Author's Note: This was actually written after my Kim/Violette Hunger Games AU crap (which I haven't posted since birthdays and requests take precedence). It's unrelated to that though, aside from the same basic crossover concept applying here. It's beyond crappy and just really lame that I'm doing the same damn thing twice in a row, but ah...I dunno. I was already writing this other thing for Nathaniel's birthday, but then for the life of me, the format was coming out as utter shit and I realized that it wasn't the writing style I wanted it to be in, so I just stopped and I was like, "fuck me, this is not working out. I need to do something else." And then my eraser was like, "Why not an AU?" And then I was like, "What? No, Imma saving them juices for Narcoleptic Nihilism."

And then my eraser was all, "But you just did a Kim/Violette Hunger Games AU." And I was just, "Well yeah, but that's different. I got hit with an inspiration turd." And my eraser replied, "Yes, but the 16th is creeping up real fast and you still have requests to finish. You don't have time to wait for another inspiration turd." So then I was just like ._. "Fine." And that's how this excruciatingly uncreative, disjointed, uninteresting, shallow, pitiful, shitty, recycled, stupid, blah piece of crappy mediocrity was written. Had a field day with liberties and alterations. Happy Birthday Nathaniel~!

can't you see that this is death and death is saving me?

i say burn all your bridges while you still have control of the flame

—evans blue

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"I volunteer," Nathaniel proclaims loudly before Agatha's hand can select an unlucky soul from the fishbowl. "I volunteer as tribute." Murmurs of surprise erupt in the crowd of gathered District 10 citizens and he's certain that the loudest, strangled gasp among them was from his mother. He feels a mild thorn of guilt at that, but he has absolutely no regrets.

"Oh! Good, very good! Come on up, young man," Agatha's vibrant magenta lips split into a broad, eggshell-white grin and she excitedly claps her gaudily gloved hands together.

Nathaniel strides to the podium with his head held high and takes his place beside the female tribute, Li. He actually knows Li. She's one of his sister's dearest friends. She looks absolutely terrified and he can practically feel her trembling. Nathaniel smirks a little at that and knows he can't blame her. Also, he won't have a problem killing her.

That's what really held him back from volunteering last year, not the fear of dying but the fear of killing. He wasn't sure he could do it. But now Nathaniel realizes that he can, because he is his human. In the end, humans are monsters as well as animals, neither of which have an issue with killing. If anything, it is in their nature. They're the very ones who came up with this morbid game.

Nathaniel searches out the faces of his family in the crowd. Tears are already streaming from his mother's defeated eyes. She clutches her chest and her chin is as quivery as his is steady. His father's features are frozen is complete shock, the whites around his irises visible even from where Nathaniel stands. His sister hugs herself tightly as she gapes up at him, as though her insides have broken and she's trying to hold them together.

She literally drops to her knees and wails in the next moment, and being that she's lost Li as well as him and that she's always been such a dramatic girl, he supposes he shouldn't be surprised by the antic.

He wonders if she knows that she's the reason he's up here. Well, Amber isn't the reason exactly, she's one-third of the reason. His father and mother are the other two-thirds. Between being scorned, being beaten, and being turned a blind eye to, respectively, Nathaniel's come to the conclusion that his situation is unbearable and he doesn't have anything to lose.

He's soon going to be in an arena where twenty-three other people are going to try to kill him. Odds are, he's going to die. As he doesn't have anything to lose, dying is perfectly fine with him. But if Nathaniel doesn't lose, if he survives and wins, then he'll live in luxury in Victor's Village and he'll have enough money to make sure his family stays the hell away from him forever.

Overall, there are no cons to the situation.

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Nathaniel's mentor is a timid, scrawny guy named Faraize. It comes as no surprise to him when he learns that Faraize didn't win his Hunger Games by killing, he won by camouflage and waiting out the carnage. He actually has a lot of great insight to offer regarding shelter, strategizing, and sponsors. Nathaniel listens with earnest as he digs into the most fantastic buffet he's ever known that's laid out before him.

As Nathaniel gains new knowhow and munches over glazed delicacies, he muses about what strategy he'll develop. He's not going to hide out the whole time, he doesn't think. As established, he has no qualms about killing anyone (not even Li, who sits next to him wan and petrified) and particularly brutal killing is a surefire way to capture attention and get sponsors.

Killing takes skill, and though Nathaniel doesn't exactly have skill, he is whipcord muscle from head to toe. He's also closely observed prior games and he's about to go through a week of strenuous training. He's confident he'll come out of it with moderate skill, at least. At one point Faraize excuses himself to another car (likely to pop another pill, as that's the first thing Nathaniel saw him do upon entrance).

While he's gone, Li turns to him with unreadable seal eyes and simply asks, "Why the hell did you volunteer for this?"

"My reasons aren't any of your business," he answers coolly, the foreign, heavenly flavor of a multi-fruit tart exploding on his tongue.

"Amber is going to hate you for this," she replies and for the first time since the reaping, she is hard and sure.

"She's going to hate me even more when I kill you," Nathaniel replies cheerfully, probably joking, but nearly as likely not. They are going to be enemies in the arena, after all.

Li drops her fork.

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The Training Center is the most extravagant building Nathaniel has ever had the privilege of entering. The structure is posh, the air smells of citrus, the room he's given to sleep in could fit three of the one he has at home. The bed is so downy that he'd sign his soul over to it and it takes him nearly an hour to figure out how to work the shower, but that doesn't bother him a single bit.

It strikes him as funny that he's the happiest he's ever been when death is right around the corner and whispering from every shadow.

He trains as hard as he can in the week that follows, aiming to win even if he wouldn't mind losing. He memorizes every word the instructor utters and hits each station at least once. Knives are what he chooses to specialize in, however. He already has some experience with them, and knives are versatile weapons. Serrated hunting knives and slim daggers become Nathaniel's trade. He stabs and slices training dummies until their stuffing is seamlessly spewing across the immaculate floor.

He spars the provided trainers and exerts himself to the fullest, milking every practice session to the last drop. He observes the other tributes and what they excel at so he knows what to watch out for. One always has to be wary of the Careers, but several tributes from other districts have him on edge as well. For instance, the male and female from District 8 are a pair to watch out for.

The male is heterochoromic with wavy silver hair and claims that he isn't going to kill anyone. "This contest is barbaric and disgusting," he says during their first lunch break. "I refuse to participate in it. I am not a savage."

But Nathaniel knows that must be a gambit, a ploy to convince the other tributes he's not a threat. The female is equally dangerous, Nathaniel is sure. She has vivid amber eyes, the purest white hair he's ever seen, and she sticks close to the male. She was the first of any tribute to complete the gauntlet without a single stumble and she's adept in using a blowgun.

By the second day, those two seem to have forged an alliance with the male from District 12, and Nathaniel is as irritated by that one as he is cautious. He's an ornery hothead with charcoal eyes and the attitude of a mule, who has proved himself proficiently lethal with a sword. That cocky smirk of his is the bane of Nathaniel's existence and as soon as the game starts, he hopes he'll get to be the one to slash it off his face.

The female from District 12 Nathaniel knows by name, Debrah. On the third day she seeks an alliance with him in a very vulgar manner, putting her hands on his shoulders and leaning in until her amble breasts are pushing into his chest.

"How about we partner up, Ten? We're both knife people," she purrs in a voice that could've made his pants tighter if the time and place were right. "Us knife people have to stick together."

He's seen her throw knives and she is talented, but Nathaniel knows a serpent in the grass when he sees one and outright refuses her. Sure, alliances aren't expected to last, but she's the type that would turn on him the very first night. He doesn't need that. He doesn't need anybody at all, really. Debrah skulks away and later Nathaniel sees she's found an ally in the azure-haired girl from District 7, the one Nathaniel had first thought was a boy.

The female from District 7 uses a bow and arrow and seems menacing with it, but Nathaniel can't tell how big of a threat she really is, because she only shows off the skill once. The rest of the time she sticks to the hammock-making station.

Those tributes are the notable hazards. But then there's the opposite end of the spectrum, the ones Nathaniel pities because they are the farthest thing from threatening enough to warrant being here. The little platinum blonde girl from District 3, with thin arms and silver eyes that cry because she's scared and she can't be any more than thirteen years old. Or the albino boy from District 9 who likes rabbits and shies away from the snare station and can't be any older than the blonde girl.

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Six days passes in the blink of an eye. The games are tomorrow, and Nathaniel's in line for his interview with François-Xavier de Montherlant and an odd mix of anticipation and annoyance is bubbling in his gut. His stylist, an amiable older gentleman by the name of Louis, has him suited up in a starchy kitsch papaya and goldenrod suit that smells like salt and soap. His hair has been cut and groomed neatly and they've whitened his teeth with something that tasted like onions bathed in cyanide.

Li is also dressed in goldenrod and papaya, a collared, sleeveless gown that flares out above her knees and shimmers under the light. Her jet-black tresses have been crimped and tossed over her shoulder. She's being interviewed by François-Xavier right now and Nathaniel watches with nominal interest, noting that the only reason she isn't making a total fool of herself is that he makes everything she says sound great with his witty responses.

Then her three minutes run out and it's Nathaniel's turn. He swaggers onto the stage with the easy gait he's been told appeals to potential sponsors and smiles his impossible smile with all the buoyancy he can summon and receives François-Xavier's own genial smile and gracious welcome with an exaggerated toss of the head. He takes a seat with a fluid, comfortable movement and sinks back into the cushy chair, trying not to mind as his face is plastered on every screen and the Capitol audience obnoxiously squawks their excitement.

"You look stunning, Mr. Nathaniel! Tell us, do you feel stunning?" François-Xavier's smile is as sparkly as the stage lights, and then Nathaniel realize's it isn't just the smile, the interviewer himself is practically glittering from his curly blonde locks, to the absurd number of expensive rings on his fingers, to his polished diamond shoes.

"I feel stunning all right," Nathaniel chuckles giddily. He overdoes it the rest of the interview because Capitol people love gushing and overdoing things and he wants sponsors. It's easy to overdo, anyway, because he is genuinely elated and he has something to gush over; his score. In his private training session, he scored a 10/12 and that's something to be pretty damn proud of.

When he's done he watches the rest of the interviews. He learns every other tribute's name (though he's likely to forget them later) and gets a further feel of their various approaches to the game. He doesn't really learn anything important, but when it's the male for District 12's turn, he notices something different. The bastard's hair is dyed red.

Pfft. Suits his personality. Probably isn't very good for camouflage though.

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As it turns out the next day, Nathaniel's wrong. Brilliant scarlet is just fine for camouflage, because the arena is a tropical one. Bright reds, blues, yellows, oranges, and pinks dot all along the lush green. Flowers nearly as tall as trees are home to candy-colored insects and birds the size of dogs and the air is warm and humid as the clouds drift on lazily above them. Nathaniel thinks he can hear the soothing rush of a waterfall somewhere, but the overpowering voice that announces the countdown is still booming, so he can't be sure.

"Ten, nine, eight, seven, six..."

Nathaniel's muscles twitch with anticipation. His golden depths zero in the cornucopia. He doesn't have anything to lose, so he's going to go for it.

"Three, two, one."

He bolts straight for the mouth of the cornucopia, heart as free as it's ever been and energy scorching his veins. The death of the male from District 3 at the mercy of the spear possessed by the male from District 4 sets off the first canon and marks the start of the bloodbath. Nathaniel snatches a green backpack up from the ground and keeps sprinting towards the glinting silver knives that call to him from their placement against the metal wall.

He almost makes it when he's tackled from behind. Grunting, he rolls over and tries to dislodge his attacker, the backpack lost in the tumble. Hands curl around his throat from behind and squeeze off his air intake, pointed fingernails poking into his flesh. He violently tosses himself backwards and smashes the person against the ground, drawing a high-pitched yelp of frustration and surprise. Their grip slackens and he pries it off, rapidly rolling back over again.

He springs to a stand and discovers with some shock that it was Li. She's already on her feet again, and Nathaniel could kill her he thinks; snap her neck with his bare hands, but he's running out of time so he merely sweeps her feet out from under her with a sloppy kick, grabs the pack, and hurries towards the blades. Cannon blasts are erupting the atmosphere mercilessly, but Nathaniel is right there.

He grabs a sleek, keen pair of daggers from the rack and wheels around, eyes peeled for one of those thick, serrated hunting knives he adores, when he spots a weapon he adores even more. It's in the hands of the female from District 1 (Laeti, he knows her name is), a spiked flail nearly the size of his head. She's burying it in the back of the silver-haired guy (he learned his name too, Lysander) who said he wouldn't kill. There's a wretched crunch as the flail breaks his spine and then the wet rip of tearing meat as she pulls it out of him and crimson jets fourth. Nathaniel's already pelting over.

She pulls it back again, blood flying from the spikes. She's about to swing it into the mesmerizing amber eyes of the District 8 female (Rosalya, right?), but Nathaniel stabs her first. He plunges a dagger into the nape of her neck and her cry of victory turns into gurgled gibberish. He yanks out the blade and she falls writhing to the grass, the District 8 female making a run for it with that irksome District 12 guy (what kind of a stupid name is Castiel, anyway?). He pries the flail from her limp fingers as more cannon fire cracks in the sky.

The male from District 6 has climbed atop the cornucopia and is using it as perch. He's got a slingshot and one of the rocks misses Nathaniel's head by mere centimeters. It's time to take off. Awkwardly holding the twin daggers in one hand and the flail in the other, Nathaniel stands and pelts toward the trees. So he doesn't exactly know how to use a flail, that's alright. It's just too cool of a weapon to pass up, and he'll figure it out. The District 1 girl was using it like a club, really. Thinking of the District 1 girl, he realizes that he's made his first kill. It's not really a big deal, like he told himself it wouldn't be, he was ready for this.

He's human. At the core of their nature, humans are killers.

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Half of them survive the bloodbath. Nathaniel manages to get to the forest without seeing any more action.

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The forest is alive with birdsong and ape calls and yes, rushing water somewhere. It's faint, but it's there. Nathaniel will have to find it eventually, but now is the time to see what he managed to snag. He plops down on a patch of lush grass as thick and plush as the carpet of his room in the Training Center and shrugs the backpack off his shoulders. He unzips it and empties it out on the ground, pawing through the contents curiously.

It was actually a pretty good pick. There's a lightweight sleeping bag, an empty canteen, a belt, and a small bottle of iodine. Nathaniel puts the items back in along with one dagger and slides it back onto his shoulders before carrying on again. Finding shelter and water are priorities, with food as a secondary priority. He wonders if he could eat any of the plants or insects here. So far, he's leaning toward no. He hasn't recognized any of the edible plants he studied and most of the ones he sees are flamboyantly colored, along with the insects and lizards and frogs.

Aside from the fact that he wouldn't be exceptionally keen on eating insects, lizards, and/or frogs, Nathaniel knows that when they're splashed in hues of electric blue, lemon yellow, or neon purple they're generally of the poisonous variety. Not to mention, their abnormal sizes. The spiders he passes crawling on vines or spinning their webs between branches are ranging from the size of his hand to the size of a cat. They've got to be bred by the Capitol. Same with the millepedes the size of his leg.

The vegetation and all of its unusual inhabitants are both very beautiful and very strange and Nathaniel can't help being awed. If he's going to die, then he's glad he'll do it in a place like this. He's sure he'll have something fantastically odd to gaze at while his life slips away and darkness steals his breaths.

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Nathaniel doesn't sleep until he finds the waterfall. Partly because he wants to guarantee a possibility to survive, partly because the more he listens to it, the thirstier he gets, partly because he's concerned about getting eaten alive in his sleep by one of those gargantuan insects, but mostly because he's just too wired to sleep. Even when the false moon is beaming down from its peak in the phony sky, every fiber of him is buzzing with vigor. The cannon goes off another two times before he finds it. First, when he only just thinks the rushing is getting louder, it signals the demise of the male from District 11.

The second time it goes off, Nathaniel knows he's almost reached it because the rushing is powerful, the face of the female from District 5 interrupts the illusion of stars. Minutes later he's found his destination. (Un)Moonlit liquid cascades down the dip in the land and crashes on the rocks below, a pool plenty big enough to swim in at the bottom. Nathaniel crouches at the edge of the pool, peering skeptically into the ripples. It almost seems too good to be true that water's just out in the open like that. He suspects it could be poisoned or acidic.

To test the latter, Nathaniel puts down his weapons and picks up a stick, lowering it into the water. Nothing happens. Okay, so it's not acidic, but it could be— His scalp stings as hands forcefully grasp his hair and force his head beneath the water. In that split second Nathaniel realizes that's what the catch is; the water is fine, but the perpetual crashing against the rock is so loud it deafens one to everything else. He's coughing, choking, jolting at the cold. There is an endless abyss before his eyes and he's struggling, twisting around and fighting back, but there's another hand pushing his neck down too now, keeping his head submerged.

He's already taken in a lungful of water and bright white pinpoints are dotting the abyss as his vision begins to go. But Nathaniel doesn't give up just yet. He acts like he does. He stops thrashing, he goes slack. Believing him to be dead, his attacker lets go. The very second the grip disappears, he presses his palms to the bank and heaves himself up, gasping and sputtering for oxygen. The other tribute curses and kicks him right in the ribs, probably aiming to kick him back into the water. Nathaniel rolls with a gruff sound of pain and jerks himself up to his knees.

Nathaniel recognizes the District 7 male (Jade, wasn't it?) in the same instant he realizes the guy's picked up his flail. Shit. The hefty, barbed end is sailing for his face and he reflexively drops to the earth. It's quite literally just in time that he hits the ground, because the back of his head is burning and warm wetness trickles down, he's been grazed and there's barely time to move, but he does, he scrambles up to his feet and runs.

The District 7 male pursues him, breaths coming out in rapid puffs, the flail's chain clanging and promising his demise. He tries to hit Nathaniel a couple of times in the chase, but it's a heavy weapon, it takes strength to use and it slows him down and Nathaniel just keeps running. Damn it! He should've gone the opposite way and taken the dagger, because he can only run for so long, there's only so many places to run to, and the tribute is right behind him with that massacre of a weapon.

He falls. There is a hill of all things, a sloping drop off and it's so dark and he's barely looking where he's going anyway, he's just going, and he trips. He goes tumbling down head over heels, airborne here and there for periods of milliseconds, bouncing against the ground in the snippets in between. His head is spinning and actions are swirling into thoughts, except it all happens so quickly that there isn't even room for thoughts. He hits the bottom in a heap, in a daze, breath knocked away and bruises blooming.

(he's used to bruises)

It's a grotesque, animalistic noise that's long and haggard like a groan, but twisted and shrill like a scream that breaks Nathaniel out of his disoriented stupor. He lifts his head and blinks blearily, turning toward the source of the horrible sound as it starts up again. The District 7 boy. He's laying just a few meters from Nathaniel, having apparently pursued him all the way down the hill. Nathaniel sits and gazes closely, struggling to figure out what's wrong in the dark. After listening to the third awful bleat and coming to the conclusion that District 7 isn't going to get up, Nathaniel stands and walks over.

The male's thigh is a gory mess. However it happened in the fall, whether he rolled on it or it just bounced back or otherwise, the flail is now embedded in his leg. It looks like the center of a rose, the ragged flesh and muscle upsurged around it serving as misshapen petals. Blood overflows from the center and glistens black in the night. As his fourth volume of pure pain dies down, he notices Nathaniel has come over to inspect the situation and stiffens.

"Please...just...leave me alone."

Nathaniel tilts his head, heart clenching in his chest. Despite the fact that this person was just trying to kill him, he's never seen suffering like this, or heard a plea so shattered and desperate. He wouldn't wish the fate on anyone. Nonetheless, he isn't here to pity damaged actualities or carry out pathetic last requests.

"Sorry, but I'm going to need that back." He takes the handle and tears the flail out of his leg with a firm jerk. The sound the tribute makes when he does so is almost loud enough to silence the rip as what remains of his thigh is shredded, and it's worse than all of his prior groan/screams combined. It echoes through the trees and Nathaniel's sure his ears are bleeding and that everyone back in District 10 can hear it.

Nathaniel cuts it off by doing the most merciful thing he can, bludgeoning the tribute in the head. Blood and chips of skull and slick lumps of brain fly up and splatter him. It's a little gross, but he knows he'll get to wash it off soon anyway. He lumbers back up the hill as the cannon confirms his second kill and Male District 7's (Jade's) face flashes on the (un)sky. He finds that his backpack and dagger are where he left them, fills his canteen, and then travels a little ways until he's comfortable that the waterfall isn't making him deaf.

Then, he sleeps.

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He's awakened when the cannon booms again. He groggily glances to the picture above and notes that it's Li's. Truth be told, he feels something about this. What that feeling is, he doesn't know. It probably doesn't have a title. He goes back to sleep.

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When Nathaniel wakes up again, the imitation sun is showering the arena in light and he stays awake. He's sore everywhere and when he touches the back of his head where the flail nicked him its tender enough to wince at and his fingertips skim crusted blood. But it seems the wounds have already closed, so they must be superficial. He isn't worried. Just hungry.

Where to find food? He's not sure. There could be fish in the water, though he has no net or hook. The birds flying around probably aren't poisonous, but he's not sure if he could kill one. he could throw a dagger at one, maybe, but he'd honed his skills in slashing and stabbing, not throwing. Heh. Perhaps he should've allied with Debrah when he had the chance. His odds with her might've been better than he initially assumed, as the female from District 7 hadn't met her end yet.

Nathaniel surreptitiously searches around for hours, growing exhausted as the daylight fades into evening. He doesn't come across anymore tributes, though he does have to smash a large, hissing lizard with the flail. He thinks about eating it, but it's a vibrant lime-green with frosting-pink stripes that just shout "venomous" at him. Eventually, when there's only just enough light left in the sky to see, he finds a tree with edible fruit. He forgets what it's called, but they look like pears. They taste like apples drenched in raspberry syrup.

Somewhere too close for comfort there's a guttural roar and a cannon splinters the tranquility Nathaniel's found. Another follows and then the faces of the male and female from Distract 2 are projected into the dying (un)sun. That means there's only six of them left. He's starting to think he could actually win this. Musing over this and reminding himself to be wary, he fills the remaining space in his backpack with fruit and moves on until he can't move anymore. Luckily for him, the night is as uneventful as the day.

.

The next day is not nearly so uneventful. Nathaniel loses his flail again, except this time it's not another tribute he loses it to and this time he doesn't get it back. He awakens to a centipede nearly as long as he is tall crawling over his sleeping bag and clicking its pinchers together. It's the color of blood and the sensation of it as it crawls over him is one of the most disgusting feelings Nathaniel has ever known, and his breath hitches in his throat. It takes ten seconds tops for the thing to make its way over him, but it feels like an eternity before its back on the grass.

It goes about its own way, but Nathaniel is so revolted that he knows he can't go back to sleep. He unzips the bag and wiggles out of it, skin itching. Even if the centipede didn't really touch him, it feels like it did. Repulsive. Is it strange that he'd rather have the feeling of a dead tribute's blood on his hands than the feeling of a bug on his legs? No, Nathaniel realizes, it's not strange.

It's probably sad on some level, but not strange at all. It's natural.

His canteen is empty, so he decides to head back to the water. He finishes another fruit, tosses the sleeping bag in the backpack and sets out with a dagger in one hand and the flail in the other. On the way, he reevaluates his situation. There's six of them left. The male from District 1, the female from District 7, the female from District 8, both tributes from District 12, and himself. He's not sure how close they are, but he's considering going on the offensive and hunting them out.

He already has two kills, why not rack up more? Go out with a bang, if he goes out at all, or win with a flair for the macabre? He'd especially like to brutalize that annoying, egocentric prick from District 12. Even if he doesn't kill anyone else, he hopes he'll get to face off with that one. But perhaps he's putting too much faith in himself. After all, the other five tributes have survived this long for a reason. They're formidable. Maybe he should just appreciate the good fortunate (ha, for the first time in his life, he's actually lucky; when he's a tool of entertainment for the wealthy and a pawn for the government, he's actually lucky) in finding food and water and wait out the rest of the carnage, like Faraize did.

Contemplation is broken not by the sight of the waterfall, but by the enormous beast of an animal that prowls the bank. It's a muscular black feline with rippling haunches and maxillary canine fangs just as long and deadly as the dagger in his hand. On all fours, its head must come up to Nathaniel's shoulder at least. He's as amazed by it as he is unnerved. This is probably the creature that killed the District 2 tributes the night before, and with that thought in mind, Nathaniel begins creeping backward as quietly as possible.

Not quietly enough.

The animal swivels around and its slitted, sunset eyes lock onto Nathaniel. The roar it lets out as it charges is identical to the one he heard the night before, and Nathaniel's veins pump ice in the same moment he realizes he can't run. Well, he could run, but he can't outrun, so he doesn't try. It tackles him to the ground, one set of claws hooking into his shoulder and the other massive paw pinning him by the chest. Blinding hot agony sears as the claws split his skin and a choked, near-mute decibel of pain is pulled from his lips.

Those colossal jaws part, saliva oozing down and Nathaniel knows it's going to devour him. He's met his end here, but he struggles feebly out of innate self-preservation. He wrenches up the flail and buries the spiked bulb in the predator's cheek. It rears back and hops off of Nathaniel, screeching wildly as it paws at its face in an attempt to remove the weapon. Failing to do so and still yowling, it takes off into the trees, a black streak of lightning. The flail is still poking out of its face like an overgrown metal burr.

Though the encounter was miraculously brief, Nathaniel's favorite weapon is now gone and his blood is seeping freely from his damaged shoulder. He tries to sit, succumbs to pain and fails, then tries again and succeeds. Craning his neck, he can see the beginning of the quartet of yawning furrows, but not the extent. Not good. Not fatal as of yet, but not...Not good. Lowering the backpack from his shoulders is excruciating, but he bears it through gritted teeth. He gets out the iodine, awkwardly unscrews the cap and dumps a slight, scarcely-efficient amount onto the wounds.

Getting back up is hell, but at least he can get back up.

.

After the incident with the cat beast, Nathaniel revokes the plan of hunting anyone else. Not now, he's hurt now and short a weapon. Instead, he refills his canteen and starts back to the fruit tree. He's going to lay low, stick to the basics of survival. He learned a little about medicinal plants back in the training stations. If he could find some now, well, that would improve his predicament.

Nathaniel goes searching, branching out to the stretch of forest south of his fruit tree. He doesn't find what he's looking for, but he does find something most peculiar. A bud on a vine, blooming before his very eyes. Nathaniel simply has to pause and watch. It's impossible to look away. Soft purple petals as long as his fingers and thick as his wrist delicately unfurl before him. The designs on the inner flower are surprisingly intricate, violet bleeding into tangerine squiggles.

The center of the flower itself is unusual, a poof of cotton. Nathaniel wonders why, subtly captivated by such a thing. He almost touches it, when further motion from the plant deters him. It sways ever-so-slightly, and then three thin needles shoot right out of the cotton middle and strike him in the throat. Nathaniel gasps and rips them out, cursing his own stupidity. He isn't bleeding, not really, but there's not a doubt in his mind that he's being poisoned.

He glares at the quills and then tosses them away, still mentally damning himself for being such an idiot. He only makes it another ten meters or so before he collapses, limbs totally numb and vision swirling into darkness. It's funny in a way. He's come so far, and a fucking flower is what he's going to lose to. Oh well. He hadn't volunteered expecting to win anyway.

It just would've been a nice perk. A bonus, if you will.

.

Nathaniel's vaguely aware of calloused hands cupping his cheeks and another pair of lips parting his own, a foreign tongue pushing a minute wet bundle of something that feels like velvet leaves and tastes like a sour turnip into his mouth.

"Swallow it," somebody tells him impatiently as the hands release his face and the lips are removed. "Unless you wanna die."

The voice is familiar, he thinks. It's hard to be sure and his eyes refuse to open. Either way, Nathaniel supposes death is inevitable. He swallows.

.

It's more humid than before. The change is only just perceptible and it's the first thing Nathaniel notices upon waking up. The next thing he notices is that he's waking up, and he's just baffled because he's supposed to be dead. The flower killed him. Unless this is Heaven? Why is Heaven so humid? Maybe he's in Hell? He bolts upright, eyes wide as he whips his head around, searching his surroundings.

"You," he exclaims, orbs narrowing on the District 12 male, who leans casually against a mossy rock. Nathaniel is not in any afterlife, he's still in the arena, and he scrambles to grab a dagger, except—

"Looking for these?" Castiel uncrosses his arms and reveals a dagger in each hand, waving them tauntingly with an infuriating smirk playing at his lips. Nathaniel also sees that he confiscated his backpack and a bloodstained sword lays on the grass beside him.

"Shit," Nathaniel spits. And then just how bizarre this situation is dawns on him. This bastard hasn't killed him yet. He was unconscious and injured, helpless as could be, just waiting to be slaughtered, and yet this guy just sat around and watched him? Waiting to be slaughtered provided the flower didn't take him out first, of course. It was supposed to. "Did you save my life?" he asks, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

"Yeah," Castiel replies, smirk fading and replaced with wistfulness.

"Why?" To think this was the one Nathaniel wanted to mutilate the most. What a twist.

"Because," he sighs and swallows, breaking off. "Because you killed the bitch that got Lysander and you bought Rosa some more time. Rosa's actually the one who said we should look for you..."

"I just wanted the flail," Nathaniel states flatly. "I didn't mean to avenge or protect anyone."

"I know that," grunts Castiel. "But you still did."

"You said I bought Eight time. She's dead now then?" He wonders how many deaths he missed while he was out.

"Yeah...The remaining Career killed her. That Dimitry guy." Castiel puts the daggers down and rests his elbows on his knees, propping his chin in his hands. "That guy's nuts, you know. It's like he thinks he's a vampire. He's hunts other tributes at night and bites their throats open, then starts sucking their blood." He shakes his head, mouth in a line that seems genuinely sad. "I couldn't reach her fast enough. The guy's a monster."

"We're all monsters," Nathaniel deadpans. It's true, they are all monsters. Some of them are just more outwardly savage than others.

Castiel makes a noncommittal noise in his throat that sounds like agreement. "So, do you wanna be allies or not?"

Does Nathaniel really have a choice in the matter? Castiel has all the weapons, if he says no, he's going to kill him. But then, of course, death is still a choice. "It depends," Nathaniel finds himself mumbling begrudgingly. "How many of us are left?"

"Five. You, me, Vampire Wannabe, Debrah, and the boy from District 7."

"I killed the boy from District 7," is Nathaniel's reply.

"Eh? Then who's the blue-haired guy?"

"It's a girl. She's the girl from District 7. Weren't you paying attention to anything at all back in the Training Center?"

"Damn. What a breadboard." He gives Nathaniel a tepid glower. "I was paying attention to my own training, I didn't have time to study everyone else. Anyway, quit beating around the bush. Are you with me or not?"

"We'll turn on each other when we're the last two?" Nathaniel raises a brow for clarification.

"That's the plan."

"Alright, we're allies." As aggravating as Castiel is, Nathaniel trusts that he'll keep his word on that. After all, he already had the perfect opportunity to kill him and saved him instead. Maybe that's why Nathaniel decides he'll stick to that agreement too.

.

It's an hour or two later, when they're stocking up on edible berries, that Nathaniel notices his shoulder's healed. The gaping gashes left by the beast are now shallow scratches no wider than his pinky and they're completely closed. He asks Castiel about this.

"Had some cream left from a sponsor," he mutters with a shrug. "Used it on you."

"You have sponsors?" Nathaniel gawks at him, bewildered. "There are actually people who buy things for you? With your attitude?"

"You mean my charm?" Castiel grins at him gloatingly and Nathaniel throws a berry in his face.

The cheeky bastard has the nerve to catch it in his mouth. They don't go tribute hunting that day and they don't make strategies to do so. They're just testing the waters of their forged companionship and being lazy. At one point there's one of those luminous yellow spiders sliding down on a strand of its glinting silk quite close to Castiel's head. He's oblivious and Nathaniel kills it by stabbing it into the trunk of a tree that oozes bubblegum sap.

He supposes he's practicing for when it'll count. But he's also aware that he's being defensive. He'll protect the cheeky bastard until it's time to kill the cheeky bastard, and vice-versa. That's just how it's going to work now. They make conversation as the daylight drains out, casual, unimportant conversation. About their respective districts, about home.

Nathaniel doesn't like talking about home, but he offers up neutral details and meaningless facts.

"I heard you volunteered," Castiel says at one point. "How come?"

Nathaniel hates him, he thinks. And though there are many different things he could say; possibly even noble things, like saying he did it to make sure a younger tribute wouldn't be selected, he's actually honest. "I don't have anything to lose."

Castiel looks at him for a long moment and then says, "I do."

"I'm sure." Nathaniel gives a slight nod, believing him.

When they sleep, they sleep under a rock with a lichen overhang and they tangle their limbs together, as close as they can get even though it's hot and sticky. It's so they know that if one moves the other will wake up; it effectively prevents them from betraying each other while unbeknownst. It's strange, but Nathaniel thinks he likes it in a way. He's not alone. And he's wanted to be alone for a very long time, but with Castiel it's like he isn't alone while still being alone. It doesn't make sense at all, but it's nice.

He appreciates it, even though he knows it's not going to last.

.

They share breakfast the next day, more fruits and exotic nuts. It's during that time that the cannon marks the demise of another tribute, and the District 7 (Marcese, was it? Something weird like that) female's face cuts through the picturesque fluffy clouds. It's gone in a moment and Nathaniel resumes eating. There's just four of them left. He supposes he could win. He's going to try.

"I think Debrah offed her," Castiel mumbles thoughtfully.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. It's too early for the vampire wannabe to be killing."

"It could've been something else," Nathaniel remarks, thinking of the enormous feline creature and the deadly flower with the cotton center.

"Maybe. Anyway, I know where they were staying." He looks at Nathaniel levelly, intention darkening his gaze.

"You want to go kill Debrah?" He asks the pointless question simply to confirm.

"Yup. I thought about it before, but her friend was always slinking around in the tree with the bow. It didn't seem like a smart move."

"Debrah could have the bow now. She's a long range fighter anyway."

"You're forgetting something," Castiel points out. "I know Debrah, personally. I'm thinking I'll lure her in, weaponless, offering an alliance. While I'm distracting her, you whack her."

"If you're so personal with her, why didn't you ally with her to begin with?" He's understandably suspicious.

"I tried to. I told her she could join up with me and Lysander and Rosa right off the bat. She told me she would, if I killed them the first night and stuck it out with her alone the rest of the games." He shakes his head. "I couldn't do that, and it says a lot about what she'd probably do to me."

Nathaniel nods his agreement. They make a plan. Castiel knows where exactly Debrah's site is, down to the two trees her hammock is in between. He'd also observed long enough to know her schedule. She leaves every day when the high sun marks noon to get food, leaving the District 7 girl to watch their site. Only now, of course, there is no District 7 girl. She might've changed her schedule subsequently, but assuming she hasn't, they could still make it there while she's gone.

That's it, that's the plan. They go to her site while she's out and wait until she comes back. Castiel will lower her defenses with promises of companionship and retain her attention, and Nathaniel will pop out of a hiding spot and end her, just like that. It's a rough plan, it's a poor plan. But time is running out and it's the only plan they've got and if they want to do it, they've got to hurry up. It's better to try than not to try, and with two of them and one of her, the odds seem favorable enough. Even if she is dangerous from a distance.

As they set out, Nathaniel can't help wondering if this was an ulterior motive when Castiel offered the alliance. He apparently knows Debrah personally, and now with Nathaniel, he doesn't have to kill her himself. He can just set it up. It's just a theory. If this is indeed the case, Nathaniel doesn't ask.

.

Nathaniel's not sure how long they're supposed to wait. The sun is steadily lowering and he's sure he's been ramrod behind the tree for over half an hour now. However, patience is a virtue. He's sure he's faring better than Castiel, anyway. He keeps pacing around under the hammock, picking up his sword and then dropping it again just to keep himself occupied. It's almost as amusing as it is exasperating.

When Debrah does return, she's got a full basket in one hand and a dead bird in the other. She spots Castiel and just stops, mouth dropping open and limbs rigid. Nathaniel thinks she's going to run, but Castiel drops his sword again and steps away from it, empty hands over his head.

"Calm down, Deb," he calls. "I'm not here to hurt you." And he sounds so earnest that Nathaniel wants to laugh. But with semantics aside, it's true. Castiel isn't here to hurt Debrah, he's here to let Nathaniel murder her.

"What do you want?" She takes a few daring steps closer, still poised as if to pelt away any second.

"For us to stick it out to the end, together." He saunters even further away from the sword as though trying to assure her.

"No," she replies immediately. "It's getting too close, there's only four of us left. I just killed Marce because of that, I don't need your threat."

"Debrah, it's me," Castiel implores and Nathaniel knows nothing of their history, but supposes it must mean something. "You know me! I care about you! I'm not going to hurt you! Not now, not even when it's just the two of us left. I can't! I thought I could, but I've been thinking and I know I couldn't bring myself to do it, alright?" If he didn't sound so brutally impatient, Nathaniel would think he's too dramatic, unconvincing.

"You'd let me win?" she stammers in hopeful disbelief. "Really?"

"Yes." He's urgent about it, but it's hollow even to Nathaniel's ears.

"Oh, Kitten!" Apparently Debrah isn't as intelligent as Nathaniel had originally given her credit for. She bounds over to Castiel enthusiastically, eyes lighting up like a giddy schoolgirl's. She springs from the ground and hugs him, dropping her basket and bird to take him in her animated embrace. Her back is right to Nathaniel and that's when he makes his move. He darts out from behind the tree and snaps over in the breath of a moment.

She's just turning her gaze to the sound when he grabs her by the hair and yanks her head back. She lets out a strangled yelp, eyes widening to moons and reflecting the very glint of the fake sun on his blade. He unzips her throat with a rehearsed slash and liquid ruby spews fourth generously. He releases her hair and lets her pitch to the grass. Her hands twitch toward the mess of a once beautiful neck, but it's too critical. Her unique eyes are already clouding over and that last soft, plash of a sound bubbles from her bloody mouth.

A cannon announces her life's end and Nathaniel simply wheels around, headed back toward their own site. "Let's get out of here. We should hit the waterfall again, the canteen's empty."

"Nathaniel." And it's in Castiel's voice, but Nathaniel doesn't exactly register what it is until he looks back and sees the handle of a knife sticking out of the redhead's chest.

.

Initially Nathaniel thinks she's gotten him right in the heart, because it's so precisely there. But he doesn't keel over, so it can't be that deep. Nathaniel's at his side in an instant, but Castiel flinches back, hands swooping towards the handle and shielding it. He undoubtably thinks that Nathaniel's going to twist it in the rest of the way, forsake their deal and take him out now while he's got an unexpected advantage. Logically that is what exactly Nathaniel should do, but he doesn't.

"Relax! It's not just us yet, there's still Dimitry. Let me look..."

Castiel's gone as white as the cotton in the middle of the deadly flower, but he somehow stays on his feet and lets his hands drop. "She ripped it out of the bird before she hugged me," he mutters faintly.

A deep crimson circle is growing broader far too quickly for Nathaniel to be comfortable with, but he has no idea what to do. Pulling it out might make it worse, but leaving it in doesn't seem to be doing any good either, and it just keeps bleeding and, "I have some iodine left," is all Nathaniel finds he can say.

"I know. I went through your stuff." With that, Castiel tugs the knife out himself and tosses it aside. His legs buckle and Nathaniel catches him, easing him back onto the grass with unsteady fingers. More blood spurts, stain growing and crimson streaming between the cracks in Castiel's fingers. Nathaniel puts his own hands overtop and presses down, applying pressure as hard as he can and wondering in the back of his mind somewhere why he bothers. He should let the other expire, if not outright slay him while he's down.

He trying to pay back the debt he owes, possibly (probably).

"Fuck," Castiel croaks, mouth twisting in a grimace.

"Don't talk," Nathaniel responds. He doesn't feel like listening to any complaints, and it finally seems like Castiel's lost all the blood he's going to lose and the rest has chosen to remain inside. His removes his palms and wipes the slick stains off on his pants.

"Don't tell me what to do."

"Move your hands." When Castiel gives him a sulky glare instead of obeying, Nathaniel shifts them out of the way himself and uses the hole already there to tear open the redhead's shirt. The open crevice in his flesh is only about three or four centimeters long, but Nathaniel isn't sure exactly how deep it is. He gets the iodine out of the backpack and pours about a third of what's left in the bottle over it. And then...Well, he should probably dress it, but he doesn't exactly have anything cleanly, so...He sighs and puts the bottle of iodine back in the backpack. He's done all he knows how to do.

"That shit stings," Castiel grumbles irritably.

"Don't complain, be grateful."

"Grateful?" scoffs Castiel. "Pfft. If it wasn't for me, you wouldn't even be alive. I never heard a 'thank you,' so don't lecture me about gratitude."

Nathaniel acknowledges this with the expression of someone who has bitten into an unripe lemon and sighs through his nose. "Do you think you can get up?"

"I know I can. I just don't want to." He closes his eyes and the sweat that beads his face is as good an indication of any that he's in some serious pain.

"Alright," Nathaniel murmurs. He shifts around and lays Castiel's head in his lap.

He'll stay for awhile, he thinks. At least until he comes up with something else to do.

.

"What are you thinking about?" Nathaniel asks at one point. It's been hours, its late evening and they still haven't moved. Castiel's been going from semiconscious to alert for awhile now, and Nathaniel doesn't really know how to respond to that. He'll just remain his pillow for as long as he sees fit, he supposes. Probably not much longer. He's thirsty and his legs are cramped.

"My friend," he mumbles.

"Debrah?"

"Nah, Lysander. Good guy. He meant it when he said he wasn't going to kill anybody." Castiel looks up at him somberly, a gleam in his eye that Nathaniel can't decipher.

"Even if he meant it when he said it, he would've changed his mind." Nathaniel looks away and runs a hand through his hair. "I used to be a kind of gentleman myself. I wouldn't think of hurting a girl. But when you're in here, it doesn't matter who's coming after you. They're coming after you. You're going to fight back, whatever your moral policies are."

"You think so?"

"I do."

"He liked writing poetry," Castiel replies, disregarding any opinion he may have on the subject.

"That's nice," Nathaniel murmurs. "Have you ever written poetry?"

"Nah, but I think I just came up with a pretty good one." His cracked lips split into a crooked grin.

"Let's hear it," Nathaniel humors him.

"That man-eating flower is blue," Castiel indicated a large, star-shaped flower thankfully a good distance from them, "my hair is red. At the end of this game, you're gonna be dead."

Nathaniel snorts aloud, far more entertained than intimidated. "Well then I've got one, literary genius. That man-eating flower is blue, your blood is red. When the last cannon goes off, you're the one who'll be dead."

And it's ridiculous, it's all ridiculous, everything they are is ridiculous, but they start laughing. It's jaded and its gruff, but it's still laugher and they laugh so hard that Castiel's wound starts bleeding again and it looks like it tortures something terrible, but he still doesn't stop. They end up staying there all night, right out in the open. It's a wonder Dimitry doesn't find them.

.

"We're almost there," Nathaniel tells him, slowing his stride to keep in step with Castiel. They started back for their site at the crack of dawn, and probably would've been there by now if he wasn't lagging. But it's not as though Nathaniel can blame him. There's a gaping hole in his chest that throbs with every footstep and bleeds every so often, then stops, bleeds, stops, bleeds, stops. At one point Nathaniel offers it the last of the iodine, but how long that's going to ward off inevitable infection isn't certain.

"Stop antagonizing me," Castiel snaps back and gives him a look that would kill him if looks could, as the saying goes.

"You can lean on me if you want."

"I'd rather feed myself to the blue flower," he hisses through gritted teeth.

They basically recycle the same conversation in varying words until they reach their site. Castiel allows himself to collapse and Nathaniel heads off to the waterfall to fill the canteen, borrowing his sword as well as taking a dagger, in case he meets something like the cat beast again, or else Dimitry. Thankfully for him, he doesn't encounter either and the walk back goes as smoothly as the walk there. The Capitol must be getting bored, he thinks, unless Dimitry is doing something interesting. Wherever he may be.

"Here." He ungraciously pushes the canteen into Castiel's grasp, offering him the first drink. He's as pallid as ever, and Nathaniel knows the trek back took its toll. He feels a little sympathy, he supposes. He owes Castiel that, really.

He grunts in acknowledgement and obnoxiously guzzles down what must be half the water before screwing the cap back on. Nathaniel offers up his lap again and the District 12 tribute plops his head in it accordingly, seeming to prefer it to the carpet of grass.

"It'd be nice if your sponsors sent you more of that cream," Nathaniel comments offhandedly.

"They probably don't like me anymore now that I'm hanging around with your lame ass."

Nathaniel flicks him in the head, but now that he's brought it up, the idea of help from sponsors sticks with him. Is there something he could do to get it? Nathaniel racks his brain, recalling everything Faraize ever told him about the Captiol. They love drama. They love gushing. They love theatrics. Extremes, really. They're extreme, emotional people...Emotional. He recalls the Captiol television he viewed at night in his room in the Training Center. Something clicks.

"Gay" is an alien word that's barley in Nathaniel's vocabulary. He remembers his mother explaining that it was when two boys or two girls got together, and that it was something bad; unnatural. They couldn't make children, after all. In District 10, there were no gay people. People worked, and they reproduced so that those children would work too, if they weren't sacrificed to the games first. There wasn't room for gayness. But it was different in the Capitol, Nathaniel saw.

In the Capitol, they embraced the unnatural. They reshaped their faces with special plastic, got their skin infused with jewels or dyed in shades of rainbow vomit. They wore wigs that looked more like the exotic flower that nearly killed him, and being gay was a trend to them, really. Two boys kissing or two girls touching each other had been a common occurrence when Nathaniel flitted through their channels, earning viewers instead of disapproval. They subsumed gayness just like they subsumed any other unnatural thing.

Thinking about it gives Nathaniel an idea. He whispers it quietly into the shell of Castiel's ear. When he raises himself again, Castiel simply looks at him for a moment and then nods.

"I feel the same way," he murmurs and winks so fast that the cameras watching must think it was a twitch. He reaches up and laces his fingers through Nathaniel's hair and then tugs his head down until their lips are touching. It's an awkward kiss, with them both being in opposite positions and them both being guys. Nathaniel's sure his parents are appalled if they're still watching. But it's still a kiss.

Nathaniel strokes Castiel's cheeks tenderly as he returns the gesture, eyes closing. He's kissed quite a few girls before. This isn't much different. A mouth is mouth, really, although Castiel's is a little harder than he's used to. But not all girls have soft lips and they all have different tastes anyway, so it isn't that abnormal. Melody tasted like dewdrops. Lynn tasted like mint. For a moment Nathaniel can't figure out what Castiel tastes like. Then he does.

Castiel tastes like death.

.

Sure enough, it works. Less than an hour after the initial display, when they're still holding hands and playing lovesick, a beeping parachute drops down from above. Nathaniel fetches it and gets out the container of medicine, skittering back under the overhang. Castiel sits up on his elbows and tilts his head, blinking at it like he doesn't quite believe their tacky charade would actually receive the reward.

Nathaniel's lips quirk briefly in a candid smile and he kneels beside him, working off the top. Castiel reaches for it, but he stops him with the shake of a head.

"I'll do it. Just lay back down." Because now that they've found a hook that works, they shouldn't drop it.

"Fine." He lowers himself to the ground again and Nathaniel scoops an ample amount of cream onto his fingertips and slathers it on the wound as gently as possible.

"There." He puts the cap back on and lays down beside him, inching close. "Problem solved."

"That wasn't the problem," Castiel breathes quietly and studies him with tired eyes.

"Yes it was." But it's not. The problem is where they are and what they're going to have to do, and the problem is also that Nathaniel is wasting time. Or maybe he isn't. He doesn't have anything to lose, after all. He's just here.

Castiel kisses him instead of replying. And Nathaniel kisses him back and kisses his eyelids and kisses his cheeks and presses their sweaty foreheads together and cups his neck and holds him because that's what works. There's nothing to work for now though, is there? Castiel seems to be in less pain and falls into an actual sleep, not one of those fitful, shallow semiconscious states. Nathaniel knows this is going to be the last night of them interlinking limbs. Whatever happens tomorrow, he just knows that it won't be this.

He's not sure how he knows, but he does.

.

They don't get to sleep through the night. Not fully, anyway. It's roughly five o'clock in the morning when the cannon goes off. They both jolt awake and tear themselves free of each other, because the cannon means Dimitry is dead (Nathaniel thinks this is no accident, the Gamemakers probably did something to ensure a lunatic who thinks he's a vampire wouldn't be the winner) and with Dimitry dead, it's only the two of them left. There can only be one victor.

Nathaniel snatches both daggers and Castiel seizes his sword; completely healed apparently, which Nathaniel laments on some level and rejoices in on another, and then they're both pointing their respective blades at the other's throat and just like that, their alliance is severed. Everything falls into motion too swift for the eyes to follow and they've just woken up. Nathaniel's at the obvious disadvantage in the weaponry department. He doesn't even have time to slice or stab, because he's blocking every single swipe of the weapon that dwarfs both his own combined.

Metal clings and clanks and bangs and scrapes for the longest time before either of them land a real blow. Ironically, it is Nathaniel. But it isn't a killing blow, it's a slash across the redhead's cheek, and right now they're aiming for killing blows and nothing less because this game is for keeps. It's right when he's swiveling back from Nathaniel's blow that he thrusts just six centimeters lower than what Nathaniel thought, and Nathaniel's attempt to block is too high. Castiel impales him to the very hilt, silver blade scissoring through his flesh and slitting through a handful of internal organs.

Nathaniel hacks out his own blood as it rushes up his throat like a geyser and he knows its over. He's dead. Pain flares beneath like a supernova and white sparks rocket across his vision and the slick, ropey sound as Castiel jerks the blade out of him is almost as sickening as Jade's screams were (he's Jade now, he's not Male District 7 anymore, because Nathaniel is dying and he's Jade now). He pitches forward to bleed out on the blanket of grass, but Castiel catches him first.

"I'm sorry, Nat," he breathes, holding him around his flooding waist.

"I know," he spits out along with more of his own lifeblood. "Just drop me."

Perhaps he's just so rattled that he'll follow any instructions he's given, perhaps he just wants to be kind and grant Nathaniel's last request, or perhaps he's simply disgusted by holding a bleeding, dying, sack of meat, but for whatever reason, he complies and lets Nathaniel go. And the moment he does, Nathaniel pulls his arm back and skewers him through the eye. There's an inexplicit, jarring noise as the dagger pierces Castiel's brain (one that Nathaniel knows would haunt the rest of his days, if he had any days left), but Castiel himself doesn't utter a sound. He dies instantly and they hit the ground at the same time.

The games won't have a victor this year. Nathaniel smirks a little at that, or, he thinks he does anyway, he can't feel his mouth anymore. His bloodied fingers weekly crawl across the grass until they brush Castiel's hand, and Nathaniel realizes that's the last thing he can feel. The cannon booms off in the distance, but it's dim to his dying ears and everything is swirling into black.

He was wrong about having something fantastically strange to look at in death. All he has to look at is Castiel's carcass.

.

When Nathaniel comes to nearly a month later, he discovers his is the victor. He's not supposed to be. He's supposed to be dead, but he is the victor because the Capitol did everything in their power to make sure that his barely viable body was salvaged. It was difficult even for them with their amazing medical technology to pump vitality back into his cold limbs and failing heart. But they did so anyway, because though he was more dead than alive, he was still the closest thing to a living tribute there was.

They simply had to have a victor. There's no such thing as a Hunger Games without a victor. If there's no victor, than the citizens are disappointed and the government and their system is put to shame. As his punishment for jeopardizing the system by killing Castiel while he was already in death's dark caress, his entire family has been executed. Nathaniel doesn't know what to think about that, really. He feels nothing about it, and he knows he shouldn't feel nothing, but he does. Not that he lets it on. Then the Capitol might slam him with another, more effective punishment.

(he tries to feel sad, he tries, but then he remembers the disdain, the beatings, and being neglected)

Nathaniel has what he wanted now. He lives alone in Victor's Village, with more money than he could ever need and more space than he knows what to do with. He meets previous victors and he's showcased as some kind of celebrity (he is a celebrity now, really, its uncomfortable, he doesn't want this spotlight), and he attends interview after interview. On the surface his opinions matter to gossipers. But it all feels...It just feels so...

(he still hears that sound, because he was wrong about not having any days left, and he still hears that sound Castiel's brain made when he drove the blade in)

Empty. Hollow. Vacant. Absent. Glossy. Imprecise. There is no reward in being a victor. He gets out with his life, but what's that? Nathaniel knows what it is, it's nothing. He volunteered because he had nothing to lose. But now that he's won, he has even less than nothing to lose.

"Does it ever go away?" he asks Faraize once, when he's out of the camera's eye for five minutes and his fabricated heart is pumping mostly-donated blood that should've spilled out of him faster and just made it too late for him to be saved.

"No," he answers. He offers Nathaniel one of his pills, which is probably a concentrated form of morphling, but quite possibly something else. "This numbs it a little."

He's already startlingly numb, that's what the problem is. But he takes it anyway, because he has nothing to lose.

Yes, yes those flowers are from Jumanji. I was watching it while I was writing XD

Edit: Gaaah. So many fucking typos in this. Ah well, serves me right for watching movies while writing. Ah well, Imma try to fix those.

Edit Edit: This has been reposted altogether because fanfiction wasn't saving my fixed typos DX