A/N Hi guys. I know I said there was another chapter but I'm going to be honest, I lost the umph in this story when Santana died. Thank you all so much for following this story; it's officially my longest and most followed on the site. Thank you for your reviews. Please enjoy this epilogue.

Disclaimer: I don't own Glee or Hunger Games.

There are six of them. Six people in the room. Katniss counts them again. Six, yes. Haymitch, Peeta, Johanna, Annie, Beetee, Enobaria. Then she realises what they all have in common. There's no Finnick. No Lyme. No...

Katniss looks straight to Haymitch. "Kurt," she says quietly.

Haymitch shakes his head. Suddenly Katniss feels awful. All that time in District Thirteen, never once sparing more than a passing thought for him.

"He was with me," Peeta tells her, "but not for long. At least, I think so."

That's it. It isn't televised. There's no grand exit. Forgotten and gone. That's it.

He runs. He runs like his life depends on it. He runs but it doesn't matter. There goes the hovercraft. Silently, in the dead of the night. He's missed it. He's too late.

In the distance he hears the night watchmen's yells. He hears the bullets. He hears them running down the corridors, closer, closer. He slides to the floor and closes his eyes but it doesn't help.

"Midnight. You're late, you're left behind."

"I never meant to see this war through. They'll come for me."

"Kurt, you have to help Peeta win. I know Haymitch won't."

"Kurt, you have to help me help Katniss."

"I'm glad it isn't you again. I can't bear the thought of losing you."

Voices. Haymitch, Cinna, Katniss, Peeta. Blaine. Blaine, finally.

Then there are pictures. Cinna's blood smears the walls. Mags is swallowed up. The bombs silently waiting in the Capitol. Santana drives a sword through her chest. Brittany's lifeless body. Blaine. Blaine, Blaine, Blaine.

"Midnight. You're late, you're left behind."

Peacekeepers drag him up. They see Haymitch's empty bed. They see him alone in a corridor at midnight. They see the traitorous stylist, the Mockingjay. They don't see him. They see Twelve. They know the perpetrators.

As he is taken he squeezes his eyelids shut and thinks with all his might. Blaine on a summers day in Twelve. Before he was a Victor. Before he was even a tribute.

"I love you," he whispers.