dance with the devil [eddie||oneshot]

The whole thing happened so gradually, I don't think I saw it coming. Not really, anyway. Not with the odds he had. They're not always reliable, I know that, but I let myself believe them this time. I let myself root for someone.

And then he had to die.

The nurses don't let us watch the games until we're twelve. I guess they figure that once you're old enough to be taken to the Capitol, you need to see what might happen to you. You need to see the fate that looms in front of those two kids who disappear, year after year, and never come back.

Except for Teddy. I remember Annie being excited when she spotted him in the Town Square.

Of course, I didn't listen to the twelve-year-old-rule when I was younger. I remember sneaking in when I was eight, when what's-her-face started Eleven's winning streak. People said they couldn't remember the last time we'd had a Victor from Six.

I remember ducking under elbows and slipping through the small crowd of older kids from the Home, wide-eyed and enthralled while twenty-four strangers fought to stay alive. I always found the whole thing fascinating.

I never let myself get attached, though. The other kids, they'd pick a favorite, they'd bet on the winners with candy they'd picked up in the market, they'd up the risks by throwing their chores into the pot. I don't think they knew it, but if anyone else from Six saw them, they'd be mortified. But what are we supposed to do, when we're holed up in this place twenty-four hours a day?

I watched them, and sometimes I'd bet. But not often. Only when I was certain.

This year was different though. I knew him. I'd spoken to him, I knew what his voice sounded like when it wasn't a recording being played back through static-filled speakers. I'd seen his face before, the real thing, not the frightened kids they showed on Reaping Day or the blood-thirsty Tributes portrayed on our two-dimensional screen in the Home. He was real, I guess. And when he started to do well, I wanted him to win.

I convinced myself he would.

It was Annie's first year watching the Games. I'd always told her about them, always scuttled back to her room when the recaps were over, relaying everything I'd seen that day, the deaths, the twists, the drama. She ate it all up like candy. She's twelve this year. She's always been a rule-follower, so she never snuck in, but I don't think I've ever seen anyone so eager to watch.

She liked him too. Everyone did, I think. At least the younger kids did. They couldn't watch, but news travels so fast at the Home, they always knew what was happening. We all wanted him to win.

And then he had to die.

I'm used to the whole thing happening quickly. A sword to the neck, a dagger in someone's back, and they're done, it's over. But Cynthia sliced him to pieces and somehow he still struggled for far longer than anyone expected. I thought he was going to make it. I really did. I dug my fingernails into my palms, I squeezed my eyes shut, I prayed to anyone or anything I could think of. I wanted him to make it.

Annie buried her head in my stomach, and when canon fire crackled through the speakers, she started to cry. I didn't really notice then, but now I realize I forgot to breath. I just stopped, stared. Had they made a mistake?

No, no they hadn't. Cynthia may have messed up his hand and his chest, but she hadn't messed up his face. That was him, bleeding out, that was his canon tearing apart the sky. And then the camera panned away and I never saw him again.

I left after that. Annie was a mess, but I refused to stay in a room full of crying kids who don't know what to do with themselves. It's cold outside, chilly air nipping at my skin, snow melting into my socks and turning to frigid water against my feet. Somehow I don't pay it much mind.

There'll be a funeral, but I won't be there. I don't want to see him, not all stone-face and dressed up in his pretty little suit from the Capitol, not lying still in a perfectly-cut oak coffin.

I reach into my pocket and pull out the lighter Calliope gave me when she came knocking at the door of the Home, prattling on about how she was going to make this world a better place. Well, look how far she got us.

I flip open the silver cap and flick the switch, pretty blue flames dancing across my vision. My fingers are already white and red from countless dances with fire, but I don't look at them. I watch the movement instead, focusing on each finger as it dances through the flame, waving in and out, burning, scalding. At least, that's how it should feel. But all I see is the dance. All I see is the shadows, flickering back and forth between the light, inviting me.

Maybe Ansel's somewhere in their now.

Maybe he's in the shadows.