pas de deux // jacob vs ike, day 6

-oh no oh god oh fuck-

I'd never intended it to turn out this way. Ike O'Nyle was one of exactly three people who I had vowed I would never shoot on sight should I run into them once we'd entered the land of blood and metal, and he was the only one who hadn't died, unlike Kit, or whom I'd reevaluated my positioning on, unlike Kass (okay, sue me, but after yesterday, I'd say my own survival instinct outdoes the horror of killing a young girl, even if she is from home).

And here I am, my eyes wide, my jaw agape, as the realization that I'd just broken that very promise sinks in.

For what it's worth, O'Nyle has faster reflexes than Halt ever did, as my blast almost misses entirely. A small laceration on his arm emerges, proof of my betrayal, but instead of a victory lap, I think I'm about to throw up instead.

Even the typical Ike snark I'd grown to adore and love over the past month - "Is this how you greet all of your lovers?" - barely stirs at my emotions.

"Wouldn't know," I reply weakly. "You're my first."

Likewise, my words seem to have little effect. Ike's frown shines like a beacon of disapproval, a deadly weapon designed solely to pierce my psyche to great effect, and my heart, already pained from the day's events, sinks directly into my stomach acid as it becomes clear that, instead of an honest mistake, I've fired the first shot in a war.

"Only one of us is gonna be coming out of this alive, Fel."

And I knew that. Ripred, I knew that, but I never expected that our fates would lie in the other's hands.

"I'm not gonna hold back, so please don't hold back either. Our thing is over now."


Two days ago, we were embracing in the euphoria of victory. Ike O'Nyle taught me what it was like to make out, to embrace and submit to passion and longing, and I'd decided then and there that if my first kiss was to also be my last, then it would be one I could die happy knowing it had been just that.

And now today.

I'd told myself I'd do what it takes to survive, to harden my heart and focus only on the end result. But I'm not that type of person. I wear my heart on my sleeve, always have been, always will. It's what led me to feeling sympathy for the boy from Six who reminded me so much of my own little brother, allying with him when no one else would. It's what led to me seeing so much of my sister in Kass, reaching out even through her hostility.

And it's what led me to care for Ike, the boy who'd gone out of his way to spar with a boy like me from Eleven, not out maliciousness but out of a genuine desire to improve both him and I. Never mind the fact that the room temperature always seemed to rise fifteen degrees every time I found him in the same room, never mind the fact that he tasted rough and salty and oh so good at the same time when his mouth met mine, never mind the fact that there was just so endearing about the way he threw himself headfirst into any situation-

"It was always going to end and we both knew that."

I did know that eventually, one of us would have to die for the other to live. And I had hoped against hope that it wouldn't be the other that would make that nightmare a reality.

But I'm not in a fantasy world where everything goes right. I'm in the realm of the Gamemakers, and this is my test to prove that I am worthy.

"I know." There's a catch in my throat, and I hate myself for it. "But I just wish-"

Too late, I see the object flying towards my face. And had it been any larger, any harder - well, let's just say that's the second time I've narrowly avoided death in as many days.

Pain flashes through my skull, a cry of pain escapes from behind my lips. For a second, I'm consumed in agony - but just as quickly, it fades into a dull throb.

Dimly, I'm aware that Ike just threw the brass gauntlets he'd been wearing at me. No doubt some part in his mind wants to finish things fair, with what he's good at - a no-holds barred fistfight until one of us cannot stand any longer.

It does not take a genius to figure out who would win that engagement, even as I shove the thought that the ripped biceps that I'd admired from afar could just as easily snap my neck if given the chance.

So I won't give him the chance.

A button press leads to the ignition of my jetpack - if he wants to fight me hand-to-hand, he'll have to catch me, first.

Deep down, I feel terrible exploiting the very weaknesses that I'd learned through observation to get an upper hand over the fighting boy from Eight. But I know that deep down, it's what he'd want. He did tell me to not hold back, after all.

And if I die a fool, then at least I'll know one thing for certain. I might care for Ike O'Nyle more than I've cared for anyone else in this hellscape combined, with the possible exception of Kit.

But I care for my own life more. And not even he can take it from me so easily.

When the blast sinks into his stomach, I hope that that's enough. And I feel sickened by that very wish and desire.

But luckily, or perhaps unluckily, Ike O'Nyle is made of tougher stuff than that. He shrugs off the laser bolt to his torso as if it were a weak punch - and trust me, I would know how easy that is for him to endure - and it isn't long before he ignites his own jet pack to join me in the air.

Once, it would have been a reassuring gesture. Once, it had been a reassuring gesture. It's still a fond memory, even now, knowing that the goat had never stood a chance.

But now, there's nerves involved. Fear, even. And yet I hover, paralyzed, as he approaches.

"I wish things were different too, Fel." A candor that strikes me right in my sunken heart - how very perfectly Ike. "Wish we could pretend to be fine."

And I do, too. By fucking Ripred, I wish that we could just throw down our weapons, and I don't know. Hug it out. Cry over our feelings. Hell, at this point I'd settle for "leaving each other be and going our separate ways."

But Ike knows how the game is played. And I do as well, even if I don't want to admit it to myself.

When he draws level with me, I tense. And again, I hate myself for it.

But there's no strike to be received. Just an admission.

"I never told you. There was someone back home."

And somehow, it isn't surprising.

A guy named Klein. Someone who shared Ike's passion for fighting. Someone more his speed, no doubt - if Ike and I are yin and yang, then those two would be more two peas in a pod.

I know what game he's trying to play. But it isn't that I don't fall for it - it just doesn't affect me.

"Figured as much," I respond, and I almost manage a pained smile. Almost. "Someone like you? Hell, I'd be damned surprised if I was the first person who was drawn to you the way I was."

A fist strikes out. I expect it, take the brunt on my arm - but this is a new type of blow. Ike had never hit me this hard back in the training center, and the shock of the pain nearly catches me off kilter.

This time, he's fighting to kill. And so I need to respond in kind.

Without a second thought, I cut power to the jetpack for exactly one second. And as I plummet, I turn it back on, giving it just enough power so that when I land on the ground, I avoid shattering both of my legs on impact.

"C'mon Fel, I know you've got better aim than that." A taunt. The good old Ike charm - but instead of a goat, this time, it's directed towards me.

I suppose it's a good thing that I'm not a combative soul by nature.

"Break Klein's heart, c'mon Fel!"

I aim upwards, at the boy I care for.

"Sorry, O'Nyle, but Klein's going to have to wait his turn," comes the response.

It's meant as a jab of my own. But I think it just comes out sounding pathetic.

Not that it takes a genius to figure out that my own heart is ripping in two at this point.

"I'm sorry I had to break your heart, Jacob."

Whose fault was it really, though?

A graze on the neck isn't the bolt through the throat that would end Ike O'Nyle so easily, even as he strikes at my chest in retribution. I'd always thought that it would truly take a miracle to take this bull of a young man down. Like, in my head, it would be him charging head first into a whole four person alliance that would take him down in the end.

Only that never happened. And now he's dead set on coming out and killing me with nothing but his bare hands. And the scary thing is? It's entirely possible that he'll succeed.

But was it his fault that my heart is torn? That my anguish is very likely showing on my face even as I try and pump laser energy through his skull?

It's ridiculous, and I can't help but chuckle. Even if it's cynical, dry, humorless.

"Don't blame yourself for that, Ike," I say, a brief pause in the conflict giving me room to breathe. "You can't help what's a part of your nature. And besides, I was the one that told myself I wouldn't let myself feel anything once the Games began."

I pause, for a second. "If anything, it's my fault for letting me fall into that trap. I never was very good at not feeling, after all."

No, it wasn't. I've seen tributes in the arena before. Tributes whose winning strategy was blocking off their emotions, stabbing their friends in the back, holding their tears in while the world burned around them. And truly, that had been what I had told myself when I'd stepped on that stage, on that train, on that metal plate that took me to my likely grave.

I've watched Jacinta Salazar proclaim her wish that she would rather suffer forever than die, and fulfill it. I've watched Ansgar Todd take a knife to the eye and yet strike out with conviction, not anger, at his former ally. I've seen Nico Thorne strike forward with rage against three, love turning to anger into hate to fuel him to the top

But that's not me. I'm not Jacob Fel, the emotionless shell. Hah. Even if that rhymes.

Instead, I'm like Katelyn Persimmon, the wonder girl who won in a world of ice, saved her friend well past the usual limits of the final eight, and helped a boy who'd followed the path of heartlessness find peace shortly after dealing a fatal blow.

Like Kirito Miristioma, the sweet boy so much like myself before the Games, and the man who had worked with my mother to better the world after the fact.

Like Harbinger Rhodes, the man who showed vulnerability throughout the games, and turned those very insecurities into his strength even as he cut down a former ally, and then persevered against the odds to claim his victory.

No. I'm Jacob Fel, the bleeding heart. The boy who helped an angry little girl find her calm. The boy who guided a deaf boy to his peace.

The boy who found affection in a stubborn, fight-happy boy from Eight.

"You'd be better off with someone better than me." And then, for the first time, anger sparks in me.

"Oh, shush, Ike." I say, annoyance sparking through me. "You were the best damn thing that ever happened to me since I stepped off that train."

I raise my gun, again.

"So don't put yourself down. Don't give up so easily."

I fire.

"Get up, Ike. And fucking fight."

It's interesting, how Ike raises his forearm to block my next blast much how I had attempted to block his punch mere moments before. Only my strike wasn't a fist, it was a blast of laser energy that I know firsthand hurts like hell.

And yet still he perseveres. He entered this fight in reasonably good condition for someone who'd spent nearly a week fighting for his life. Better than me, anyway, if his, er, physique was anything to go by.

What? The panic of a quick death by an unknown source had passed. And Ike had lost his shirt some time between when we'd fought the goat and now. I'm still going to notice, okay?

But I digress. Though I'm reasonably sure I've figured out how to avoid a killing blow, that doesn't change the fact that this boy-man is still built like a tank, and that thus far, four shots, two of them direct, have failed to so much as slow him down. I wasn't joking when I said earlier that I genuinely thought it'd take an entire alliance to take him down.

And in retrospect, practically demanding that the person who could very likely spell my end to stand up and fucking fight me was probably not the best idea I've ever had. But oh well.

Speaking of not that great ideas, how about trying to ignite my jetpack just as Ike throws another punch? Sure, it misses my head, my torso, pretty much anything important, but, boosted by a burst from his own pack, it does hit my foot with enough force that I think I hear something crack. So yeah, the ground? Not looking fun right now.

"Good. You were the best thing to happen to me since I was reaped for this damn place." And Ripred, I swear I have never wished more that we could put our weapons - well, my weapon - down and just make up. Hug. Cry a bit. Take on the fucking world together or something like that.

"Thanks, Fel." And I can only nod in response, because I do not trust myself to open my mouth right now, lest I let the floodgates crumble.

The one person in this arena that I would have liked to live had the literal ton of luck that'd been coming my way worn off, and I'm forced to kill him myself, because apparently, some people just need to create their own dramatic story time just for the sake of it. And I wonder, not for the first time, how Cricket Antoinette could have gone through the Games herself, killed people, won them, and then had turned around and decided that inflicting that same hell on others - not once, but twice now - had been at all appealing.

I bet she's laughing her ass off back in the safety of whatever control room she's occupying, watching two irrelevant lower district boys who once had shared a moment of intimacy tear each other apart.

"No matter the outcome of this Fel," Ike begins, and I almost want to shut my ears despite myself.

Whenever a sentence starts that way, it never ends well. And I'm correct.

"I'm gonna want one more kiss."

He means when one of us is taking our last breaths, I correct, silently.

But I can't show weakness. Not now. Not while the climax of the story has yet to arrive.

So I put on my brave face, speak a few brave words - "Alright, but you'll have to earn it, O'Nyle," - and fly.

When the fifth burst of energy is discharged from my gun, the floodgates begin to crack.