was no time to think, so Elliot armed himself with a new knife, stepping backward as he waited for one, two, three of Pierce’s strides to settle his aim and threw again. He missed, and if he had a moment to spare he would’ve been disappointed in himself. 

Elliot grabbed another knife from his holster, taking a sharp deep breath and steadying himself before he threw once more. Time slimmed with every millimeter his hands traveled, face set in focus so deep he saw nothing but the man rushing towards him and felt nothing but his blade and his heartbeat. There was no reality but what his mind let him see now, his own life and the force which threatened it heading toward him with bloodthirst on his bared teeth. Elliot used all of the force his tired body could muster to make this knife cut deeper than the last, winding back with his entire upper body and whipping his arm forward. In the moments before he threw, Pierce had winded his arm back again to launch his spear as he ran, the distance between them a mere few yards.

The knife landed, embedding in Pierce’s upper left thigh, deep enough that it didn’t fall to the ground. Elliot had been aiming for his middle, but he took what he could get with the man sprinting towards him. Pierce yelled through gritted teeth, swearing as he dropped his spear to grab at his leg. Whether in shock or pain or both didn’t matter - Elliot was already grabbing another knife from his holster and slowly pacing forward as he flipped it in his hand.

Pierce was hunched over, still standing but holden himself up with his hands on his knees. He must have noticed Elliot’s approach because his hand jutted out to grab his fallen spear. Elliot had plenty of knives left, so he sent the one he was holding flying towards the ground in the few inches between Pierce’s hand and his weapon, making Pierce freeze in his tracks. The Career’s entire body swayed as he straightened his back, looking Elliot directly in the eyes now that their distance had shrunk to a meter or two. His eyes moved, past Elliot; likely at Aria on the flood behind him, but Elliot didn't turn behind him to confirm, lest Pierce make a desperate move.

“You’re a lot better with those than you look,” Pierce said, followed by a huff of breath that almost sounded like a chuckle. The cut on his eyebrow had opened again, blood smeared across his temple. Elliot glowered at him.

“Eli,” Atlas said, concern flooding his winded voice as he caught up to Pierce. 

Pierce rolled his eyes, turning his body to look between the two of them, “Give me a fucking break, both of you. How long have you had this little deal, eh? Were you ever gonna tell us you had a fucking sniper on your side, Atlas?”

“You’re one to talk,” Elliot cut in before Atlas could finish opening his mouth, “what would it have mattered if you meant to kill him on the first day?”

“And why do you think that was, Seven? Huh? You think it was a whim?” Pierce’s voice grew, enough that Elliot lowered his knife to hear what he had to say. Pierce was without a weapon, completely empty-handed and standing between Elliot and Atlas with nothing keeping him alive but their curiosity.

Pierce turned to Atlas, “Really, man, how stupid did you think I was? Think I didn’t notice you staying behind to talk to him, getting distracted by him across the training gym? And wasting precious fucking time at center grabbing knives none of us were any good with?”

Atlas’s face fell, keeping Pierce’s gaze as his lips pressed shut. Elliot adjusted his hold on his knives. 

“Not to mention you sounded like a psychopath every time you opened your mouth about the Games, as if you didn’t volunteer for this like all the fucking rest of us,” he shrugged, shaking his head, “you think I’d just let you walk behind all of us, seeing all of that? You think I wanted you staying awake while we all slept?” Pierce raised his hands, his palms up in mock defense, “forgive me for having less of a fucking death wish than you do, Atlas.”

Elliot watched both of their faces, trying to understand the truth behind the words. Pierce had no reason to lie, not with his fate largely sealed by open wounds. The circularity of the story made Elliot hesitate. He and Atlas had only met during the Games because he happened upon Atlas washed up on the shore - the shore of the river Pierce had shoved him down into. If not for Pierce’s mistrust, it was unlikely they’d cross paths without the Career pack finding out and killing Elliot immediately. Vividly, he remembered the scent of the river, the mist of air that persisted as water violently crashed across the banks. He remembered Atlas lying in the sand, the weakest Elliot had ever seen him, writhing in his injuries and bleeding, only half-conscious. In his own naivety, he’d formed this alliance with Atlas. Pierce had tried to keep his friends safe by getting rid of Atlas, by eliminating a threat - in doing so, he’d gotten all of them killed.

Now that they were closer and still, Elliot could see the fresh injuries on the two of them; both littered with thin cuts and short gashes from an evenly matched fight. Atlas spoke, hardly audible over the winds that gathered during the night, over the three of them out of breath and tattered by the Games and each other,

“Sorry it came to this, Pierce.”

Pierce scoffed, the corners of a bitter smile weak on his bloodied face, “Sure you are.”

Slowly retrieving another knife, Elliot flipped it in his hand, watching the way the metal caught moonlight in an oscillating gleam. Sable and Cyrus had spoken of the winner in their last breaths, while Finn and his brother had died with fear on their lips. In the end, did this mean anything at all? Confessions and truths and lies told weeks ago before blood stained their hands and soaked the ground at their feet - what was the use for all of this now? All that remained was the three of them, hardly standing, and a victory for only one.

With a slow, deep breath, Elliot looked to Atlas with his dampened expression and sword loose where it rested in his hand. He knew what he had to do, but there was no motion in his body to do it. Without the wherewithal to regret it, Elliot raised his arm again in the center clearing.

The knife hit Pierce’s back where his heart rested, and the near point-blank range meant it went deep enough to puncture. Elliot watched silently as he fell, feeling hollow in his chest as another body met the dirt. At least his back was turned. At least he didn't have to see his eyes.

Atlas grimaced but offered no resistance. Just a deep sigh and shut eyes, his shoulders falling and his head lulling to the side. As it had when Cyrus died, anger fizzed out of Atlas seeing death before him. Pierce was dead before he hit the ground, and Elliot turned his back and didn’t spare a look at his downed figure. He had enough eyes haunting him already.

Should he feel guilty? Was that the biting feeling like something was clawing around in his stomach? Elliot closed his eyes, but only saw the supercut of eyes again, brown and blue and green and hazel and black between the fuzzy black space behind his eyelids. Guilt or not, the voice of a survivor reminded him, he was another person closer to keeping his own life.

When Elliot opened his eyes to the empty clearing, his back to Atlas and Pierce, he saw a patch of deep red pooling a few feet from himself in the dirt. He saw the Cornucopia, the treeline, the moon above.

Elliot did not see Aria.

As if hearing his thoughts, a canon rang out around him and Atlas, resounding in an echo. A canon. A single canon.

Elliot faced Atlas, who stood at Pierce’s feet and looked down at him with remorse. 

“Just one,” he said, and Atlas kept his dazed expression until Elliot spoke again louder, “Aria’s still alive.”

Atlas finally looked up, eyebrows furrowed as he scanned the clearing, “You didn’t- I thought you-”

“So did I,” Elliot said, breath leaving in a tremor. 

If the wind didn’t bellow to punctuate their words, silence would have fallen upon the clearing once more. Elliot flinched suddenly, a twinge of pain blooming from his side and face at the same time. He hadn’t touched either of the injuries since he’d earned them, and now the bitter cold licked at them unforgivingly.

“You’re hurt,” Atlas said, walking over to him with a frown. His voice is raw and broken by harsh breaths in same the brisk night air.

Moonlight colors his face in cool blue tones, revealing his face for the first close look Elliot has gotten since the fight broke out. His nose was bleeding at some point, now dried on his upper lip and smudged onto his cheek. Dirty blond hair is a mess across his forehead, and he wore a few new cuts and bruises on his jaw and cheek before the injuries from the previous night had time to heal. 

“So are you,” Elliot said.

As he’d done so often before, Atlas held a hand to the line of Elliot’s jaw, turning it gently to either side and inspecting his cut face with a level of care that the latter cannot begin to comprehend at the moment.

“We should rest. We can worry about her tomorrow,” Atlas said. 

With that, the pair trudge over to the Cornucopia to recollect their two backpacks. Elliot had a few knives left in the holster on his thigh and opted to move the lower ones to higher rungs, too disheartened to collect the bloodied knives from the field. The wound on his side started to ache as adrenaline slowly filtered out of his body, leaving his injuries tender and warm. The blood had soaked through the cut in his shirt and jacket, but was a shallow enough graze that it didn’t drench any further than the surrounding area. 

“Where should we go?” Atlas looked at Elliot.

“Not far, probably. We should just… find somewhere to settle and sleep,” Elliot looked back, seeing the slow closing and sharp opening of Atlas’s eyes that keyed him in on his exhaustion, “I’ll take the first watch tonight.”

“Y’ sure?” Atlas asked, yawning immediately after. Despite it all, Elliot felt a slight smile tug at his lips. Still the same Atlas.

“I’m sure. Let’s get going.”

Less than a half-hour of walking through the arena, Atlas spotted a cluster of trees to stop at. Night consumed the forest in dark shadows and flickers of moonlight peeking between the tree cover. Atlas got to work setting down their sleeping bags as Elliot took out the water and medicine. Elliot wondered if it was okay for Atlas to keep taking double doses of the little red painkillers, but he figured Atlas knew better than he did on the matter. The two of the three remaining tributes sat beside each other, their backs to adjacent trees. Without thinking, Elliot slinked his head down onto Atlas’s shoulder, flinching slightly and adjusting his position when the injury on his abdomen stung at the motion.

“Hey - you alright?” Atlas asked.

Elliot shrugged, “Pierce grazed me with his spear. It’s fine, it didn’t bleed that mu-”

“Show me.”

With an exasperated huff, Elliot sat upright and unzipped his jacket, starting to pull up the hem of his shirt to expose the wound. He winced, pain coming out in a hiss when the wet fabric clung to the wound and he had to peel it off the now-drying blood. It looked worse than it felt, though the pain was slowly increasing as it met cool air and his blood wasn’t rushing through his ears as it had been during the fight.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Atlas sighed, reaching over to the front pouch of one of the packs, “you were just gonna leave it like that all night weren’t you?”

Elliot pouted, “It’s fine.”

“‘S not fine, that’s gonna get infected,” he returned with the tin of salve. Elliot’s stomach turned at the mere thought of the sting that came with it.

“Relax. Infection would hurt worse than this y’know.”

“Just get it over with.”

With another tight breath, Elliot kept his shirt lifted just enough for Atlas to apply the medicine. Atlas looked up at Elliot before he approached with salve-coated fingers, face tense as if he was the one bracing. He ripped the bandage off, knitting his eyebrows together as he smoothed the medicine over the open wound. Elliot forced a tight inhale, twisting his face as his injury stung deep enough that he felt it in his spine.

“‘S okay, I’m almost done- sorry, sorry,” Atlas muttered, taking care to cover the cut end to end. Elliot’s expression softened, watching the care with which Atlas handled him. Since the first time they’d met he’d been this way, reassuring him nobody was watching as he demonstrated his throwing skills. And now, two weeks or however long it’d been later, Elliot still couldn’t figure out where a Career found all the heart to be so caring to an opponent.

“Thank you,” Elliot said, not intending for the words to be so soft and tentative. Atlas refocused his gaze to his face and pulled Elliot’s shirt back down carefully.

“Your face, too,” Atlas reached up as he had done time and time again, cupping Elliot’s face with a large, calloused palm. Elliot can’t help but rest his head, his eyes closing in peace for the barest moment. He opened them to Atlas’s face inches away, staring carefully as he applied the medicine unto the new cut on his cheek.

“‘S right under your other cut,” he said, “parallel to it, jus’ the same.”

With a quiet hum in response, Elliot remained still, watching Atlas’s eyes as they focused on his cheek. Somewhere in his mind buzzed with doubts of whether he deserved this care, what on Earth he had done to be worthy of safety in such a place as the Games. 

“‘M done, I think,” Atlas said, words fanning as cool breath across Elliot’s features. 

Maybe it was the aches and pains that coursed through his body, the close calls reminding him of how fragile his life was in the arena. Maybe it was the end of the Games nearing, more impending with every passing minute. Maybe it really was nothing more than the warmth in his face after such a kind, gentle display from a man he knew was capable of killing droves of tributes.

Regardless of what it was, Elliot tilted his head forward and closed the gap between himself and Atlas. They both sighed into a kiss, tired and beaten and bleeding, finding a sliver of peace in one another for however long the arena would allow. Their lips were chapped, their weary hands finding gentle solace resting on one another as the wind billowed around them, howling in protest. When they pull away, hearts finally slowed from their thunderous pace, the Capitol anthem played on the speakers around the arena.

They turned their gaze upwards to the projection of Pierce in the sky, confident and easy smile on his lips. Elliot avoided the eyes in the hologram.

“Thank you,” he croaked, clearing his voice afterward. Atlas’s gaze hung on the image for a few seconds after. Then down at his hands, his eyes tracing the maroon traces of blood in the creases of his palms, under his nails. With a few seconds of delay, he responded,

“What? Oh - you’re welcome, ‘s nothing.”

“What about your injuries? Are you bleeding anywhere?”

The Career shook his head, looking down at himself, “don’t think so. We didn’t get many real hits on each other.”

Nodding, Elliot reached for the bandages anyway. He rummaged through the front pouch for the rubbing alcohol they had scavenged, doused the bandage, and started to dab at the short nicks on his face. Atlas offered no protest but the occasional wince from the dull sting of alcohol on shallow wounds. After the little shocks had passed and Elliot only swiped at dirt and old blood, he was looking down at Elliot with what he can only describe as peace. Behind it, behind the restfulness that begins to wash over his face and posture, Elliot can see the strain in his heart from bloodied hands. 

“I’m sorry, Atlas. I… I know they were your friends. It’s less to me since I didn’t know them, but to you - I get it. I hardly spoke ten words to Sable and it still hurt worse than the others did.”

Elliot took one of Atlas’s hands in his own and took a scrap of bandage to it, tracing over the remnants of blood until they rubbed out. He did so wordlessly, careful to leave his palms clean as the start of the Games. He turned his hand around, swiping the skin under his nails until the red and brown were cleared away. Elliot turned up his own palm in a silent request for Atlas to offer his and repeated the motions to his other side. It was almost ritualistic, how carefully he ran the cloth over the creases and ridges and callouses, focus held in his eyes and slender fingers as he worked.

When he was finished, he offered Atlas his hands back, looking back at his face. His eyes were glossy, a shaky smile tugging on his lips. Atlas reached out, throwing his arms around Elliot and pulling him in tight to his body. It didn’t take long for Elliot to return the embrace, sighing into the heat of his chest. Atlas rested his chin at the top of Elliot’s head, then slumped into the crook of his neck. They didn’t move for a while, content in feeling the other’s breaths with the tidal rising of their chests in tandem, content in the warmth of the other.

And like a siren ringing out before a storm, slowly growing louder and overbearing, Elliot heard familiar calls wailing in his mind. This wouldn’t last. Every moment that passed, every second that ticked by meant their time had dwindled further still, giving way to an inevitable. This would never last.

But there was still a final mission for the two to overcome. The final tribute, the final obstacle they had to face before each other - whatever facing each other meant. Elliot withdrew, casting a hand through the tangle’s of Atlas’s hair and resting at his nape, 

“You should sleep. You didn’t get much last night.”

Atlas’s shoulders fell, his head lulling to the side as Elliot’s hand slid forward to catch Atlas’s cheek in his palm. Warm. Warm, as always.

“Thanks for takin’ first watch. You wake me up if you need anythin’, okay?”

“I will. Don’t worry - I doubt she’ll try anything tonight. We’re not the only ones who need to rest.”

With a small nod and another yawn, Atlas took of his sword holster and tossed it aside. He inched down into his sleeping bag; he still slept with it half-open, his jacket hardly still on his shoulders. Elliot was less taken aback by it now; he too had grown used to the cold. If anything, the Gamemakers must have made it warmer as the days went on instead of colder like he’d expected them to. When he finally laid his head down, his hand searched for Elliot’s right, taking it in his own and tracing over the healed scar tissue that made striations in the skin there.

Atlas, with his head resting on the ground beside Elliot’s thigh, fell asleep before a minute passed. The little motions of his thumb slowed to a stop, his hand resting comfortably in Elliot’s. Unlike the previous night, his sleep was simple and even. The moon, in a cloudless night, watched them through the tree cover, casting cool light over the pair in patterns that flickered as the leaves swayed in the wind. With a knife in his left hand, Elliot checked periodically on the man asleep beside him. Every glance, he held a few long seconds, searching for the rise and fall of his chest - the minuscule motion that assured Elliot he was alive.

As he was each time he took sleep watch, Elliot was alone with the night. Tonight least of all, with a warm hand in his own and wounds that healed with gently placed medicine - but alone nonetheless. Flicking his eyes around the darkened forest, Elliot slipped into his thoughts as he did so often, the past weeks like a mirage as he found himself here. How fickle a thing was life, was their fate here? Butterfly effects cascade far enough that Elliot can’t recall, from the first time he’d seen Mastiff throw a knife in the woods, to the terror in his brother’s dying breaths, to the training that earned him a life this long, a to the red of death in the Bloodbath, to finding Atlas half-dead at the riverbank. And now here, scanning the night for a single injured woman to protect himself and an unlikely partner with what little energy he could muster.

For all of the oddities of his survival, Elliot remained to question why he decided to help Atlas at the shoreline. It was more like himself to kill the man while he was still dazed, or steal his backpack and sprint into the woods before he woke up. Was it the earnest manner he spoke in the training facility? Or the knives he had promised Elliot that were truly there in his pack? Perhaps it was pity all along, seeing a man he knew to be strong shivering and coughing alone in the sand.

Not any less odd, Elliot settled, that Atlas was so devoted to their allyship. That he’d never hesitated to protect him, to surge forward in front of him to take the place of an attack, to dress his wounds or take his share of the night watch. Raised as a Career, raised to kill and survive and win without a second thought, Elliot expected a picture opposite of Atlas when he stepped on the train to the Capitol. Without missing a mark, Atlas had overturned every expectation Elliot had of the Careers that he created when his brother fell to one in his Games years ago.

Elliot smiled to himself, an orange-tinted reel of recent memories collaging in his mind. Atlas bewitched by Elliot’s first offer of help at the riverbank, sticking his hand in just-boiling water, catching a fish in the water with his sword and tenacity, laughing when Elliot knocked him down, reaching for his hand more often as the days passed by. They were photos of moments far too tender for something like the Hunger Games, but they swam in Elliot’s mind nonetheless, warming his cheeks as the memory of chapped lips ghosted his own.

Atlas stirred, for only a moment before returning to sleep. No matter which way he shifted, his hand remained beside Elliot’s. The tribute from Seven was sure a few hours have passed, staring between the trees at ambient stillness and rustling leaves. Sleep began to pull at him, but not enough to drag his eyelids down. He’d give it another hour or two before he woke Atlas. That was the plan, at least.

Piercing through the center of his chest, Elliot jumped at the sound, flinching in his place to straighten his back and rising his attention. All to no avail. It was too soon. It couldn’t be so soon. 

A canon rang out. 

He frantically whipped his head down to Atlas; he was still breathing soundly, evenly, the sudden movement from Elliot causing him to stir.

Aria was dead. The blood loss must’ve killed her, adrenaline was only able to keep her alive for so long before she lost an uphill battle. Twenty-two of the twenty-four were dead. It was only him and Atlas, now.

Dread worse than the Reapings ebbed through his arteries, spreading from his chest to his gut to the tips of his fingers. His heart thrashed behind his ribs, thrummed in his ears. Every fight and challenge he’d encountered during the Games had picked up his breathing, but it had never been so laborious to inhale while merely sitting down like this, surrounded by near silence and near stillness. This was it. If he wanted to, in a matter of seconds he could be crowned victor, honor his brother, be safely taken from the arena, and return home.

The only thing preventing him from doing so lay beside him, asleep and unmoving, his sword forgotten in its holster a few feet away. Just as it hadn’t days ago, the sound of the cannon didn’t wake him, his face relaxed and mouth barely parted as cool condensation slipped from his lips. It was true when his name was called and it was true now; Elliot was not ready to die.

The orange reel of fond memories became tainted film, rotting and overexposing as spores of decay took over. This wouldn't last - Elliot knew this would never last, but the reality of being the final two tributes had rattled it into him as it should have weeks ago. This was always how their deal would end. The bitterness deep in his heart, the deep-rooted urge to win that had taunted him throughout the Games resurfaced- the Bloodthirst with which he’d killed Finn, the curl of a smile as he landed a hit on Aria, that same voice brought his fingers tight around his knife. Their optimism was wishful, their peaceful solution to walk off in opposite directions was reasonable, days ago. But presented with victory, so offensively simple beside him… Elliot felt his hand grip tight around the knife in his hand, knuckles white. His other hand was still wrapped up in Atlas’s.

He turned to his right, kneeling next to Atlas as he slept curled on his side. The tribute from Seven watched his face, counting the freckles that spanned his nose and swell of his cheeks, the cuts littered about his head and neck, the light lashes atop the dark skin of his under eyes, frayed curls of blonde hair that bordered his features.

Elliot shook his head. The longer he looked, the longer he remembered, the longer he hesitated, the more his chances of life slimmed. With a tremor that he couldn’t cease, Elliot raised his left hand, the tip of his knife pointed down at the dirt. Atlas’s hand was still in his right. He shook his head again. He couldn’t throw his life away for a man he’d met two weeks ago. Not after he’d promised his father, not after all he’d struggled. He looked at Atlas, at his knife, back at Atlas. Wind slowed, the rustle of leaves from the trees muting around him. Anyone else in his position would sink the blade without a second thought, so why was…

“Eli?”

Whatever air Elliot had wasn’t enough, his empty lungs taking in a shuddering breath. He pulled his hand back, resting his left hand to his side out of view. But Atlas’s eyes had been open to see the knife. Despite the timing, Atlas did not flinch or recoil. Had he missed it in his waking? Atlas turned to lie flat on his back, taking in a quiet breath and sending out an unsteady sigh. Elliot wasn’t sure what to say, mouth dry as he forced an attempt to response.

“Atlas? I- I, uh-”

“‘S okay,” Atlas said, and if the wind hadn’t calmed, Elliot wouldn’t have heard him, “I know.”

Elliot knit his brows, looking down at Atlas's undecipherable expression. His eyes were flitting around Elliot’s face, his hand wrapped tighter around Elliot’s. And on his lips, a smile so distant he could hardly register it compared it to the beam of light that normally accompanied Atlas’s grin.

“You know… know what?” Elliot asked, unable to mask the tremble in his words.

Atlas cast his gaze to the moon between the trees, “did Aria’s cannon go off?”

“It did.”

“It’s about that time, isn’t it?” Atlas said.

There weren’t any words for Elliot to say, not with a statement so vague. His face grew tense, wrought with concern, or worry or dread of whatever was making his stomach churn so terribly.

“Time for what?” Elliot tried.

Atlas smiled, meeting Elliot’s eyes. He reached a hand up towards Elliot’s face, cupping his cheek with his palms. Elliot lifted his right hand to wind through Atlas’s hair, the same feeling in his gut now tugging on his chest.

“You asked me a while ago what I was fighting for,” Atlas said. 

“Spite?” Elliot recalled

Atlas nodded, “Spite. Spite to the Games, y’see. I know we’re meant to try an’ win, of course we are. Winner takes all - stay alive, live rich the rest of your life, your district gets to eat well. But really, what good is all that for someone like me?”

Elliot shook his head, “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I mean, my family is fine with or without a win. So is my district- 2 isn’t going hungry anytime soon,” Atlas shrugged, a meek smile on his lips, “so really, what use for another Victor from one, or two, or four? Much worse to give the upper hand to the ones who don’t need it.”

With the same sinking feeling in his stomach, gears wound in Elliot’s mind, piece by piece understanding the depth of each word. Pierce called Atlas a liability and implied that his heart wasn’t truly in the Games from the start. Atlas went out of his way to establish an alliance with Elliot before the Games began. Time and time again, Atlas stepping in the face of death to keep Elliot alive. Even in Cyrus’s last moment, when he asked if Atlas would win the Games in his name, Atlas had avoided the question entirely.

“You… you never meant to win the Games,” Elliot said. Atlas smiled, warm and laced in tragedy.

“Not the way they wanted me to, no,” Atlas rubbed gentle circles into Elliot’s cheek with his thumb, “but this’ll be a different sort of win.”

“This?” Elliot asked.

“It’s time, don’t you think Elliot?”

 Before he felt them, tears welt up and trickled down his face, and Atlas wiped them away.

“You idiot,” Elliot sighed, shoulders starting to shake, “Don’t call me that, you never call me that…” He had more to say, endless words to say, but they caught in his through with a swallowed sob.

“I’m glad it was you,” Atlas said, wistful, “I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to go through with it, but of all the people it coulda been, I’m glad it was you, Eli.”

“I don’t - I don’t fucking deserve it,” Elliot whispered, head swimming, drowning in thoughts, feeling every feeling since reaping day all at once, a thousand times each.

With that same smile, Atlas reached over Elliot’s body to his left hand, brought it and the knife it held towards himself. Towards his chest. The point just above his heart.

“Go home, Eli. You trust me, don’t you?” He wrapped his right hand around Elliot’s left, keeping the knife still Elliot’s hands shook.

With the way they captured his own, Elliot knew that Atlas’s eyes were unlike the pairs that plagued him. Elliot didn’t see terror in his irises, not the paralyzed fear that came with near-death in the gazes that always seemed to follow him, staring daggers into his back.

Atlas’s eyes were green. Glossy, now, and reflecting the moon - but green all the same. Evergreen, like the leaves of the trees that reminded Elliot of his home. Of the familiar rolling forest he patrolled with ease and greeted each morning, the calm vastness that enveloped Seven in life. Both evergreens were endless, saturated in meaning and acres of territory and beauty, life to a level of detail that would never be explored, not in one lifetime, not in the lifetime Elliot was allowed.

Elliot leaned down, letting his forehead hit Atlas’s and closing his eyes. A few loose tears fall unto his face, and Atlas tilted his head to the side,

“One more time, Eli?”

Wordlessly, Elliot bridged what little distance was left between them, pressing their lips together as the forest stood silently around them. Elliot’s hand trembled, and he braced with all the little strength he had left when he drove the clean point of his knife through Atlas’s chest.

Atlas flinched, and Elliot found his hand in the grass and held it as he discarded his knife, feeling the clenching of Atlas’s fist around his hand. Elliot used his other hand to hold Atlas’s face, pulling away with a sob held in his throat.

“I’m sorry. I - I’m so sorry, Atlas-”

Blood pooled around his heart, seeping through his shirt. Elliot distantly thought that at the very least, Atlas died with clean hands. Atlas smiled once more, evergreen blooming in his eyes as he reached to Elliot’s hand on his cheek, tracing the lines on the back of his hands.

“‘S okay, Eli. I’m happy-” his body convulsed, eyes squeezing shut for a moment, “I’m happy to have known you. You better take care of yourself, yeah? I can’t protect you anymore.”

Elliot smiled through tears, holding Atlas’s face and his hand like it would keep him alive any longer.

“I will, Atlas.”

“Good. You better. And…” Atlas took a drawn-out breath, “thank you. Thank you for… for everythin’ Eli.”

As the reality of his labored breaths drew nearer, Elliot’s head swelled to a stop, thousands of thoughts and memories and regrets all compiling to silence. There would be no other in the world like the one before him now, bleeding in the grass and still managing a warm smile. Elliot squeezed his eyes shut to be able to speak, pressure building in his heart. 

“I love you, Atlas,” Elliot whispered, quieter than even the forest could hear, “it - it sounds stupid, I know it does. It doesn’t make sense - neither of us make any sense, but for whatever it’s worth now, it’s true. I’m glad it was you.”

Atlas’s hold on his hand loosened, the tight grip faltering until it slipped from its grasp.

“Atlas?”

Silence. Atlas’s eyes are closed, the traces of a smile remnant on his face. Elliot watched his chest - perfectly still, the rhythm of his breathing slowed to a stop. Did he hear him? Did Atlas hear what he said? 

A canon rang out somewhere far, far away from Elliot. Even further, another sound droned on, something like a voice echoing around the invisible walls of the arena. Elliot wasn’t really listening. He couldn’t tear his hand away from Atlas’s or bring his palm away from his cheek. Even when the hum of an airship loomed above him, Elliot couldn’t find it in him to move, the wind from its engines near enough to knock him over. 

Before the Peacekeepers arrived, Elliot stuffed the little white scrap of cloth into his pocket, hoping to hand it to Cyrus’s family on Atlas’s behalf. He pressed a final kiss to Atlas’s forehead, his heart sinking as he felt that it was cold for the first time. 

As Elliot was taken away from the arena, congratulated and told he would be returning home, he maintained only one certainly. His home, his evergreen, he would never see again.