Disclaimer: I do not own anything about the Hunger Games. I'm only doing this for entertainment for me and hopefully others! :)

Even before her breath tickles the side of my neck, I feel my mattress sag from an unbalanced exertion of weight.

"Wake up sleepyhead," she croons sweetly in my ear, nudging me gently to cut my body free from all ties of sleep. But when I refuse to move from my snug fetal position, her warm body slowly gravitates towards mine. I suppress a smug smile when her firm breasts press up against my face, wondering how my body temperature could climb so suddenly as my body is taken over by an explosive tingling sensation.

I'm deciding whether I should still pretend to be sleeping or just given into my body's desires and reach up to kiss her when I feel something warm and wet on my cheek. I instantly recoil with disgust. The girl laughs. My eyes instantly snap open at the sound of her voice, but it's impossible to see clearly as my pupils dilate painfully to absorb the sunny interior of the bedroom. Once the bright white dots swimming in my vision have all dispersed, I can finally process my surroundings, including my overnight guest sitting at the foot of my bed. She's sticking her tongue out at me teasingly, like a small child taunting me with an expensive new coat. Her wavy dark brown hair is a frizzy mess, several strands plastered to her sweaty forehead. But the foot she runs up my bare calf is icy cold.

"Cyanna, put some socks on," I complain, burrowing my face into my pillow.

"Why?" Cyanna teases. "Are you afraid of my cold feet?"

"Ha ha," I mutter sarcastically. Although my eyes are closed, I mentally make an act of rolling them.

This mockery of our no-strings-attached sexual relationship is a routine we've executed every day since we were fifteen. Although she makes me feel things that no other girl has or ever will when we're together intimately, Cyanna and I have remained nothing more than friends for the past three years. In fact, we've been best friends since we first met at six years old on our first day of school. Our friendship began as forced, at first because we had no other choice. Both of our families were considered to have "undesirable bloodlines", so we we are shunned by the members who uphold District 9's ridiculous chaste system. No matter our determination or skill, we have always been the lower rungs of the social ladder and live under most everyone's noses. Because no one talked to us, we soon began seeking each other out for answers. Unfortunately, as people, our personalities fell on opposite ends of the spectrum; we could hardly engage in a civil conversation without screaming and throwing sharp objects at each other for twenty minutes beforehand. But eventually we filled the gaps left by our differences with an irrevocable bond that had squished our mismatched hearts into one unit that beats stronger now because of it.

Cyanna is peering down at me curiously. And I think to myself I love the color of her eyes, and if I had to pick my favorite color, I'd pick the azure blue of Cyanna's irises. "What are you thinking, Daniel?" she asks carefully.

I realize more time has elapsed since I last spoke than I originally thought. It's a good thing extended periods of silence and blank stares don't disturb Cyanna, because I have a tendency to drift in and out of my head. I smile up at her. "Just that you're beautiful," I tell her seductively, although the honest undertones in my voice are nothing less than subtle.

I can feel her smile against my lips as she kisses me. She pulls back from me after a minute, scrutinizing me with a certain softness in her features. I'm returning the stare and extending my arm automatically to cradle her cheek in my hand. For once she doesn't pull away. Her fair, freckled skin is soft like silk but much warmer. She reaches up to my hand pressed against her face and brings it to her mouth so she can brush each finger with her lips. It's an affectionate gesture, and I'm almost ashamed to say I'm baffled by it, because Cyanna has never been one for goodnight kisses or spontaneous embraces. Intercourse with Cyanna is passionate and wild, with reckless kisses and touching drunken bodies with abandon. There's never any holding hands or cuddling or even a candle-lit dinner beforehand. A bottle is passed back and forth until are minds are hazy and we're reeling towards the bed. Then I'm ripping off her blouse, popping buttons in my haste, and lifting her body down onto the mattress. Sometimes I even forget to take my shoes off before we begin rolling around in the sheets.

"You really think I'm beautiful?" She whispers, her voice suddenly shaky and clouded with doubt.

I frown at her somberly, clasping the top of her arms firmly. Although her body's strong and steady, I can still feel a slight trembling in her bones that makes me choke on my swollen heart. I can't help but feel worried about Cyanna. She's always been the levelheaded one of the two of us, and when something makes her upset, my emotions instantly spiral off the tracks. When we're in too deep with debt, I'm the one panicking and fretfully yanking at my hair in some sort of tantrum-like, inconsolable state. But she always knows what to do, and she can do anything she sets her mind to in a calm and sophisticated manner, because that's just the kind of person Cyanna is. I admire her toughness, the way in which she talks so confidently that she intimidates men a head taller than her. So I'm surprised and honestly a little fearful of the sudden vulnerable look in her eyes. Cyanna is passing into my hands an emotion so raw and heavy that I'm afraid I'll drop it and shatter it to pieces. I'm uncertain and nervous, feeling like I don't fit in my own skin, because I don't have the knowledge or experience on how to fix it. I don't know how to take care of myself, so how could I begin to possibly console her?

But in the long seconds it takes me to formulate a response, she starts to think I was just lying to make her feel better. More tears gather at the corners of her eyes and threaten to spill over her lashes. And I hate myself for hesitating, because I do think she's pretty. I'm not lying. I'm not.

When I do finally manage to pull an answer from the scattered thoughts in my mind, it sticks in my throat like stale bread, and I almost have to cough to force the words up and out into the air. "Of course I think you're beautiful," I stammer, the skin on the back of my neck flushed. I can hardly go a second without blinking, and I think the darting of my eyes around the room to advert my gaze from lingering on Cyanna's red-rimmed ones is a mouthpiece of my discomfort and anxiety.

For some reason she accepts my wobbling, sloppy confession as the truth, and I watch her mouth curve up into a smile like the sun breaking through storm clouds. "Thank you, Danny," she says graciously, almost in relief. She halfheartedly tries to hide a sniffle by pretending to sneeze into her elbow.

I've never thought of Cyanna as something delicate, so all of her sniffling and tenderness and fishing for compliments has me scratching my head. Because she has never needed another person's words to make her feel good about herself, especially in her line of work. Around her fifteenth birthday, she began sleeping around with the more well-to-do men of District 9, especially the flesh-hungry Peacekeepers who's oath forbids them to wed, for the extra money needed to purchase luxuries such as lard, soap, and lighter fluid. Since then, she's warming a different man's bed every week, crawling in and out of houses early in the morning with her tights ripped in all the wrong places.

But I love love love her anyway.

I love how she slowly started to come to me after rough nights with callous men. I'd patch up her wounds and apply salve to the darkest bruises, no questions asked. I would tell her about my day as I helped her wash off her client's fleas and cheap cologne. Eventually, the comfort of my words was also given to her through my lips. I wanted to show her that physical contact wasn't a dirty thing, but I was never dominant in bed with her. I always let her initiate any intimacy, never pushing it or insisting it was done a certain way because that would be too much of a trigger of all the foul things other men make her do. I let Cyanna come to me and make the decisions, and I happily found my body as well as my mind served as an outlet for all of her painful emotions.

Cyanna pushes herself up off the mattress, untangling herself from the thick of blankets wrapped around her. When the last sheet falls away from her torso, I'm suddenly aware of how nude she really is. She saunters over to the bedroom window, throwing it open to ventilate the musty room. She raises her arms over her head and stretches her long, pale body as the cool morning breeze settles on her skin. I sit up to watch her, but all that exposed skin and the defined curves of her hips has my veins contracting and expanding as my blood boils into a fiery, intense lust.

She turns to face me, and when she sees me hastily pulling the blanket over my legs, she laughs, "Is little Danny blushing?" Her mouth is twisted into a smirk, but there's still a gentle smile shining in her eyes. Ignoring the open window that reveals our indecent state to the public, she walks over and sits next to me on the bed again, and it's a struggle to keep my gaze from dropping from her eyes to her naked chest. The expression on her face is thoughtful as she trains her eyes to the ceiling, and she wets her lips with the tip of her tongue like she always does when she's grappling on how to express an idea in her head.

I'm imagining Cyanna dressed in a transparent silk robe with a crown of deep purple flowers as luscious as her lips intertwined in her hair when she finally looks at me again. My mental image of her is still nowhere near as stunning as she is now, real and present and still riddled with bedhead and drowsy eyes. "I just wanted to thank you for what you said before." She says, taking my hand in hers almost shyly.

And I'm thinking to myself again how out of character this is for her. I can't help but wonder why she's acting so strangely this morning, but I don't care enough to investigate. This is the closest I've felt to her in months. Sharing a bed for one night with a brief moment of vulnerability when you're getting undressed is so much different than actually just getting close to someone you care about and talking. I can't even begin to explain how the latter is infinitely better.

I'm tentatively wrapping my arm around her shoulders, squeezing her to my side. "I always think you're beautiful. In fact, I even thought you were the prettiest girl I'd ever seen when I was only seven. Remember? I was so jealous of your attractive looks that I tried to cut off your hair to make you even with even with everyone else?"

"I remember that!" Cyanna giggles, punching my arm playfully. "You were such an ass, but you did grow into a good man. Eventually." The sincerity in her voice makes me want to smile or cry, I'm still not sure. I think Cyanna feels the same way as she dabs at her eyes to check for any traces of moisture on her skin. She absently traces the diamond pattern of the bed quilt for a minute or two before she finds the courage to speak again. "You know, you're the only man who's ever told me I'm beautiful. Well, without the motive to take me home for a couple hours, anyway."

I flinch at the mention of Cyanna's broad history of lovers, and my heart aches. The many memories of strange men years older than my best friend with their lips on hers and her hands balled in their shirts hungrily like she wants to tear the fabric apart to reveal the flesh beneath has me breathing deeply to quell the anger I feel at the disgusting slobs of men who could take advantage of a teenage girl. But I'm more concerned about Cyanna's physical as well as mental health, because she's the one who stands out on those sleazy street corners and waits and waits for an overly eager escort to take her home with them. She's the one who lets them treat her like she's a worthless toy to twist and bend and break. I wonder if there will ever be a time when I won't have to worry about my best friend every moment of the day she isn't by my side. It terrifies me to consider there may be a time in the near future where she'll just completely break down and I'll lose her forever. I'm terrified she'll never be the bride she's always wanted to be. It pains me to think about the wedding veil she has tucked away in a painted wooden box that she may never get to use. I'm terrified her idea of marriage has been corrupted by all that she's had to with her body, because something so beautiful and permanent shouldn't be seen as filthy and degrading like the middle-aged man's grey stubble Cyanna has had to pretend she enjoys on her young skin. I hate that she does this to herself. I hate it, and I wish there was something more I could do besides holding her and mending the external wounds that I can reach. She deserves more than this. It isn't living, doesn't she know that?

It takes Cyanna's cobalt-smooth voice to talk me down from the anguish that's so heavy it could send my knees buckling if I were standing."Danny," she says firmly, and I hear in her voice the strong and disciplined Cyanna I've always known. "You can't always retreat into your head when I say something that upsets you. Stay with me, please. Just listen to everything I'm about to tell you. It might not make you happy now, but I promise it'll be worth it in the long-run."

I can't dispute her logic, so I'm scrapping all those vile mental snapshots of Cyanna lying half naked on a double bed as she kisses a sweaty and trembling Peacekeeper's shoulder. I look at her intently, to prove my ears and mind are open.

I readjust my sitting position so my back is reclined against the wooden bed frame, getting comfortable as I prop my feet on a pillow. I pat the space next to me invitingly, and then Cyanna's curling into the side of my body, resting her head on my shoulder. And I love how this feels so natural, the way in which I tuck her head under my chin and hold her close. She's silent for a couple moments, and when the words perched on the edge of her lips finally take flight, the sound almost reverberates off the walls like an echoing scream in a stone cavern.

"Today's Reaping Day, Danny."

Those words paint vivid pictures of previous Games I witnessed: countless screams of children, gory knives plunged in the earth around the Cornucopia, an axe with a wickedly gleaming handle burrowed in a tribute's sternum. Then there's one especially horrific scene that stars a fifteen-year-old girl fighting unconsciousness as she stumbles through dense woodland with blood gushing out of a wound at her left temple. She was dead in a matter of minutes.

I forgot about all of those things up until the day the threat of my chance of being Reaped is hanging over my head. Somehow, the things you see through a screen just aren't real to you until you consider just how close you might be to staring your worst fears face to face. And with Cyanna's declaration of the Capitol's most anticipated "holiday", I'm reminded of just how many paper slips have my name in the boys' glass Reaping bowl.

Twenty-five.

Twenty-five too many.

But tessera always comes with cost. Still, I'm scared suddenly, anxious about my future, about my chances of being picked for the Games. It takes a minute of backpedaling my thoughts to firmly order myself not to panic, because I did what I had to so Cyanna and her disabled brother could have those tokens worth a meager year's supply of oil and grain. I did what I had to so I could feed the only semblance of family I have left.

"You forgot, didn't you?" Cyanna asks flatly. But whether her voice is toneless either from her struggle to conceal her hysteria or just because she's simply angry at me, I can't decide.

I'm staring forward at nothing, lost and dizzy and sick to my stomach as I watch as the pink-tinged morning light is scattered off of swirling dust motes. "No," I dissent, "I didn't. Maybe I just didn't want to remember the mass murder of twenty three children."

Cyanna sighs in what I assume is frustration, though I can't be certain because my eyes are angled at a different direction so I'm not looking at her expression. I'm too nervous that I'll do something stupid like begin weeping if I see her face.

Cyanna begins slowly, "I think it's wrong to completely erase the Games from your memories."

Her words make my heart skip a beat, and then I'm recollecting myself with a cold, contained fury. "So you're saying we should treat the Games like the Capitol does? Like winning the lottery of inevitable death is something that should be celebrated? Hundreds of children are dead now because of fifty-seven years of those bloody arenas and their bloodthirsty Gamemakers! Think of the pigs who prepare us for slaughter and laugh as the losers' throats are slit! It's sick, Cyanna! And you're trying to defend it? You want to give them the satisfaction of knowing we enjoy it as much as they do?"

I feel Cyanna's nails dig into my shoulder, drawing blood that clings to my skin like beads of sweat. Somehow, the pain serves as the coolant that diffuses the bomb in my chest. Like clockwork, the wick burns up an additional several centimeters with every beat of my heart, but it doesn't matter anymore because I feel nerve endings tingling and nails slowly retracting from their bloody indents. Cyanna's shifted her position so she's sitting in front of me on her knees, the heels of her hands pressed into my thighs, demanding I look at her.

I do, and I'm staring into wide blue eyes. Blue that's calm and rational and stern. It's funny how one color can open my mind back up so easily, almost like it's the one and only switch. I guess my mind's not as complex a circuit as I originally thought; because just like that, I'm willing to listen to her again.

Cyanna scrutinizes me for a moment, hard-pressed to see if anything she says next will set me off on another tangent. She weighs her options but decides I'm stable enough.

"What I meant when I said we should remember the Games isn't that I believe it's right to glorify someone's ability to take another human's life during desperate circumstances. And I completely understand why someone might choose to forget all of the horrible things that happen in that arena. It's easy to blame the Capitol for the districts' suffering - the starvation, the disease, the poverty. It's easy to have one distinct enemy for all of Panem to hate. But when twenty-four of the districts' children are trapped in an enclosed area and forced to fight each other to the death, you're reminded that there are enemies even amongst yourselves. Because there's only one winner, and each district wants one of their own to make it out alive. Not to mention the tributes are more willing to kill each other rather than lay down their weapons. The districts of Panem are divided, and twenty-three children die a preventable death because of it. Danny, I know it's painful to think of all the girls and boys who died before they had the opportunity to make their life mean something, but just hearing those canons as another fellow tribute falls reminds all of Panem that we have to confront our own conflicts together before we can even acknowledge our greatest enemy. The deaths of all those children serve the purpose of uniting us. It may take several years, maybe generations, before everyone in the districts catches on, but eventually the loss of our nation's children will encourage people to step up and unite to end our suffering. We have to remember our fallen tributes in every baby step we take as a society. Because how else are we going to make every drop of blood lost count?"

Is Cyanna right? Can we really hate an authority as a whole if we're always turning on each other and murdering our own in their most vulnerable state? In the Games, it isn't just the Careers ruthlessly killing. Even the children from the poorer districts are to blame for the brutal fatalities in the arena. They all charge to the Cornucopia for a weapon not to just defend themselves but to also kill. Everyone just wants to save their own skin. They don't care who they'll have to slaughter for victory.

The districts are divided.

I feel like I could scream at the top of my lungs until my voice is hoarse because mankind is so fucked up and it isn't fair.

Or maybe I'm so upset because this is nothing but old news.

I've been thinking in silence for several minutes when Cyanna clasps our hands together and consumes the empty atmosphere with more words. "I worry about you, Danny." She says softly, almost to herself.

I laugh bitterly, "Cyanna, sometimes I think my mother's still haunting me through you. In fact, is that a gray hair I see?" I lean forward playfully to inspect her perfectly brown roots, but my eyes are still burning and I have to clear my throat twice so I can swallow the thick lump of sadness congesting my airway.

Cyanna's palms slam hard into my chest, and my entire body is shoved back into the headboard. There's a dull throbbing sensation as my neck whips back and the base of my skull cracks against the wood. I'm more surprised than injured by her sudden violent outburst, but my voice still comes out offended and hurt. "What the hell was that for?" I ask, rubbing my sore head.

Cyanna's given up trying to lie peacefully next to me, and has taken to fretfully pacing the length of the room. Her muscles are coiled, as if for a fight, and the tension in her body is so potent it seems to emit from her like seismic waves. When she halts in the middle of one long stride and turns to face me, her eyes are narrowed into slits of fury. "How many times is your name in there?"

My voice sounds small and meek like a child's when I answer, "Twenty-five."

Cyanna's fingers flex as if to hit me good and hard again, but they clench into a fist that hangs lamely at her side. I can see her teeth grinding painfully to channel her anger, and I almost plead for her to stop because it's no use for her to get upset over this. The odds are stacked higher against me, anyway. I'm seventeen, and everyone knows outlying districts like 9 aren't the most secure places to live. The number of starving children applying for tessera gets higher every year as the yield of crops decreases with each passing season. It also doesn't help that I have no parents to help me pay the bills or put food on the table. So naturally, there are more slips of paper with my name on them floating in the pool than most other boys. But in the end it all comes down to chance, like rolling a dice. The sides with fewer dots don't necessarily have an advantage over the six-dotted sides. Just like how a child with four slips could be chosen over someone older with thirty slips to their name.

All you can do is hope that luck is on your side.

"You need to stop doing this," Cyanna says, retreating to the window to stare out at its serene view of my neighbors' ramshackle homes and the gravel road twisting out of District 9's poorest subdivision. Her voice is strangled, thick with emotion that sounds akin to fear. The skin under her eyes is puffy and transparent like paper. I can see the greenish-blue of her veins, and I think of the rivers of blood flowing inside them.

I don't need to ask her to elaborate. She's never failed to say everything that needs to be said.

"I know why you take all that tessera, and I also know it can't be all for just you. You think I don't notice how you always invite me and Claus over for dinner? How you insist we take the leftovers? You're taking extra tessera so me and Claus won't starve, aren't you?" she accuses sharply.

I don't have an answer.

Cyanna slams the wall, and the only picture I have of my father shakes with it. "Goddammit, Danny," she swears loudly. "Could you just drop the whole noble bullshit? I can take care of Claus and myself just fine."

I can feel my pulse in my temples, and I suddenly don't care if District 9's entire population can hear me screaming. "Take care of yourself! How? By having every Peacekeeper prick of Panem fuck you?" I pretend to consider it. "Actually, a whore can make a pretty solid income, if you work the day shift as well. But it looks like you've got that covered, Cyanna."

"Fuck you, Danny!" She screeches, taking my dad's picture from its mount and throwing it at my head. Cyanna has good aim, but my instinctive duck saves my skull from the shattered glass frame.

The entire world could burn down and the flames could still never melt the betrayed anger out of my best friend's eyes.

She's on the verge of tears as she whispers, "I do what I have to. And I know it's not the best decision I've ever made, but it's a sacrifice I'm willing to make for the best of my family. I thought you understood that, Danny. Or did you forget when your parents were executed in the Town Square for stealing a pocketful of grain so you could eat that night? I know I didn't forget, because that's when you became a part of me. Remember? Later that evening after your parents' bodies were cremated you came to my house and we sat out on the porch. You laid your head in my lap and cried yourself to sleep. That's when my mother was still alive, and she found two smooth stones down by the river so you could make markers for your parents. I helped you set them under the window box that held the red geraniums your mother had planted earlier that spring. And we sang silly sangs from our childhood because you couldn't bear holding a memorial. It would feel too much like saying goodbye. And I know how you hate goodbyes."

Is numb an emotion? Because it seems to be one of the few things I've been feeling lately.

Cyanna sees my slack jaw and the dull glaze over my eyes. Some sort of empathy must compute in her thoughts, because she walks back over to the bed, takes a seat on the sagging mattress, and hesitantly scoots closer to me. Her arm encircles my waist, but it isn't a provocative gesture. It's not one of her touches that sends my mind spinning far and wide; it doesn't make my body feel so light that it feels like I'll float up and up and up until my head hits the ceiling. Instead, it functions as the anchor that grounds me to reality, and I'm grateful for it.

She pushes strands of my long, shaggy hair behind my ears. "I'm sorry for getting angry at you, but it frustrates me that you haven't realized how much you mean to me. We fight, of course. Neither of us is perfect, but I've still come to love you like a brother despite it all. We've been through hell and back, but I can only hope you're here to stay. Because you're my family, Danny, in all the ways that matter. I can't even begin to imagine losing you, especially not in that way, not in the Games. I know you think you're protecting me and my little brother by taking tessera for us, but every slip of paper with your name on it that goes into the Reaping pool slowly shatters my heart to pieces. Please, don't do this anymore, Danny. Claus needs you too much. I need you."

All of my tears have been swallowed, but their absence has left my throat dry and scratchy. "I won't apply for extra tessera next year," I promise her, but my words are as hollow as my heart because I don't know when or how I'm going to stop lying to Cyanna.

The slight upward curve of her mouth hints at the beginning of a smile, but her eyes are still sad. "Thank you," she sighs, kissing me lightly on the cheek. "How do you feel about breakfast?"

"I don't think I can stomach anything," I tell her honestly.

A genuine smile illuminates Cyanna's face as she reaches under the bed and comes up with a glass bottle of some amber liquor. "Drink up," she orders slyly, "it'll make you feel better."

I decide to play along, because the somber attitude of the room is starting to exhaust me. I eagerly accept it from her, grasping the neck of the bottle as I take a swig. It burns more than the usual homemade cocktails Cyanna manages to smuggle from the market. But I'm definitely not complaining, because my head's pounding and I'm hoping to get buzzed before the Reaping in the Town Square. "Where'd you get this?" I ask, feeling the spirit's fire licking at my heart. It's comforting like the woolen blanket at the foot of my bed that my mother knitted for me as my eighth birthday present.

"Some of my clients really appreciate my services," she says carefully, obviously trying to dodge the discomfort that accompanies this topic.

I decide to drop it, sipping slowly from the bottle. The drink's smooth and strong, but it has a sweet aftertaste, almost like ambrosia. When a quarter of the bottle is gone, Cyanna snatches it from my hands and greedily allows the liquor to splash on her tongue.

We exchange a glance as she passes the bottle back to me. In a ridiculously soprano Capitol accent, Cyanna mocks the most despised mantra in the districts:

"May the odds be ever in your favor!"

So... please review. Good or bad, I don't mind. Criticism is what keeps me writing! :) Anyway, tell me if I should continue. Also, I want to apologize to those of you who read this and hated it (there will probably be quite a few), but I wrote it... so get over it. It can't be unwritten. Cheers to y'all and happy April Fool's!