Jayce wasn't sure he wanted to win anymore.

He'd spent years convinced otherwise. District 2 made sure of that. Training since childhood, volunteer mentality drilled into him with every cracked bone and mantra. The Games were supposed to be glory. Legacy. Proof that the winner was better than the rest.

It had been easier, then. When it was all just numbers and odds, sparring and simulations. When the academy taught him what to hit, where to stab, learning how to kill clean and fast. He had volunteered without hesitation. He knew what was expected of him.

And yet.

And yet, as you slept under the rocky outcrop you had elected as base, nestled in all the blankets you had, Jayce felt the realisation hit him for what felt like the fiftieth time.

He should have taken the shot on day five, when you were washing off in the stream, water cupped in trembling hands. It would have been fast. Merciful. You wouldn't even have had the time to scream. But then you glanced at him, and laughed, and called him a creep for staring. And it all shattered at once.

He should have finished you the first time you met, really. Slit your throat when your back was turned. Now, he found himself silently praying that no one had found your hideout every time he left for more than half an hour. He felt himself go cold every time the cannon rang out. Hell, he even brought you a flower, once, just after killing the girl from district four.

You weren't from district two. You didn't think in terms of glory or fame. You never asked to be here, not like he did. You didn't know how it felt to carry the weight of expectation, to be brought up from birth to either win, or die trying.

You just saw him as Jayce. And that was the most dangerous thing of them all.

Because when Jayce looked back now, he didn’t see a victor’s path lined with corpses. He saw your hands, trembling in the dark. He saw the curl of your lips when you laughed, even in the arena. He saw someone worth living for. Or maybe--worse--worth dying for.

His hand ghosted over yout forehead, brushing the hair off your face, peaceful in sleep. He could kill you right now and be done with it. Make it merciful. Make you not even realised what he had done. And then your eyes opened, and his resolve crumbled again.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to disturb you." He attempted a weak smile. "You can go back to sleep. I'll keep watch tonight."