Personal Stakes

"I hate reaping days," Alfred grumbled, tugging at his overly starched collar.

"I know, love," the teen standing next to him murmured, reaching over and straightening Alfred's tie. "It'll all be over soon."

"Don't sound so casual, Oliver," Alfred scolded. "Someone's going to get picked to die—two someones."

"You don't know that." Oliver's freckled face split into a wide grin. "This could be our year."

"District Three's been on a losing streak for the last twenty Games," Alfred pointed out. "I doubt this'll be 'our year.'"

"You just need to think positively," Oliver replied knowingly.

"How old are we? Sixteen?" Alfred quickly counted off five fingers. "We've already been entered five times. Plus—" He leaned in close, his voice dropping to a whisper. "How much tesserae did you take this year? Enough for five?"

"Wyn and Finnegan were sick," Oliver protested, his voice defensive. "No one else in the family was going to—"

"Everyone else in your family has sense!" Alfred stressed. "You're only sixteen and you're already in that stupid bowl ten times."

"I won't get picked," Oliver soothed.

"Don't say that," Alfred scolded again. "You have a better chance of getting picked than the eighteen year olds."

"Oh so it's just me you care about?" Oliver's light blue eyes twinkled in jest. "You don't give a toss about anyone else here?"

"Can you blame me?" Alfred reached over and loosely laced his fingers with Oliver's. "I have a pretty personal stake in your safety."

Oliver stood on his toes to brush a kiss Alfred's cheek before their attention was directed to the stage to listen to the pomp and circumstance that marked the start of a reaping.

There was no law demanding it, but by unspoken accord, none of the possible tributes spoke. Privately, Alfred assumed it was because they were all too terrified. Even Oliver, normally impossibly talkative, was silent, his face hidden in Alfred's sleeve during some of the more gruesome reenactments of the rebellion all those generations ago and archived Games footage.

As the macabre film ended, the district's escort, a tall, busty woman in blue and yellow (even her short hair was dyed those colors) gave a sincere but canned speech about the Games and the odds being ever in their favor. Here, Alfred caught Oliver's eye and made a face, earning a giggle from the redhead, before the escort rehashed the reaping procedure, on the off chance they forgot.

She called the female tribute first; it was the daughter of a metalworker. As she made her way to the stage, it was apparent, even from a distance, that she looked like she was going to be sick. Somehow, Alfred doubted that anyone was blaming her.

However, his mind was miles away from her now as the escort dipped her hand into the second glass orb. If there was a god or a higher power, Alfred could only pray to it that he and his would be passed over for another y—

"Oliver Kirkland!"

There was a little shifting and milling about, everyone looking for the poor soul just called. Alfred, his eyes wide behind steel framed glasses, only had to turn his head to see the selected tribute. Color was rapidly draining form Oliver's face, making the spray of freckles across his nose and cheeks all the more prominent, and his eyes were just as wide, his jaw hanging open. In Alfred's eyes, the other boy didn't look sixteen anymore. He looked six.

"I'll be okay," Oliver said after a moment. His hand brushed briefly against Alfred's before reaching up to adjust his favorite bow tie.

"You said you wouldn't get picked," Alfred hissed.

"I'll be okay," the other teen repeated. He opened his mouth to speak again, but a Peacekeeper appeared at his side and clamped a hand around his arm.

Oliver jumped as he looked down at the hand around his arm. "Wait—wait, please."

If the Peacekeeper heard, they gave no indication and started to pull the teen out of the crowd and toward the stage. "No, wait—please wait—" Oliver pleaded, struggling in the Peacekeeper's grip, subtly at first, and then in earnest. "Wait—please, not yet!"

Alfred watched helplessly, his feet carrying him along the edge of the crowd. Even as he was being pulled away, the terror in Oliver's eyes was obvious and his struggles became more and more frantic, three more Peacekeepers appeared from within the crowds apparently meaning to drag him up there kicking and screaming, he wouldn't last five minutes—

Alfred's arm shot up, waving his hand to be seen. "I volunteer as tribute!" As terrified as he was—for Oliver, for his younger brothers, for himself for what he'd just done—his voice didn't quaver.

As the crowd kicked up a fervent murmur and the district escort yammered on about how very exciting a volunteer was, the Peacekeeper who first took Oliver's arm released him, and the teen ran as fast as his stocky legs could carry him.

Alfred broke free of the crowd and allowed Oliver to rush him, to throw his arms around his neck. The blond returned the gesture, burying his nose in Oliver's ginger hair.

"Why did you do that?" Oliver mumbled, his face hidden in Alfred's chest.

"That could I do?" Alfred asked softly. "Did you want to die in that h—"

"I don't want you to die!" Oliver moaned.

"I won't die," Alfred murmured, rubbing small circles on Oliver's back.

"What gives you the right to say that to me, but not me to say it to you?" Oliver snapped, lifting his head. He was crying in earnest now, tears streaking down his cheeks and onto his sweater. "What gives you the goddamned right?"

"Because—" Alfred took Oliver's face in his hands and leaned in close, the words private and heavy with emotion he didn't dare show, not in front of the cameras no doubt trained on them. "Because I'm promising you, right now—I'm coming home. I don't care what it takes—" He kissed Oliver's forehead—"or what I have to do—" He pressed twin kisses to the other's cheeks—"I'm only coming home a victor." A soft, kiss, brief but boundless in affection, against Oliver's lips now. "It's going to take more than the Games to separate us, okay?"

Oliver's lower lip trembled, but he nodded his understanding. Alfred offered him a smile, winning and confident, before breaking away to make his way toward the stage to join his fellow tribute. He'd always had something of a stake in the games (when it was mandatory watching, who didn't?) but now that he had thrown his life into the ring—and not only that, but promised Oliver he'd come home safely, the stakes had become so personal, that he didn't dare entertain the thought of breaking that promise.