The Love Square

Hunger Games

Hunger Games

Chwe Vernon was sentenced to die at the age of eighteen.
He is twenty years old now. His nineteenth birthday came and went during the middle of the Games the year prior, and since then, he hadn't really felt nineteen. He hasn't felt much of anything at all, really. Some days it is as if time had halted before lurching forward in that arena, forcing him to grow older due to the sheer force of memory.
He is at the beach of District Four on a day when the bay air is salty and fresh, wind whipping his cheeks red, when Seokjin informs him of the news.
"You know, you're assigned to be a mentor this year for one of the tributes," Seokjin says, casual and calm like ocean waves beneath the pale blue sky. He is not observing Vernon at all but is instead staring off into the distant horizon. He looks vaguely reminiscent of a fashionable movie star with his wind tousled hair and gold shimmered skin. It works for him, Vernon thinks, because he kind of has earned celebrity status now that he has successfully mentored one of the Victors of the Hunger Games.
"I know," Vernon wistfully replies, attempting not to sound any more emotive than he normally would. He wishes a fish from the bottom of the ocean would nibble on the line of his fishing rod to interrupt the flow of conversation before it begins.
"Think you'll be alright as a teacher?" Seokjin adds, his charm subtracting from the situation. "I can give you some pointers, you know."
Vernon shakes his head. "You gave me all the help I could ever need last year, Seokjin."
A seagull swirling overhead squawks so raucously it rattles their bones, and Vernon jumps up, instinctively grasping for the knife strapped to his thigh. His heart rumbles in his chest, thunderous and earth shattering, and it requires the pressure of Seokjin's gentle fingertips on his leg to coerce him into remembering that it is just a seagull.
His hands do not stop trembling even as he slides them away from the weapon. When he settles back down next to Seokjin, his mentor claps him on the back and draws him closer to his body as though all the protection in the world lies in his arms rather than in the Capitol's favor.
"Don't worry. It gets easier with time, dealing with all this nonsense," Seokjin reassures him kindly. There is no danger here, he means to say.
The seagull flies away, innocent and free.
Vernon hopes Seokjin is right. He really, really does.
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A month later, the prep team plucks, waxes, and rips all the hair from Vernon's body until his skin shines with the redness of an overripe raspberry. They practically singe his bangs off with flat irons, smudge what appears to be charcoal on his eyelids, and nearly blind him applying a tube of mascara that makes his eyes burn.
He cannot say he has missed the team's overbearing manner when it comes to beauty. But the cameras will be here in less than an hour, and he has to look picture perfect, Capitol ready, so they swarm around him with the intensity of the beating sun out of love. It is not often that the prep team has anyone returning to them after the arena takes them, so it should only be natural that they be excited to make him look "as stunningly lovely as ever!" once again.
That being said, when his stylist, Jennie, spares him from his prep team's wrath by swooping in and demanding she validate that his suit will fit him perfectly at the shoulders, he exhales a sigh of relief to be able to evade their grabby hands and overly colorful taste.
"Thank god you're here," Vernon breathes out when Jennie gives him a smirk as she releases him from her hug. "Shimmer was going to put green eyeshadow on me. Like, neon fucking green. She was going to turn me into a parrot, probably. I know we're the district that has everything to do with sea life and greens and blues, but come on."
Jennie laughs good naturedly.
"Glad to be of service, my friend. Although we are going to dress you in green today, but not quite like that," she replies, beaming.
She scurries over to the trunk she lugged to Vernon's home in the Victor's Village only to pull out a gorgeous forest green suit, complete with black accents etched into the Victorian design. The color reminds him of the dark lakes in his home region. His heart swells in his chest, curled up like a cat beneath a fire.
He is so touched that she even remembers the conversation they had surrounding them nearly a year ago. Jennie had asked him if he was scared to be so far away from home for the very first time, squeezing his shoulder after he didn't eat dinner, and Vernon felt so safe with her that he briefly mentioned how the lakes were his favorite place to go to forget about everything.
Today is Reaping Day, the day where more tributes will be pulled into the Capitol's Games. He would be comforted to forget about a lot.
"Thank you for this," he breathes out in unsaid acknowledgement of her gift.
Jennie smiles knowingly as she helps him slip the suit on over a black button-down. When Vernon is fully dressed moments later, she stands proudly with her hands on her hips, admiring her work. She opens her mouth to add a comment, surely something snarky about his hair, before scouring the room for something unseen. She mouths the word cameras?, prompting him to shake his head no.
"Damn, Vernon, you look fantastic. You look like you're about to kick President Snow's ass," Jennie remarks. "Again, anyways."
"Don't quite think I'm in the mood for any ass kicking today. Drinking myself to death, maybe, but not ass kicking," he deadpans, and Jennie teasingly hits him on the arm. As beautiful as the golden tattoos painted on her knuckles are, they hurt more than they should when they grind roughly against his bicep. "Ow!"
"Take my compliment, you prick!" she exclaims.
"Alright, alright, jeez! Thank you so much, Jennie, I'll definitely kick the president's ass today if it'll make you feel better."
"Perfect!" Jennie cracks a grin. "You really do look great, though. It's nice to see you've regained some of that muscle back after your Games. You were basically a twig when you got back..."
Vernon winces slightly, thrusting the memory out of his head as best he can. He is unable to shove it away completely, though, and suddenly there is nothing but the image of his younger self piercing through his brain: ribcage poking through translucent skin stretched across bones, body riddled with wounds still bleeding scarlet, slick organs spilling out of his gaping abdomen from combat that occurred just moments before the cannon sounded to signal his victory—
He was more a ghost than a human being, truthfully. It took him this long for the color to seep back into his skin and for the scars to diminish until they became only faintly noticeable in the light.
"I've been exercising a lot, since I don't exactly need to work now that I have all this money I don't need," he says with a shrug. "It's only fair I turn back into the beefcake I once was."
Jennie scoffs.
"Beefcake," she repeats, shaking her head. "C'mon then, beefcake, we've gotta get you to the town square before the Reaping begins. I think you know what'll happen to you if you're late."
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A woman by the name of Blue Fargrove with hair as cobalt as her name is standing tall at the podium. The second she commences her speech, Vernon feels all the distress he has accumulated over the past few months churning inside his stomach like snakes slithering at the bottom of a darkened pit.
"It is such an incredible honor to be in District Four to represent the Capitol in this year's very exciting Hunger Games!" Blue is saying. Her voice has that high-pitched, Capitol lilt that sends Vernon's insides into a frenzy.
He stands next to other Victors from Four on stage and desperately wishes it were socially acceptable for him to grab Seokjin's hand for comfort purposes alone. They are herded together like cattle in the corner. Finnick O'Dair is swaying a little, mildly inebriated, and Annie Cresta's face is so green it would surprise no one if she were to vomit any time soon. They are supposed to be the most respected representatives of their country, Panem's best and brightest would-have-been martyrs.
How far they have fallen before they had any chance to fly.
"Ladies and gentleman, I would gladly like to welcome you to the Seventy-Second Annual Hunger Games! For this year, I am certain the Gamemakers have so much more in store than you could ever imagine," Blue chirps.
A select number of the swarming audience cheers out of delight; the majority clap their hands out of necessity. Armed guards with automatic rifles larger than their forearms create a menacing wall around the district, a fortress of threat. It is no doubt people would feel pressured to cheer.
"I know we generally start with ladies first, but as this year is sure to be a unique year indeed, shall we begin with the boys?" suggests Blue cheerily.
It is virtually an out of body experience to stand and watch, helpless, frozen, as Blue swirls her hand around in a bowl teeming with papers. Hundreds if not thousands of names were carefully written in black ink onto each one of them. Some were written once, twice, even three times. The poorest and oldest of the district had their names entered upwards of fifty times, depending on how much tesserae they would receive in compensation for increasing the odds of their name being drawn for slaughter.
Vernon's heart crawls into his throat as he recalls the moment from a year ago when his name had been spoken in an even tone, securing his fate. It is a miracle he is here to relive this moment once more.
Blue delicately plucks out one piece of paper and calls out the name, "Reese Irving—!"
"I volunteer as tribute!"
The shout erupts as a hand shoots up from the center, commanding attention when a figure moves swiftly through the crowd. A young man with ink-colored hair, a square jaw, and a likely steroid-injected physique emerges with the ferocity of a lion on the hunt.
District Four: one of three so-called "Career" districts of Panem. Meaning: a district in which people illegally train for the Hunger Games from childhood and volunteer to become either certain Victors or sacrifices. This young man seems to be one such illegal trainee, and Vernon decides upon that fact alone that he does not like him one bit. Even if he is saving poor Reese's life.
"Ooh, a volunteer, how exciting! What is your name, then?" Blue asks. She reaches down to help the boy up onto the stage, and he takes her hand with hesitance visible in the lines of his face.
"He looks like he could crush her with his thumb," Seokjin whispers so only Vernon may hear.
"River. River Henley," the boy says proudly. He puffs out his chest a little and does his best to grin for the cameras capturing his every move, as they will for the remainder of his life regardless of the outcome of the Games.
"Brilliant, absolutely brilliant!" Blue cheers, clapping her hands together in delight as she walks over to the glass bowl on the right. "And now, for the ladies!"
Her hand whirls around the papers as though attempting to feel for the best name possible to deliver another entertaining, disposable tribute. Vernon suddenly understands Annie Cresta's sick dilemma while listening to the paper rustling beneath her prying fingertips.
A single slip of paper determines everything, as if life is worth nothing less than that.
"Rachel L/N," Blue calls out through the crowd.
There is an audible hush that falls over the people of District Four. The crowd, perhaps, is awaiting the chance that another volunteer may run up and offer themselves up to take the place of the girl whose name was called. His heart thumps five times, beating, beating, beating every ticking second with hope.
Yet no one comes.
A group holding the seventeen to eighteen year olds separates to allow a girl to wander through their bodies. You are wearing a cotton sea green dress and your hair falls in tangled knots around your face. Trembling just faintly, you pull yourself up onto the stage. Vernon locks eyes with you momentarily, takes in the dark as night circles beneath them before your gaze flickers away.
He wonders to himself if you slept last night. Or if you got enough to eat this morning. Or if you simply look like a mess because of what you have just been through.
"Shake hands, please," Blue directs you and River, cordial yet cloyingly sweet.
You screw up your face in contempt. River leers down at you when he sticks his hand out for you to shake. Whether he is sizing you up or merely relishing in the glory of the moment, it is difficult to tell, but his hand wraps entirely around yours in a display of sheer power over your small frame.
Blue places both of her hands on the tributes' backs to pull them closer together in spite of how they will be pitted against one another from the beginning. Vernon should know.
"Ladies and gentlemen, please give a warm welcome to the tributes of District Four!"
As the anthem of Panem rings throughout the town square, Vernon bites the inside of his lip so ruthlessly he draws blood.
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The train to the Capitol is as beautiful as everything is when you have too much money to spend on superfluous, frivolous items.
Champagne and various liquors lie in an ice bath atop a fully stocked bar. Velvet couches with cushions soft as clouds adorn the room for lounging and relaxing, though hardly anyone would be doing much of that. Televisions take up entire walls while displaying reruns of the Capitol's favorite show in such high definition you could discern individual hairs atop Caesar Flickerman's head. A glass chandelier swings from the ceiling, clinking like bells with every high velocity turn the train takes.
Vernon debates reaching up to graze just one of the precious jewels when the compartment door whizzes open, eliciting an electric jolt through his veins.
"Sometimes I wonder how ugly things would be if they didn't care so much about the Victors' opinions," Seokjin murmurs as he enters the room.
He has undoubtedly been searching for Vernon since the very moment they were shoved onto the train in anxious hoards. It would be a lie to say that the sight of Seokjin standing in the doorway, broad and naturally put together, does not immediately bring forth a sense of calm in him.
Vernon arches an incredulous eyebrow at Seokjin. We aren't safe here, he thinks. We can't say things like that anymore.
Seokjin lets out a huff.
"Sorry," he says, looking up at a corner of the room where the beady red eye of a camera glares back at him.
"Have you spoken to either of them yet?" Vernon asks, figuring it would be more worthwhile to get straight to the point rather than dance along the edges of difficult conversations none of them have the time to avoid. Seokjin, being the other mentor of District Four, certainly intends to converse about which tribute they will elect to instruct individually. Group training does not go well in the Career Districts, not when the tributes know for a fact that only one of them will make it out alive.
"Nope," Seokjin admits. "I meant to discuss it with you first before I spoke to either of them, though I'm sure you'd rather mentor the boy than the girl. He has a fighting chance, by the looks of him. Simpler to train that way."
"I want the girl," Vernon interjects.
This time, it is Seokjin's turn to raise a brow. "What?"
"I'd rather mentor the girl," Vernon says, turning to his old mentor with determination setting his jaw. "She seems a bit frightened, but still a hell of a lot more humane than someone who's likely been trying to prepare for the Games since before he could write his own name. I think I could get through to her easier."
"Are you sure about that?"
"Why wouldn't I be?"
"Vernon," Seokjin begins delicately. "You've seen her. You know exactly what I mean."
"I do know exactly what you mean," Vernon insists. "But I think it's worth it to try."
"Please, Vernon, it's bad enough that you have to mentor for someone so soon after your games, but just... don't get your hopes up, okay? That's all I ask," Seokjin urges.
Vernon absorbs the weight of Seokjin's steadfast expression, the softening of his eyes and the manner in which his lips part ever so faintly. His old mentor peers down at him with such unwavering sensitivity it feels as though he is navigating the rivers of Vernon's soul in search of some way to protect his heart.
"I'll do my best," he says.
For now, that is enough.
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As much as Vernon would like to spend ten minutes dithering outside the door of his tribute's train compartment, he supposes there is absolutely no time to waste. Each second he spends hesitating, hands clenched to his sides instead of pressing the enter button, you are losing valuable moments that could and should be spent developing different approaches that hold the potential to save your life.
Not that Vernon has any idea how to give any advice on the matter when he won his Games based around the fact that he did not die first from injuries, but still. It is this knowledge of his duty as a mentor that drives him to press the button and step inside.
You are sitting next to the window, hands curled around a cup of steaming, frothy liquid he immediately recognizes as hot chocolate. It is a delicacy only a select few from Four ever have the money to purchase. He assumes that Blue must have delivered her speech about the graciousness of the Capitol to you already and insisted that you try it on the train ride over. However, the drink appears untouched in your grasp as you stare down at the floor instead of at the flashing of bright district lights rocketing by outside.
"Hey," Vernon begins sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'm Vernon. I, uh—I'll be your mentor this year."
He cannot exactly pinpoint what it is that is driving his awkwardness to the very forefront of his personality today, but he kind of wants to punch himself in the face for it. His job, his duty, his moral responsibility right now is to protect you and bring forth some guidance, and he cannot even do that without a stutter. Good riddance.
Instantly, you glance up at him from your position. You are not alarmed at his presence by any means. In fact, you do not even appear to have been impacted by his intrusion at all, merely blinking like a cat whose owner arrived home five minutes too late.
"I'm Rachel," you reply as if he didn't know that, as if the whole country didn't know that already. "How do I live?"
Vernon blinks.
"How do you live?" he repeats slowly.
"How do I survive, I mean? How do you get through everything without—you know, getting beheaded or something? What kind of strategy are we talking?" You place the mug down onto the table in front of you and gesture to a seat opposite you for him to sit. He obliges in your request, of course, but his movements are staggered from his astonishment.
He does not know what he had been anticipating from you. Anger, maybe, or crying, or panic, or bewilderment, or any of the things that people typically exhibit when they are being thrown into a death trap for no good reason. The willpower is new from someone so small you could effortlessly slip out of someone's grasp like grains of sand sinking between their fingers.
"What are your strengths?" he asks. "Combat? Agility? Archery? Axe-wielding?"
A fleeting look crosses your face as you furrow your brow at him.
"Okay, um... well, half the game, really, is to sort of sell yourself to the audience—no, not that like that!" Vernon hurriedly reassures you when your eyes widen to the size of the moon. "I just mean that tributes have to be charismatic and entertaining enough so the audience wants or even needs to see them win so they can claim that person as their Victor. That's how you get sponsors, anyways, and those are integral to your survival. Are you any good at lying?"
You squint. "Why would I need to be good at lying?"
"More like... acting, not lying. You've got to play up an image that people will eat up like candy. Sometimes that means not being so much yourself as much as being whoever they want you to be," Vernon states.
"What was your image, then?" You tilt your head, edges of your lips curling in a startlingly feline fashion. "A charming, muscular boy oozing sex appeal despite his heart of gold?"
Vernon sputters. "No, oh my God, no! I was just supposed to be, uh, cute. And strong. Or something. I don't know, ask Seokjin—"
"The tips of your ears are turning red," you point out, and suddenly Vernon wants to crawl into a cave at the bottom of the ocean and never come out. His skin burns from the tips of his ears all through his cheeks. How is it that you have managed to make him feel flustered amid all this turmoil?
"Okay, I think we can figure out an image for you already," he says, trying to steer the conversation away from his blushing.
"And what's that?"
"Mysterious and flirtatious."
"Perfect," you say, beaming brilliantly.
"That should work wonders for the sponsors in the Capitol, trust me,"  he says. "Even if you can't think of anything physical you're particularly excellent at doing—"
"I'm an excellent swimmer, like any decent person from District Four," you interrupt him sternly. "I'm good with harpoons. And knives, too. Anything with a pointy end so long as all I have to do is aim and throw."
Vernon peers at you, the girl as little as a speck of dust in the view of the Capitol. "Somehow, I don't doubt you at all about that," he says.
"Good," you say, leaning back in your seat for the first time since Vernon's arrival. It is as if watching the tension melt right off of your body when you settle back into a more comfortable position. "I have people to come back to. I wouldn't want anyone to doubt me. Especially not you."
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The Remake Center is equally as terrifying as Vernon remembers, and all he hopes is that the tributes this year do not have to suffer nearly as much with the waxing, tattooing, and hair straightening as he did the year prior in preparation for the chariot ride. In here, the space is so large people's voices echo off of the colosseum-like building's marble walls.
Citizens from the Capitol pile into the seats, chattering away as though impatiently anticipating a bloodbath. They will not have one today, but that fact does not lessen any of the fear engulfing his senses.
Vernon waits by the chariots with the other mentors, trusting that Jennie has not dressed you or River into the same dreadful fishermen he and his fellow tribute were the year prior. The costumes themselves were supposed to attract the attention of viewers, capture their love with glittering, sensual outfits and powerful gazes. Vernon's tiny fishermen's costume, showcasing all but the tops of his thighs and most intimate areas, was surely eye-catching, though he was more a hunk of ribeye thrown to the starving wolves of the Capitol than anything else.
It is in the same instance that Vernon offers up a sugar cube to one of the chariot horses that the tributes begin to appear from the very back of the amphitheater. The tributes from District One, luxury, don sheer fuschia body suits sewn with shining rubies; the boy and girl from district two, masonry, are decked out in brutal armor that gleams in the light. You and River suddenly appear between the tributes from District 3 (naturally, the tributes from the technological district are wrapped in electrical wiring) and immediately make a beeline for the District Four carriage.
Vernon takes a single glance at you and decides that Jennie really skimped out on him the previous year. District Four is fishing, but of course Jennie would manage to think of something as enchanting as merpeople for the tributes' grand entrance into the Capitol's eye.
You have been transformed into a mermaid with iridescent scales the color of jade. They reflect off of a snug skirt that widens considerably at your heels, granting the impression of a flared tail. Little starfish barrettes have been strung through your hair, which is cascading loosely all the way down your back, courtesy of hair extensions. A string of pearls becomes almost a choker gripping your throat. With cheekbones highlighted in pearlescent powder and eyelids tinted gold, you resemble something ethereal and enigmatic, unreachable yet magnetic.
Vernon is not okay.
"I think I've really outdone myself this year," Jennie comments, striding confidently behind you and River. River is not wearing a dress, of course, going for the far more masculine look of form-fitting leggings painted to gleam like fish scales. He overshadows you completely with his tall form, but Vernon has to admit that he looks impressively resilient even as a merman.
"You certainly have," Vernon admits. "I was quite the exquisite fisherman last year, though. Think that was your best work."
"I'd agree with that," you mumble grouchily, looking exceptionally uncomfortable in your costume as you pull up the cups of a seashell bra spotted with miniature conch shells.
Jennie waves you off with an eye roll.
"Come on, Rachel, you're a magnificent mermaid! Everyone will adore you—"
"—for practically selling my body on live television, sure—"
Vernon resists the overwhelming urge to laugh. He says, in the hopes you will receive the hint, "You'll fit in perfectly fine. Just like I said earlier, remember?"
He is not certain as to whether or not you have taken anything he has said to heart as you and River are loaded into the chariot mere moments later. The opening music suddenly blasts through the amphitheater when the colossal doors slide open and District Four trails behind District Three. He and Jennie crowd around the other mentors beneath one of the screens showcasing the ceremony, waiting to see Four's tributes displayed on screen for the first time since this morning's reaping.
Nostalgia arrives in curling waves the moment the camera pans over River's smirking face. Vernon is instantaneously reminded of this moment last year, standing atop a chariot next to a girl who is no longer here. The memory crushes him as if a brick wall is smothering his body, coaxing all the gaseous oxygen out of his lungs. He shuts his eyes for a moment of solace, blocks out everything but the raucous sound of the commentator's awestruck shouts.
"Ah, yes, the volunteer from Four! He looks quite dashing, doesn't he? Like a prince! And his fellow tribute, the girl—my, oh my, what a mermaid goddess she is indeed with all those shells on her! I love it, I absolutely love it!"
He opens his eyes again to find the camera capturing a close-up of your face. Instead of waving towards spectators as all the others are doing, you are staring straight ahead at one of the cameras with a smoldering, blazing expression. When you suddenly blow a kiss towards the audience, the crowd's screams are deafening.
Relief floods Vernon's bones with the certainty that this whole mentoring thing, horrific and perplexing as it may be, might actually work.
When the chariots pull back in around the back, Vernon offers up a hand to help you down after River clambers off. You accept his offer graciously and ask him, eyes wide and hopeful, "How did I do?"
"You outshone them all," he states.
He means every word.
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Dinner in the Training Center consists of a few things: far too much food, two bottles of sparkling wine shared by the adults in the room, and a very starving River, who inhales at least two whole chickens dripping in an orange sauce and three slices of strawberry cake. Vernon believes he made the right choice by allowing Seokjin to mentor the boy because it seems the apple does not fall too far from the tree.
You are picking at your food as though it might bite you back despite Blue's insistent urging to "enjoy the delicacies of the Capitol while you can!" This may have been good-natured within itself, except it comes across more like "enjoy these desserts before you die!" instead. How wonderful.
Vernon scoops up a chicken leg with a pair of tongs and drops it on your plate. When you shoot him a pointed look in return, he instructs, "Eat. You'll need your strength for tomorrow when training begins."
"Training starts tomorrow?" River pipes up through a mouth full of cake.
"Yes, tomorrow morning!" Blue trills from her position at the head of the table. She has downed most of the wine by herself, and her face is turning so red that, combined with the shadows from her blue hair, Vernon wonders if she'll be plum colored by tomorrow.
"Oh, yes," River says, delighted. "I can't wait to get my hands on one of those swords—I've heard Capitol weaponry is amazing compared to the dismal stuff we normally get in Four."
"Well, you'll want to be certain not to draw too much attention to yourself if you know what's good for you," Vernon says to River. He does not mean to grit his teeth so much, yet it happens anyways. From across the table, Seokjin narrows his eyes at Vernon as if to say, watch what you're telling my tribute.
"For you specifically, it should be less about not drawing any attention to yourself and more about not flaunting the full extent of your strength," Seokjin interrupts. "You look muscular enough, you volunteered, and you're from a Career district. They know that you're tough already, River. The idea is not to reveal the best of you until you're in that arena."
River gapes at Vernon briefly. "Is that what he had you do, too? Before you won? You only scored a six during training but then you came out on top in the end..."
Vernon dips his head down, electing to overanalyze the puffy grains of rice on his plate. With the swiftness of a storm blowing over, Seokjin saves him from having to respond.
"I helped him in what ways I saw fit, but every year and every tribute is different. Remember what we talked about earlier on the train?" he says.
River returns the statement with a nod of understanding just as you slide out from your seat, pushing your untouched plate far away from you.
"I think I'm going to bed," you announce abruptly. You are turning away from everyone and walking into the hallway before you even have the courtesy to say goodnight. It seems so strikingly out of character for you that Vernon's face twists with confusion.
"Be up at seven, please, Rachel!" Blue calls as the doors slide shut behind you.
"I should go after her," Vernon says, although he is already standing up and muttering his apologies. He is leaving behind a plate full of food that should not be wasted even in a place that never has to worry about it, yet welling up inside of him is the insistent urge to follow you.
The hallway is darkened as he slips out of the dining room. His breath halts in his throat and he reaches his hand out on the wall, searching desperately for some kind of light switch to illuminate the corridor.
He does not do well with dark spaces anymore. Or empty spaces. Or fields. Or mountains. Or anywhere without an ending in sight. Or the Capitol in general—
A light flickers on overhead like candlelight because, as high-tech as it is here, apparently the lights cannot function properly so as to not give him a heart attack when they shut off. Vernon takes the time to exhale for, one, two, three minutes before he makes his way to your designated bedroom with careful steps. Disturbing you with the loud noises of his footsteps after following you when you clearly wanted to be alone does not seem like the best idea.
Apparently the theme for today is that Vernon has absolutely no fucking idea what he is doing because when he knocks on your door, you answer within a minute and he goes mute. This has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that you have already twisted your hair into braids and wiped the makeup off your face, looking like some kind of angel who stepped straight out of a floaty dream while living in a walking nightmare.
Absolutely nothing to do with it. Not at all.
"Yes, Vernon?" you ask him quietly. You seem stunned to see him at your door. Your cheeks are dusted pink and you look so timid and pretty standing there in periwinkle pajamas, face floodlit by the light coming from your bedroom. He is ashamed in himself for thinking of you in this way when there are much more dire things to be concerned with at the present moment.
"I—um, I wanted to talk to you about training tomorrow, if that's alright with you," he says, feeling as idiotic as he likely sounds.
He should encompass more of a resolute, stoic demeanor than he does as a mentor. He should also be asking you if you're alright, ask you why exactly it is that you left so sporadically when you had no reason to do so. But it does not seem appropriate to pry into your feelings just yet, so he will settle for this instead.
"Oh! Yeah, definitely, of course," you say. "What did you mean to tell me?"
"Well, obviously you overheard  Seokjin saying that River should showcase some of his talents, but not all of them," Vernon begins, rubbing the back of his neck.
"So I should do the same thing?" you inquire.
"You're small enough that everyone will assume you're weak and want to write you off as an easy target," he explains. "Show them a little bit of what you can really do. Maybe nothing with a harpoon, but something less extreme, like being able to hit a knife on a target the vast majority of the time. If you make yourself look capable, but not overly skilled, you can potentially help yourself out before you even get there. Save the rest of your talents for the arena, just like they'll be doing."
"So the idea is to appear like a threat, but not so much of a threat that the other Career tributes will try and get to me first?"
"Exactly right. As long as you can do that, I think you'll be golden."
"Sounds like a plan. I'll be a golden girl all day tomorrow, I promise," you agree, and before you can shut the door in his face, he rushes in to add one last thought.
"And Rachel? You can, uh, order room service for yourself if you'd rather eat alone than with the rest of us, you know. Since you didn't actually eat dinner."
Brushing a stray strand of hair out of your face, you peer up at him curiously. Vernon has never been particularly good at reading the expressions of strangers—or nearly anyone's expressions, save for Seokjin's and his family's, truth be told. You are not distinctive from the others in that regard.
You examine him with scouring eyes that have him feeling defenseless, feeling naked with clothes on, feeling exposed and altogether vulnerable beneath them. It is as if you are attempting to comb through his intentions and his very being simply by observing him from jaw to cupid's bow to hairline. Just like in the train compartment, the beginning of a burn arises in the tips of his ears and spreads all the way out to his cheeks.
"Thank you for letting me know," you answer breathlessly. "I'll definitely order something later then. Uh—goodnight, then, Vernon. I'll see you in the morning at breakfast."
He hopes you cannot perceive that his face is now flaming under the dim light.
"Goodnight, Rachel," he replies warmly. "Good luck tomorrow."
When you gently shut the door behind you, disappearing into the night, he thinks to himself, This absolutely cannot be happening to me right now.