Ashre would not cry.
There was a break in the clouds, but not in the forest. Keon and Ashre, situated together, were hidden from the sky. The blue, the grey, the shining sun... With Keon asleep and Ashre awake, there was nothing for the boy to do, but wait in silence. Quiet held truth, revelation. The stillness gave way to an abundance of memory.
And Ashre would not cry.
His back was against a cold rock, pushing into his skin and making him feel more than uncomfortable. He tried counting how many days had passed since the Games had begun, but he honestly couldn't remember. He saw flashes of dogs, fears, blood, and death. But he felt no time had gone by. This made him worried.
But, he would not cry. Not now.
He stood to be rid of the stone behind him. He only planned on doing just that, but something in him made him leave Keon there. His feet felt rough against the crackling leaves and displacing dirt. Keon was left behind for a time as Ashre walked aimlessly, trying to rid himself of the claustrophobic trees. He caught up, however reluctant he was to find the boy. The older tribute had awoken to find Ashre gone, and that scared him. A fright that disappeared when they reunited again.
Yet, it didn't make Ashre cry. Not for that.
Growth is unidentifiable. Back home, Ashre had a doorframe with marks all over it, labelled with different dates. The different lines held different heights, all in inches from different stages in his life. So, growth became something of difference.
In the Games, though, his growth became his indifference. Ashre felt numb every morning, cold every night. Feeling, naiveté, youth, all dead before the anthem could play for him as a whole. He still held passion for more, outside the arena.
Keon and Ashre had each other's care. Keon knew he would have to abandon Ashre at some point, but, unless he wanted to win the Games and live with guilt forever, then he'd stay with the boy. Ashre had become aware just earlier, after applying their retrieved medicine to Keon's bloody leg.
Keon winced, and the hissing made Ashre flinch back, hesitant.
"Go ahead," Keon muttered. He sounded angry, but not at Ashre of course. At his wound. He didn't know where it came from. He had awoken on his pedestal to see his skin torn apart and his head aching. All he remembered was the recoil of his nightmares. Ashre's lip quivered at the thought of putting Keon in pain. Keon vulnerable made Ashre even weaker. Keon hurting, hurt him. He had to clean the wound, though. With a scared shrug and a rag in his hands, he slowly rolled his arm forward to-
"Wait!" Keon shoved the boy's arm away. Ashre laughed at his friend. He pretended to comply, but applied the wet rag to the open gash anyway. Keon yelled into the sky, causing Ashre to jump back. His scream was loud. Its high pitch pierced into the air, causing Ashre to believe his wound was no ordinary wound. He cursed the Game Makers. He cursed them.
"Ashre!" Keon snapped, voice strained.
"What?"
"You just cursed... out loud."
Ashre's face went blank, feeling guilty like any child would after letting a word like that slip. He turned frantically, looking around for one of the cameras in order to apologize to his family watching.
"Well, shit," Keon sighed, "I don't have to filter myself anymore."
Ashre stared down at the sitting Keon. The older tribute stood to his feet, rubbed his face, and stepped forward.
