Note: this is currently set to just be a one-shot unless interest is really expressed in seeing it continued.
They're from District 9. If you were wondering. (Why not 6? Because 6's stuff didn't work for the fic. )
Pale hands clutch at his arm for stability. There's an ancient impulse to shove the offender off which Nezumi almost follows through on before catching a glimpse of Shion's soft brown hair. The impulse is hurriedly crushed under their running feet and Nezumi finds his own arm sneaking around Shion's waist to keep him from getting lost in the thrum of the crowd.
They're old-hat at this now. Routinely shoving their way into the roped areas, organized by age, while ignoring the stares of the soldiers with their massive guns and pristine white outfits. Nezumi wants to spit on them, but he can't risk death yet.
Just two more years of being roped away like cattle; two more years of Shion clenching his arm so hard it bruises when the names are called; two more years of Shion researching each of the Tributes; two more years of him hunting down their families and learning about them; two more years of holding Shion's hand as he lies awake at night when the Tributes are murdered because They were people too. People just like us Nezumi— and they didn't deserve this.
Two more years.
Four more Tributes.
Four more dead before Nezumi will be eighteen and strong enough to rip apart this sick system from the inside.
"Where's Safu?" Nezumi yells, voice barely carrying over the motion and sweat of the other sixteen-year-olds.
"We were separated earlier, we need to—Nezumi!"
Shion pitches forward when Nezumi detaches from him, spotting Safu's short hair and signature dirty knit sweater as she stares at one of the soldiers pointing a gun at a sobbing twelve-year old. She turns halfway before he calls out to her, wordlessly taking his hand.
"Are you okay?" Nezumi asks.
"Rico asked me where to stand. I thought I'd show him, but clearly that was a mistake as that soldier offered to show him instead," Safu says, voice cold.
Anyone listening would say her words make her sound as complacent as any other citizen but Nezumi, standing close, can feel the tension coming off of her in waves. Every one of her muscles is tensed to fight. She's learning to pick her battles. Nezumi squeezes her hand and she finally looks at him, offering a small squeeze back. "Shion and I were separated, is he with you?"
"I'll take you."
Two more years, Nezumi reminds himself, thinking of the weeping kid and hoping he doesn't hear a gunshot behind him.
The three of them huddle together, collectively trying to ignore the roar of the crowd and the stench of the district's square. This is the one time a year when the mills and factories aren't running, the only time that workers must take off in order to witness the glorious selection process for the Capitol's sick game—the Reaping.
Even without the factories running the area still reeks of exhaust. Nezumi licks his lips and focuses on other things.
"Are you okay?" Shion whispers to Safu, arms loose around both of them. She nods obediently and Nezumi sees Shion's eyes darken.
Of course she isn't. None of them are. Not really.
Shion once asked Nezumi if they could still be human when they're allowing this tradition to continue. At the time, Nezumi had assured him they were. They were going to be the ones to stop it.
As he stares at the mayor delivering an impassioned speech about the district's grain supply feeding the world as they know it—Nezumi doubts his own words. The grain they harvest is used for tesserae, as bribes for children that force them enter their name in the Reaping additional times in order to feed their loved ones. As their District supplies this grain, their very livelihood relies on this disgusting exchange. That too, Nezumi supposes, is just another form of complacency. His stomach churns at the thought.
The mayor steps aside to let their escort, Rikiga, speak. He's a large man who's often tipsy and never seen without some sort of expensive suit and red bowtie, opting for a lazy archaic look instead of trying to keep up with ever-changing Capital fashion. He and Shion's mother are acquainted so he'll occasionally linger around her "bakery" where she uses leftover grain to bake shitty bread for the starving. Shion takes an additional tesserae every year to support it against Nezumi's wishes.
Rikiga supplies the typical Capital fanfare, music and pledges, something Nezumi knows pisses Shion off more than anything, and his face doesn't disappoint. It locks firmly into a fierce scowl as Rikiga dances around, attempting to scrounge up enthusiasm for the slaughter about to occur, bumbling his way through the all the typical propaganda.
"Just a little longer," Nezumi whispers treasonously, breath coasting along Shion's ear. Only in moments like this will he allow himself to get so close. "And then we'll change everything."
Shion barely nods, hardly seeming to acknowledge Nezumi's words, but the way his arms tighten around both of them tells Nezumi they mean everything. The projection Rikiga managed to set up fades away and suddenly it's time for the female tribute to be selected.
The air is thick now, painfully still. Nezumi misses the clamor of the crowd and the ever-constant smoke from the factories. The air here is too clean now. It's too easy to see the reality of the world around them, and accept the fact that one person in this massive District is going to be sent to die. Nezumi refuses to close his eyes and instead forces himself to focus, to witness it.
Shion's right. The Tributes are people, the same as anyone else here. And Nezumi will honor their passing. He will not ignore them. He will not deny them. No matter how horrible their Reaping, he will watch them the whole time.
In two more years he will avenge them.
Rikiga draws a name, playing at drunk (because like hell the Capital would let him show up in any condition less than perfect to the Reaping) dropping the first few slips of paper he picks up. Clumsy fingers finally settle on one of them, extra thin and curled up near the very bottom of the container. He slowly hobbles his way to the microphone.
"And the female tribute for the Hunger Games is— "
Safu's expression does not change. She does not shut her eyes, or cry, or make any sound at all. She is still.
And Shion is the one who screams.
"She can't—! Her name was only in five times—She never had to buy tesserae this is a mistake this is a—"
"Shion," she says. Her voice is level, but Nezumi can feel her heart fluttering helplessly in her chest- the speed of a hummingbird's wings. She breathes in and looks at both of them, eyes firm, a warning: Don't fight. Not now. And Nezumi's suddenly aware of everyone who's staring at them, the heated gaze of the Capital through their cameras, all of the parents and children of their District. Everyone is listening, watching, waiting. But Safu does not cry.
In this one moment the eyes of the entire world form a needle focusing only on this one young girl trying desperately to calm the beating of her heart. This is the true game, to show the fear, the broken-heartedness, the tears. To break the competitors before they begin to fight. And Safu is refusing to play it.
Nezumi feels nothing short of agony and complete respect.
"Please let go of my arm. Both of you."
Nezumi wasn't even aware he grabbed it. He loosens his fingers, gently pulling Shion to him, as Safu takes a step forward into the applause.
"It's not possible." Shion repeats into Nezumi's shirt.
Two more years. Nezumi tells himself.
It suddenly means nothing.
Safu stands beside Rikiga and he raises her hand in the air, a stupid grin on his face. Her eyes are blank, devoid of sadness or rage. But she does not look away from the crowd. Shion breaks away from Nezumi's tight embrace and watches her, brown eyes filled with tears.
Her moment ends, the applause dies down, and the District already begins to forget. Rikiga reaches for the next name. Nezumi waits, trying to do the math in his head. Trying to figure out a strategy around Safu's distant, unfeeling gaze.
"All of this, Nezumi—" Shion starts, voice furious, anger replacing despair.
Nezumi's name was in the pool ten times. A remarkably small number compared to most of the members of their district, considering he only had himself to take care of. Shion, on the other hand, was in twenty times, having purchased tesserae for his mother, himself, and her bakery.
"All of it, it's—"
If Shion is called, what will he do? Will he abandon both of them to the games they hate? Will he leave them to die, despite their friendship? Can he? Nezumi breathes in. Rikiga teeters on the edge of the stage, unfolding the final slip of paper.
"—It's wrong." Shion says just as they announce the final name—a name suspiciously like a rodent's. A name Rikiga jokes about and mocks openly every time he visits Karan.
It seems Nezumi didn't have a choice after all. He releases a sigh, turning to Shion, to tell him he'll be alright, that he will keep her safe, that this will give him the chance to get revenge on this whole system- when ice fills his veins.
Why didn't he see it sooner? The words fly from his mouth in desperation.
"Don't you dare—"
Please don't.
"I volunteer!" Shion cries out in a voice more powerful than anything Nezumi's ever heard before.
And the entire world goes quiet.
Shion's breathing hard, now standing in front of Nezumi who can't seem to get a straight look at him because everything in the world seems to have blurred and frozen, trapping Nezumi inside this single, horrifying moment. Safu cries out from her spot on the stage, her former quiet composure forgotten. Shion's mother screams his name from where she watches.
"I volunteer," Shion repeats again, in his own honest voice.
Nezumi shuts his eyes.