curl up + die /av, 92nd quarantine

It’s the same song, again and again and again. They turn him into a rent-a-victor, like he’s not a person, just a prop. There’s a party every night for three days.

The first one isn’t bad, just some old ladies who want him to play cards with them and take pictures with their grandkids. They arrange him like one might arrange a mannequin and then awkwardly stand beside him.

”Pretend you’re going to kill me,” one says, ”I’ll be Aspen”

Like it’s easy.

Just simple, to relive those moments, over and over.

But after his performance at the interview, he woke up to a manila envelope of photos on his doormat. A woman in the street, walking, hands combing through thick dark hair. His thumb traced the curve of her jaw, he pressed the pads of his fingers lightly against the matte photo paper, calluses getting caught on the sterile smoothness as he tried to remember what it was like to actually hold her.

Billie.

They sent him hundreds of pictures of his little sister in Six, the message was loud and clear, we can do whatever we want, when we want.

So he gives in, in a way that he thought that he already had. There are no sarcastic quips while Gloria runs through his schedule for the day, he just stands there silently as his team applies his makeup and dresses him in clothes that he'd never pick out himself.

And he pretends to kill old ladies with a spare knitting needle at parties.

Each time it becomes a little bit easier. If he downs the drink they give him when he walks through the door it’s just numbing enough for the loud music and the barrage of people and smells and sounds to be slightly bearable.

Except he’s never liked the numbness or the loss of control that comes with it. He doesn’t like how it brightens him, makes smiles easier and pulls him into the arms of other people, it makes him feel like a puppet.

It makes him feel like he’s not really even there.

That’s bad and it's good all at once but when midnight hits at party three and his contract for the night expires, he’s already halfway across the front lawn. There are buttons missing from his shirt and a black payment card clutched in his hand that he found on the floor of the ballroom.

There’s a lipstick mark on the back of his hand and one on his neck just below his ear too and tears are slipping down his cheeks, it’s all just a little too much.

The bass of the sound system reverberates still through his bones, there’s perfume and smoke clinging to him and his jaw is wired shut with it, the pain of it.

He uses the card to buy a cab back to the training centre and then drops it on the lawn before getting in the car, fingers shaking, pressing too numbly at the buttons on his phone to dial the right numbers.

He gives up, just clutching it in his lap for the short drive back, then slips out of the cab before it’s even fully stopped.

It’s with his apartment door shut against his back that he tries again, pressing the phone too hard up against his ear, sweaty, as the dial tone rings.

But it’s the middle of the night and there’s a red wine stain on his sleeve.

His head falls back against the door as the ringer stops. The phone is answered and Avriel just sits there, sweaty strands of hair damp against his forehead as Eden waits for him to speak.

But he doesn’t.

He just sits there all tense with his eyes squeezed shut and digs the fingers of his free hand into his own shoulder, palm wrapped over the crest of it, pressing down hard like he can push his own body through the floor.

He doesn’t realize he’s been holding his breath until Eden’s breathing becomes the loudest thing between them.

After a few moments, his hand drops away again, chest rising and falling to match Eden’s rhythm.

And if he doesn’t open his eyes, he can pretend to be home.

Paper tinged with the slow, unfortunate death of water damage pulls away from the wall in the upper-left corner of the dining room. It's the tiniest bit bent back, curling, it's hardly noticeable but he still sees it. It irritates him. "Haven," he says, "Call the painter again."

A chime sounds and a cheerful voice emits from a speaker on a shelf near the doorway, "Calling Sterra Blithe."

He goes back to his pacing then, fingers steepled behind the back of his head. He hasn't left the house in days, not since placing the bid. Haven, of course, comes with him everywhere he goes but part of him is afraid he might miss the confirmation if he's out in the world, no, best to wait.

"Haven, any messages?" he asks moments later when his pacing brings him into the grand room that spans the length of the house. He stops where he is, gazing out at a lush garden from floor to ceiling windows. The gardener comes daily to tend to it, gnarled old hands attached to a sun-weathered body and a face with drooping skin, someone who has made the choice to age naturally.

An odd play in today's Capitol.

A chime sounds again, "You have, one message, sent today at ten fourty-six."

He pauses, the call must have came in when Haven was calling the painter. A current runs under his skin, whether its nerves or excitement, he doesn't know but it makes his skin crawl and he has to squeeze his hand with his other to calm himself. "And?" he asks when he's ready.

"Your bid was refused."

He pauses, fingers pressing into the back of his hand one by one and then lifting, over and over. Of course he's upset, his bid had been more than generous, a king's ransom really, just under half his life savings. Sure, his intended activity might be viewed as unorthodox but if there's one thing he knows, it's that everything has a price. Everything, everyone, can be bought.

"Haven," he says softly, his tone brimming with barely concealed annoyance.

The chime sounds.

"Place the bid again," he says, "This time, offer them everything."

"Please specify 'everything'.

"My investments, the access codes to my bank accounts, the company, the deed to this house, tell them they can have it all."

There's a short pause, then the chime sounds, "Alright, the bid has been placed."

He gazes at his own reflection in the window and waits. His stillness invites the wildlife, birds flit back and forth over the rose bushes outside. A cat stops in front of the window and sits down, a gaze of seemed indifference aimed up at the birds passing back and forth a couple feet over its head. A bird stops for a moment on the ground and the cat licks its lips.

The chime sounds, followed by a little victory sound-byte of champagne being popped, "Congratulations, your bid was accepted. Your guest will be arriving three days from now at seven o'clock sharp."

He smiles, "Fantastic. Send out the invitations."

The chime sounds.

Part of him thought that this day would never come. Until the auction was posted on the underside's black market, there'd been no reason to hope that it could.

For all of his life, he'd been taught that money could buy anything. Money was more than just currency, it was power, so he had spent his adolescence obtaining it. The price tag on having the 88th victor make an appearance at his party was already astronomical, let alone the cost of what he wanted out of this evening.

He hardly bat an eye at the various invoices, they were of little import, just small confirmations of the power that he held. The money that made it possible for years of longing to collapse in on itself and from the rubble bloom such a pretty flower of finality.

Over the last couple of days a slew of people had crossed the threshhold of his front door. An appraiser was the first to make an appearance, followed quickly by a notary and his lawyer. Then the florist had come, colour swatches and a tablet screen full of options for the party, the caterer next, an agent for one of the best string quartets Panem had to offer, his stylist team, the list goes on endlessly.

He hadn't had much time to ruminate on what he was doing, or the cost. None of it seemed important beside the illustrius shadow cast by the task at hand. No, his last few days have been only joyful, spent in triumph, as if his ends had already been met and thus was only the after party that he was getting ready for.

But in the early evening just before his guests were due to arrive in that sliver of golden sunlight that crept across the floor of the Grand Room, he found a moment to feel this strange sense of relief. It felt as if this weight that he'd been carrying for a long time now, was lifting. This burden that he had took upon himself would no longer be his to carry, after that night, he would finally know the taste of freedom.

How strangely bittersweet it felt then, to come to the end of the story.

He dresses in an ivory suit and cannot keep the serenity off of his face as his guests start to arrive. Some he's known for years, others are fresh faces, hidden behind usernames on the forum they'd all been on since the 88th and the victor's zenith.

It's only right that they should all be here with him.

It would be lying to say that he doesn't feel a sort of high, being the one to deliver unto them the object of their collective affection. He watches his friend's faces transform from boredom to delight, some with a hint of jealousy, as they see the decor and the flowers that fill every free space. Genetically enhanced weeping roses entwined with great boughs of pine in homage to Avriel's arena hangs from the ceiling on fishing line, a magnificent centrepiece. Petals fall slowly from above, regrowing and dissolving before they even hit the floor.

The bulk of the party arrives a full hour before the guest of honour is scheduled to. He's done this on purpose, champagne pours freely and an open bar is set up in the corner, no expense spared for the evening. He doesn't allow there to be a single person without a drink in their hand. Acquaintances fawn over his generosity as he glides through the crowd while close friends only shake their heads ruefully, mouthes twisted in jealousy for this legendary party.

Props are passed around, a party favour for his guests to wear upon Avriel's arrival. Everything is calculated, bent out of shape in order to elicit the exact reaction he wants of them.

He's never done anything halfway, since as long as he could remember. His mother raised him to stand at the top and tonight, a golden circlet rests on the crown of his head and a crystal-faceted champagne flute twinkles merrily in the candlelight. He's picturesque against freshly painted walls, the centre of a room full of moving parts. For a few minutes, he almost forgets why he's gathered them all, intoxicated from the attention, when a figure pauses in the doorway leading into the entrance hall.

He pauses mid-conversation, eyes gleaming in the dim light. Then, as the person takes a step back, he raises a gloved hand delicately. Haven turns down the music on cue and the light in the room dims further until the brightness from the entrance hall halos the latecomer perfectly.

His guests's voices fall to a hushed whisper and then into complete silence. They all shuffle forward, an unconscious mass leaning in to circle around the newcomer reverently, peasants at their king's feet.

His heart races beneath his silk shirt, jealousy strikes him quick and sharp, but he lets it fall away in the next moment, a smile affixing itself to his face.

He raises the champagne flute in greeting, then takes a deep, calming breath. "Avriel Baptiste," he says, tone warm and welcoming like he's practiced, "It is a great honour for us that you could join us tonight." He nods his head then and the room brightens slowly, showing off the victor where he stood frozen in the doorway, one foot slid back as if he was thinking of slipping away.

The victor doesn't move, Avriel isn't seeing him, transfixed by the appearance of his guests. His smile widens, wonderful.

"Oh yes," he whispers, gesturing vaguely at them all, "What do you think?"

Then he pulls a mask slowly from his pocket. The rubber unfolds stiffly, midnight black hair falling through his fingers, snout pointed up at the ceiling. "We wanted to greet you with a familiar face." Two dozen pigs stare back at Avriel, long tendrils of oily black hair hanging over their eyes, twinkling with delight beneath their heavy rubber brows. Perfect replicas of the mask the victor wore on the day that he killed the boy from Seven.

The victor stands completely still, brow furrowed, mouth twisted down into a deep grimace of some phantom pain. The room chitters in delight, the reaction is subtle but it's more than anyone usually gets. One of the reasons why the party loves him is for his usual stoic expression. The air of mystery that surrounds him because of it has always been tantalising but tonight, Avriel Baptiste is finally theirs to unravel.

"Come," he beckons gently, "Join us."

Avriel's hands curl into fists at his side and for a fleeting moment, the host wonders if that was too much too fast, but then they all see the victor's jaw clench in that wonderfully defiant way and he takes his first few steps into the room.

The music starts up again, masks come off, revealing smiling faces and an endless slue of fans that all want to occupy Avriel's time at once. As the host of the party, he hangs back, simply enjoying the revelry and the ridiculousness of watching the actor so out of his element. That familiar tinge of annoyance comes back, that unforgiving piece of him that finds Avriel's dislike of the limelight completely absurd.

The only thing he's ever learned how to love is a spotlight. It's all anyone here has ever wanted, what they crawl over each other for. For even a minute of fame, he'd step over the bodies of his most cherished friends and they, of course, would do the same.

But the victor shies away from all of it, to the point where it drives the host crazy.

Acceptance.

He takes a deep breath as he watches a guest drape an arm around Avriel's shoulders and hand him a champagne flute. The reason all of them have come together tonight is not only to celebrate the victor but to celebrate the end of an era of uncertainty. For years now, their main topic of discussion has been focused on one night in the arena.

For so long now, they've been divided on their beliefs of what truly happened.

Tonight, they'd have their answers.

He lets the party continue for the next few hours, gliding slowly through the guests, always staying just out of reach of Avriel, but so acutely aware of him that he finds it hard to focus on anyone else. There was never a victor before him that interested him in such a way, there'd never be one after. Whether the man knew it or not, his very presence was electric. The room was charged with an energy that felt foreign, sending the gathering into a strange frenzy nearly ahead of schedule.

But everything about tonight is planned, from the Victor's late arrival to the slow crawl of the blackout shutters moving down the large windows of the Grand Room in increments throughout the evening until they finally meet the floor with a gentle click sometime around midnight.

By then, the party is drunk, not only with champagne but with the absolute joy of having their idle within arm's reach at any given moment. they pass Avriel around amongst them cheerily, sweeping him away from a conversation then dropping him off again somewhere else. Drinks are handed to him, then given back to him again when he tries to leave them behind.

Words are whispered behind gloved hands, someone slips a pig mask over Avriel's head and he stands there for too long, like a cat who's had a paper bag dropped over their head. They watch, amused as his hands shake while he pulls at the mask but the edge slips from his fingers again and again. It isn't his fault, the drinks were spiked.

Avriel falls to a knee and the music stops abruptly.

As the victor's fingers finally hook on the edge of the mask, the guests shuffle back silently.

Avriel pauses, chest rising and falling too quickly.

"Wait," the victor says softly, holding a hand up as if it can keep him back, "What are you going to do?"

The host watches silent and still from a few feet in front of him, struck by the sadness in Avriel's voice. For some time now, he's forgotten what drew him to the victor to begin with. For all of his charms, it was the sorrow that he carried hidden beneath the skin that had pulled him in.

He himself understood that sort of pain all too well.

The light dims as he kneels in front of the victor, falling until it's just the two of them beneath a single spot of light. The jewels of his various guests glint in the imposed darkness of the room, light from the spotlight refracting dimly off of them. The host's fingers find the edge of the mask for Avriel and pulls it off his head slowly, tenderly.

For a long, quiet moment it's just the two of them. Avriel's gaze is so steady and bores into him so deeply that he forgets what he's supposed to say. Everyone else might as well not exist. Beneath the layers of finery he wears, beneath the thick skin and the cold steel that has always encased his heart, he feels a faint flutter.

It's an indescribable feeling to be looked at and actually seen.

"You're Xander" Avriel states, rather than asks.

He nods slowly, a thrill running through him at hearing Avriel Baptiste say his name. "Yes," he says, "This is my home."

There's another pause then. The light beaming down above their heads dims slowly and the rest of the party fully fades away into an inky darkness. Xander watches as Avriel begins to catch on to what's happening. "Don't," he says sharply, tone bright, fear dividing that usual deadpan and forcing life into his voice.

"It's okay," Xander says, "I'm here with you." He leans forwards slightly as the light dims to the point of nearly going out. The room is in total darkness except for the small circle they exist in.

The victor isn't looking at him anymore, twisting on his knees, eyes searching for a way out or a beacon in the darkness perhaps.

"Not this time," Xander says, voice near a whisper.

Avriel's back is to him now and he uses the opportunity to slip backwards into the dark, in arms reach still but he might as well be a hundred miles away in this fabricated night.

Laughter begins, a few chuckles here and there as the victor's careful movements slowly become more and more frantic. "Xander?" he asks when he turns to find his host gone. "Merde," he whispers when he finds himself alone again.

They all watch him, silent now with bated breaths as he kneels in the circle of light, completely alone. They watch as he clenches his hands into fists in front of him, shaking because he's holding them so tight, only to release them and repeat the movement again. The victor stares out into the darkness, his breaths shallow, they all know this version of him well.

They saw it on him before he found Areto in the dark, that near animalistic fear.

"Just admit it," Xander says suddenly.

The victor turns to the left, searching for him in the dark, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"In the arena, you made a choice. You wanted to live, correct?" He circles the victor slowly in the darkness, eyes never straying from the scene in front of him.

That calm strength they admired, they'd all seen him fall apart in the arena and since then, it was all Xander could think of, fay after fay.

"But love," he muses softly, "Love is wretched- you say that you loved her, that she loved you?"

"Stop."

"We're the only ones that see what you truly are, Victor Baptiste, what you're capable of," Xander continues, "We just want you to see it too, we want you to be free!"

He falls to his knees then, back into the dim spotlight, directly in front of the victor. There's a knife in his hand now, and he pushes the handle into Avriel's chest, heart beating out of his throat as he seats himself in the victor's lap. A vastness shifts behind the victor's eyes, a weariness older than he is spilling down his cheek as he begins to finally understand what is happening.

"No," his voice breaks as the word falls weakly from his mouth in horror and Xander near falls in love with him again in that moment. Then he reaches down gently and places Avriel's hand over his. The hand is heavy and warm on top of his, the pads of his fingers and his palms rough with calluses.

Another tear falls down Avriel's cheek. Xander reaches out tenderly to wipe it away with his thumb.

"If you want to leave here," he whispers, "You're going to have to ki-."

"Why?" Avriel asks him, "Why should I have to?"

Energy runs back into the Victor's voice, new strength borrowed from the anger that underlies his tone now, "Are you fucking kidding me? The masks weren't enough, now you want to play a game of chicken with a victor? What the fuck is wrong with you?" He pushes at Xander then with his free hand, but there's no weight to it. There's a weakness to the victor that Xander knew to expect.

The forum had analysed his every move since the arena. They knew his tendency to fall apart each year, they knew that he'd be weak tonight.

"You misunderstand," Xander says carefully, "We're here to help you, to release you from your burden." He tightens his grip on the knife then and the victor's hand and tugs sharply. The point of the knife pushes through his shirt, then into his skin, sending red blooming vibrant into the silk fibre. He gasps at the sharpness but only smiles.

"You didn't love her," he whispers gently then, as if he's just caught Avriel out in a lie but has already forgiven him, "You wanted her to die, she had to so you could go home and you knew that. You knew telling her about your sister and brother would help."

"Shut up," Avriel says, pulling back with all his strength, but the drug they spiked him with was designed to make him weaker and the setting was created to fill him with futility.

They work in tandem.

"Billie, in Six now, going to medical school," he continues and Avriel stops struggling, "And Duke, at boarding school in your own district because he couldn't stand looking at you. You're telling me she willingly gave her life for that?"

They stare at each other over the knife and Xander watches as Avriel's gaze turns from anger to hatred.

"Oh yes, I know all about that. I also know why they left you."

Avriel shakes his head then, fingers tightening around the handle, no longer pulling away. Xander leans in closer, the blade digs into his skin once again and spills his blood out onto Avriel's shirt but there's something else driving him now, euphoria perhaps, for the end. Relief, there again beneath his own skin, running through him, quelling the sharp pain of the knife and holding Avriel hostage.

The room is silent except for them, as if the world is holding its breath. There are no shadows here, no light for them to be made in but for the one above their heads, illuminating the moment for their audience, proof, finally of the Victor's true nature. A truth he can't run from this time, forced upon him by the fans who have dedicated their lives to the legacy of his win.

"Why everyone is always going to leave you," Xander hisses.

"Not everyone," Avriel says stubbornly.

And it's sweet, and so expected of him to fight until the very end that Xander just smiles at his innocence.

"That wanted runaway career from One you mean?" he asks brightly, improvising slightly, saying anything to get the Victor to do what he wants, "He won't get a choice, if it's not done within the next ten minutes like I paid for, the Peacekeepers will be alerted an-"

The knife drives into his chest and Xander gasps, eyes widening in surprise as pain lances through him. It's too soon, baiting Avriel isn't supposed to work, even in anger he was gentle.

But the blade is real and it's cold and so strange. He didn't know that he'd be able to feel its wrongness, he didn't know he'd be able to pinpoint the agony of it in his flesh.

It burns him, he sucks in a breath, trying to speak but it's suddenly impossible to bridge a clear thought from his brain to his mouth.

"Missed," Avriel mutters.

With effort, Xander's gaze lifts to look at the Victor's. There's pain in every piece of him, fear now too. He didn't think it was going to hurt like this, he was expecting a moment like Areto's, a blade in and out and then being held.

Intimate, and gentle and kind.

But Avriel's eyes are fathomless.

The knife slides out and then in again.

"Oh?," he gasps, and this is what he wanted, he's won, Avriel is a killer. He tips forward, hands reaching for the victor. 

Hands catch him, then push him backwards.

And then there's nothing more.

He doesn't sit down until the train starts moving, even then it doesn't feel quite real yet.

It's that same feeling that he always gets leaving the capitol, there's always been the fear that it's a trick, that they'll never take him home again.

He was right this time, for a brief time, he was right.

Avriel looks down at his hands, at the dried blood on the back of them, dried already in the grooves of his fingers, cracking across his nail bed. Gloria hadn't seemed surprised to see the blood, she must have known what his last obligation would entail. Maybe they all knew, everyone but him.

Silly of him though, to believe that they'd just let him go home after a party or two.

He's only ever been a hammer

And it's like there's nothing in him anymore now. Even as the sun starts to rise and endless fields of nothing begin to turn into District One. Home grows closer and he just grows colder. He sits there staring wordlessly out at the city scapes and the flashes of people along the fence line. Blue dresses, red hair, a black dog on a leash, all passing him by in an instant.

All these lives, they don't even know that all they're training for is the opportunity to be the next to be exploited.

Something occurs to him, Avriel presses his thumb into his thigh, absentminded, digits finding the knot on his skin from where Areto had to stab him to trigger his reflexes so that he'd kill her.

That guy, Xander, he hadn't had to do that.

Avriel had been ready for him to shut up since the moment he walked into the party to see all of those people wearing replicas of the mask that they put him in on day six. He didn't want to kill him though, not for that. Even with everything that he said, Avriel knew he was just trying to bait him.

But then he'd threatened Eden and all he could think about was watching the sword go through Eden's chest at that tournament.

His hand curls up into a fist against his thigh, so tightly that his nails dig into his palm, leaving little pink half-moons behind in his skin when his hand unfurls again.

Why can't people just leave them alone?

One turns Two, then Two turns into forest and Avriel stares out at the trees for awhile, the blood on his skin getting flakey as the sun shines in through the window. He scratches at it, absent-minded.

It feels like his heart is muffled. It's yelling something but he can't hear it clearly.

He shuts his eyes and leans back, letting the warmth of the sun lull him into a light doze. The motion of the train is too much to let him fully sleep and he falls into that half-state that always feels like it goes on forever. Purgatory is a train car.

The cellphone in his pocket buzzes suddenly and he opens his eyes blearily, looking outside first to try and get his bearings. They're passing through district five now. Patchy sunlight falls on a glimmering lake, the dam rising up out of the trees on the other end. He gazes at the district and remembers Patricia again.

And how she's dead.

The phone buzzes again, Avriel pulls it out of his pocket then stares at the notification on the top of his screen.

'1 new voice message, sent August 23rd, 91st from Victor Patricia Valfierno, received 2 minutes ago.'

He reads it again, hand steady as it holds the phone in front of him.

He knows that she's gone. He tried calling her enough times, right up until her number was discontinued and he got the 'number not in service' message a few times. They did a ceremony and everything on TV. Put a flag of Panem on her casket, Avriel'd thrown a shoe at the screen.

He knew she would have hated that.

He opens the call app on his phone. He's good with technology, good with anything that automates, but Avriel's never been a fan of his phone. Tone is hard over text, Pat knew that he didn't like it so most of the time she'd call.

And it was always nice to hear her voice again.

There's a little red dot on his message centre button to notify him that he's got something new.

But he doesn't know if Pat would even like the person he is now. Or maybe he'd just just become another thing she could relate to. He knows he's not the only Victor who's been made into a Capitol puppet.

Five disappears from sight and quickly starts turning into Six. He thinks about Flynn and that diner he loves. Things had felt so much easier back then, when he was seventeen just sitting in some diner on a stool beside the other victor, eating one of those burgers he couldn't shut up about.

He'd been right, it was probably the best burger Av had ever had.

He takes a deep breath then steels himself and raises the phone to his ear.

He does nothing for awhile but press the number 3 over and over again.

Avriel just sits there with the phone to his ear and watches the world roll by. The train takes him further and further away from the Capitol and closer to home with every minute that passes.

Eventually he hits 1 and lets his phone fall onto the empty seat beside him. His eyes are raw, the blood on his cheek streaked with tears but there's a numbness to all of that, he can't acknowledge it.

"Everyone is always going to leave you."

He picks the phone up and dials Patricia's number. It rings and rings for a long time and then the line goes dead, it always does these days.

It's getting pretty unbearable, all of this loss. Every time he thinks he's done mourning a person, the pain finds a way to become fresh again. Maybe that's what she meant though, maybe instead of letting it crush him, he's got to learn to live with it.

Become something different.

Something stronger.

Av's hand curls slightly in his lap, as if it's still wrapped around the grip of a knife. The knowledge of what he's done sits half outside him, just a fact that he'll have to deal with at some point but doesn't know how to reckon with now.

"I just wish you were here," he says after awhile.

Then he tips his head back against the seat and watches as the sun sets through the miles of trees that stand between Seven and Eight.

He's almost home.

Just a few more hours and he's home.