Warnings: This is an AU Hetalia take on the Hunger Games, so if you don't like that, then feel free to leave. I won't be sore, I promise. (if you DO stick around, however, I'll love you forever if you drop a review!) Also, I'll tell you now, I'm taking serious creative liberty to make it fit with Hetalia. First off, the age limit: I'm letting the characters keep their official ages, instead of trying to fit them into the Hunger Games limit: instead of from 12 to 18, I'm going from 12 to 30. Also, the 'boy, girl' rule for Tributes is null and void. Here, a girl and a boy CAN be picked together, but it all depends on the draw. Less importantly, the Districts themselves will not be the same as they are in HG- there are no Careers, so everyone's lives pretty equally sucks. There are to be many more, and I blame Creative License. If you don't like any of these changes, again, feel free to leave, k? Hopefully, though, you'll give it a chance!

Also, I'm just gonna apologize now for the fail translations. All other languages, mainly French in this chapter, were gotten from Google translate. Fail, I know.

EDIT: I had to repost this because I accidentally put up the second part too. It's shorter now, but I think that makes it easier to read. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: Neither Hetalia or the Hunger Games, as regrettable as it is, are mine.

…

When was it, exactly, that waking up each morning had become a chore?

"Since the bloody day I was born…"

Was the answer that Arthur Kirkland, age twenty three, decided to give to the metaphorical question posed to him by the universe on that particular morning, somehow managing to not wake his younger brother, Peter, sleeping beside him.

At this, Arthur did a double take; Peter, just entering his rebellious 'I'm going to be a total wanker just to screw with my brother's life' teen phase, had been very firm in his decision that he no longer needed to share a bunk with his elder brother, and demanded independence in the form of his own room and bed. And while Arthur knew for a fact that the scrawny twerp of twelve year old would not fare well on his own, he had decided to humor him; it wasn't as though he was moving out of the house, so Arthur could still watch over him (and he really had to choose his battles wisely when it came to Peter, the little brat).

But apparently Peter's tantrums had been for show, because here he was again, sleeping soundly next to his brother on the day of the Reap—

Oh.

Oh.

"Bugger all…" Arthur dragged a hand slowly across his sleep deprived face with a sigh. That made more sense- it was Reaping Day. Peter had always had nightmares the night before, and would go to his brother for comfort; it made sense that he had gotten frightened in the middle of the night and climbed in beside him. After all, this was his first official Reaping. With a small, fond smile at the bundle curled beneath the covers, the older of the two swung his legs off the side of the mattress to the creaky floor, tucked Peter in tighter, and crept from the room to prepare for the rest of the worst day of the year.

Reaping Day. The bane of every district's existence, and the death sentence for twenty four unlucky young men and women.

"Twenty three," He corrected under his breath, recalling that there would be one survivor as he steeled himself for the difficult task of preparing breakfast. While all two dozen of the chosen were given the privilege of a month's stay in the sanctuary that was the Capital, Hetalia, and were pampered and primed and fed and waited on like gods—while that was true, Arthur would much prefer his drab, day-to-day struggle for food and water, barely-making-it-by life to being chosen on Reaping Day. Because once that month of heaven was done, and you were trained and content and no longer malnourished, wham you're dropped into the hellish, wide awake nightmare you've been waiting for all along—what you were chosen for, the Hunger Games.

A disturbing, sick fight to the finish for all the tributes chosen, in which twenty four people were thrown into the Arena, given a multitude of weapons, and told to kill each other off—often in terrible, humiliating and gruesome ways for the entertainment of those in the Capital—until only one was left standing.

Arthur scowled deeply at the thought, and had the sudden urge to gag—although, looking down, that may have been because of the cold, gray, absolutely wretched gruel he was forced to eat (at least, Arthur told himself it was gruel; he spent the greater part of his meal trying to convince himself it wasn't breathing).

This was how it went every Reaping Day—a day which only came around once a year, thank God—Arthur stuck with his tacky, hard and not breathing gruel, and Peter with a soft, warm, buttered boiled egg.

The Briton wasn't bitter about this; in fact, it was his choice. While he would have liked a nice soft boiled egg as well, they were in short supply, and unbearably expensive. They could afford only a couple every year, for special occasions: birthdays, holidays and the like. But the Reaping Day egg was special. It had butter, and that was a real delicacy. Only the top notch people in their district could afford such a treat (the same people that could buy their ways out of being chosen in the Reaping, the stupid tossers). He and his neighbor Francis could only manage to get half a stick between them, and that was with their money pooled. So, naturally, his small slice of heaven went to Peter's egg. A special gift he knew the boy loved waking up to.

Arthur sighed as he exited the house, running a hand through unruly blonde locks; he'd have liked to see the smile on Peter's face when he saw the egg, but if they were going to make it through this Reaping Day, then he had work to do.

Crossing the cobblestone street in tattered, long worn out shoes that looked as though they had no right being out and about in their condition, Arthur approached the door of his neighbor and knocked twice firmly. It had always gone this way, as long as he could remember; every Reaping Day, he would rise first, before dawn, and wake Francis up, give him his egg, and by the time the sun finally hauled its arse out they would already be deep in the woods hunting.

There was movement behind the door, and Arthur rolled the egg from hand to hand patiently. As tempting as it was to just eat it and laugh in the French bastard's face, he refrained with a sigh; Francis, living alone, had paid for most of the butter, so he deserved the treat more than Arthur himself. He felt a small smile touch his lips as he looked down at the oval swathed in cloth. Boiled eggs and tea—that was about all he could make apparently, while every other food he touched seemed to wither and die.

This sentiment was shared by both Francis and Peter, the arses they were. In fact, the only one who'd ever been able to stand Arthur's cooking was Al—

Whoa.

Where the bloodyhell did that thought come from?

"A penny for your thoughts, mon cher?"

Arthur shrieked and nearly jumped clean out of his skin as he whirled around to face the smirking Francis Bonnefoy behind him, practically breathing down his neck.

And after that highly feminine display of fear, the red-faced Arthur did about the only thing he could to defend his remaining masculinity: he bitch-slapped Francis in the face.

"Ow! Mon dieu, Arthur! That hurt!"

"It was supposed to, perv." Arthur unceremoniously dropped the egg in front of his neighbor, not bothering to see if his frantic attempts to catch it succeeded and turned and stomped away, nose flipped haughtily as Francis grumbled a string of French profanities behind him.

"So what were you thinking of?" The Frenchman asked curiously after five minutes of silence, a strange occurrence for the usually bickering pair. Instead of the snarky reply he had been expecting from the sharp Brit, however, he was given a much quieter, almost melancholy response.

"Alfred."

The Briton could feel the man beside him give a start, and there was a brief pause. Heat began to climb his neck and ears and he glued his green gaze to the ground ahead in embarrassment. He shouldn't have said anything. He and Francis hadn't spoken about those two in years, hadn't needed to for it just opened old wounds, and here he was going and dredging up the pa—

"Ha… c'est drole. I've been thinking about Matthew recently too,"

Arthur blinked twice, three times, openly staring in shock. Matthew and Alfred had been twins, four years younger than the Englishman and seven from the Frenchman, and had been the younger half-brothers of Francis and Arthur.

Identical, you had to know them to recognize the differences—where Alfred had energetic, positively electric blue eyes, Matthew's had been of a softer, gentler mauve color, only a shade or two from his brother's. The only other notably clear difference between them was their hair, and that was a stretch. Alfred's had been cropped shorter, parted to the side, while Matthew's had grown out just an inch or two longer and parted in the middle. And while very few could differentiate between the two, their personalities could not have been more contradictory.

Alfred was bubbly, hyper, arrogant beyond all logic and annoying as hell (although to that Alfred would probably retort with the fact that he didn't believe in hell and something along the lines of 'Logic? Screw logic! Who needs logic when you've got Alfred F. Jones?' and then proceed to tie logic to a kamikaze dump truck and push it off a cliff laughing).

But Alfred also possessed a remarkable sense of justice, and would defend what was right and true to the very end. He was naturally optimistic and bright, and always voiced his opinions and spoke his mind honestly and without fear. He would die for his loved ones in a heartbeat, even if he'd never say it. And Arthur had always admired that about him.

Matthew, on the other hand, was much quieter, more understanding and a lifetime more patient with a comforting smile. He was shy, quiet, and a damn good listener; the same could not be said of Alfred. The child was unconditionally kind and forgiving, and Arthur often felt guilty for asking even the simplest things of Matthew for fear that he was taking advantage of the gentle boy, but he never seemed to mind. Although, there were times when this could be a bad thing; Matthew had terrible trouble voicing his own wants and opinions, and often got overlooked. But they all knew he was never any less for it. In fact, the only person that really ever seemed to stress out the easy going Matthew was his twin.

Often overshadowed and mistaken for him, Alfred was constantly causing his brother trouble. They bickered relentlessly, fought endlessly—but it would be a lie if Arthur said that those were any more than sibling squabbles. The brothers, he knew, were protective of and cared for one another deeply, and shared a strong bond of which only twins could have. They loved each other, and Francis and Arthur in turn loved them.

They would both swear up and down that there had been no favorites, but Arthur had to admit that he'd had a stronger connection with Alfred, and Francis likewise with Matthew. More than likely it was due to the similarities the boys had inherited respectively. Arthur's father and Francis' mother had been the legitimate parents to the twins, which was where the half-brother and step brother status came in.

Arthur and Francis had never felt or regarded each other as brothers, before or after their respective parents became intimate; they had been and always would be bitter rivals (the more accurate term being 'best friends', but they would promptly jump off the cliff with logic and the dump truck before admitting that), but they both adored the twins.

While Alfred was more American than anything, there was no question that he took after Arthur. He had the same stubborn attitude, strong views, wild blonde hair and an odd sense of taste when it came to food.

Matthew, in turn, took after Francis. Gently wavy locks, a talent for cooking and a love for the French language; although Francis used to say it was more of a Canadian dialect, but this could be attributed to their mother's Canadian lineage, which was evident in the young boy.

And, for a very long time, they were happy. Even after Francis' mother took her own life and Arthur's father abandoned them. They had had each other for support, and had pulled through together. A small, broken family of four; as long as they were together, they could make it. As long as they were together, it would all be okay. As long as they were together.

Arthur had honestly believed that.

But about two years after their parents left forever, a time when the four kids had lived under one roof to prevent the tides of loneliness, the government had found out about their situation and decided to take 'action'. Arthur had been sixteen at the time, Francis nineteen and the twins twelve; Alfred and Matthew had just been preparing for their first Reaping.

Although both were wholly terrified of the possibilities that lay before them—that small, miniscule chance of the Hunger Games— they had both tried to be brave. Tried so hard, Arthur remembered, they had tried so damn hard. So, as a matter of course, their older brothers had been there for them. They were going to survive it together, like always, and the thought had been comforting.

A week before Reaping Day, however, men and women (in suits they couldn't even afford to look at and smelling of perfumes that made Arthur gag) began entering and exiting their home. While the hawkish, beady eyes, snootily upturned noses, and offensive, rude, and sickening sneers of disapproval gave Arthur every God-given right to kick them in the balls, he refrained. These bastards were clearly from Hetalia, and a swift kick to the well-deserving scrotum would probably not bode well for them in the long run.

So they put on smiles, remained on their best behavior, tried to scrub the grime out of hair and face for the people that looked at them as though they were mongrels with rabies to be kept at a safe distance. The boys settled instead for the fluent French obscenities that passed Francis' lips with a smile, much to the officials confusion (ie: May I have something to drink?

Oui oui, monsieur. Comment osez-vous me parler, bâtard de porc stupide tête. Regardez-vous, se pavaner comme un paon avec votre tête vos ânes, brailler comme des imbéciles que vous êtes. Mais je suppose que je ne peux pas attendre grand-chose de pompeux imbéciles comme vous, d'ailleurs, vous ne savez même pas vous faire insulter, pensez-vous?

U-um… thank you?) and the gagging brought on by courtesy of Arthur Kirkland's cooking (the best was how they tried to keep it down because their prim, pompous asses were simply above puking; little did they know that with the exception of Alfred, Arthur had yet to come across a stomach he couldn't upturn and he said this with pride, dammit). But this satisfaction was mild, and short lived. Because despite their hospitality, their good behavior, the way they just sat and took all the shit they were given, the verdict came in a short time later.

And the day before the Reaping, Alfred and Matthew were taken to another district, another family, because their current living situation was 'unfit for children'.

Arthur remembered it clear as day, the morning the twins disappeared.

Soldiers and officials from Hetalia had bust down their door without warning, jolting an alarmed Arthur out of bed at 5:15 am. The only reason he'd known the time at all was because the twins had given a watch to he and Francis each; one of the fancy, top of the line ones from Hetalia that never stopped ticking until it's owner's heart did. While Alfred and Matthew had great senses of moral and ethical values, they had all agreed that the Hetalia government agents they had pick-pocketed the watches from—quite expertly, Arthur thought with a probably-misplaced pride—wouldn't really miss the trinkets too much, seeing as they could by a dozen more with their pocket change and then some, and that was besides the fact that the bloody brutes had absolutely deserved it.

Although Arthur wasn't one to openly share his feelings like a tool, he had to admit that the watch he still wore was his very dearest, most precious possession. And that morning at 5:15, it had marched along mercilessly as his world crumbled around him.

Men in military uniforms with helmets over their heads and visors covering their eyes had torn the humble home apart, upturning and ransacking everything, 'looking' for the twin children despite already knowing where they were. As they went on destroying, Francis by now outraged and shouting, a woman in a sharp, sickeningly bright suit approached Arthur with brisk steps. She had then proceeded to read off of an electronic clipboard, never once glancing up, babbling something about Arthur Kirkland and Francis Bonnefoy being deemed unfit to care for two young children, by the names of Alfred F. Jones and Matthew Williams, as they were all four still minors (Francis tried in vain to deny this given that he was nineteen, but he was overridden yet again by the woman's harsh, clipped tones), that the young ones were to be removed and placed in a safe environment with a healthy family dynamic in another district, and some other such nonsense.

But it all fell on deaf ears. Arthur knew what was happening the moment those suits entered the house, and the sensation it left him with, if to be described in one word, was numb. He didn't process Francis' shocked silence before absolutely bursting with fury moments later. He didn't comprehend the sight of sweet, innocent little Matthew trembling and shaking violently, tears running down his cheeks as he squeezed his twin's hand for comfort, any at all. He didn't register Alfred's shouting beside him, using any and every vulgar curse in each language and dialect he knew to describe the offended woman and her suit and her soldiers and her Capital and her damn fucking clipboard.

And he certainly didn't feel it as two soldiers came and practically dragged his little brothers out from behind him and to the front door.

The first thing that really entered his shutdown mind, the only thing that mattered in the world at all, was when Alfred's hand—so small, it had always been so small—was forcibly jerked from his.

And that sudden absence brought the world back.

Suddenly, everything was alive around him; the woman and soldiers were leaving, having gotten what they came for, when Francis blocked their path. Moments prior, he had been screaming and threatening like the world was ending—which was probably a terrible phrase, considering that for them it kind of was—and now, as a last, desperate effort, he was begging, pleading with them to stop, to let his brothers go.

Arthur watched in dismay, standing, about to join his friend, English pride be damned, when he was rooted to the spot. One of the soldiers, impatient with the French teen barring his way, had brutally jerked the nineteen year old up by the collar and thrown him against the wall viciously, ignoring the twins and Arthur's cries of protest.

For half a second, staring at Francis as he slid to the floor and cradled his wounded arm and tried to stand again, Arthur considered his options. He could follow the Frenchman's example and try to appeal to the government workers' better halves, or he could go on a full out, bat-shit crazy assault in an attempt to retake his brothers and wound one of the Hetalia pricks while he was at it. One more look at a shaking, furious Francis and another at Matthew, crying out and reaching for the former, and lastly at Alfred; sky blue eyes staring directly at him, openly and utterly terrified, macho hero façade shattered as tears streaked down his face and he called out, once—

"Arthur, please!"

And before he really knew what he was doing, he had shoved the clipboard woman aside, grabbed the shoulder of the soldier holding Alfred captive, the same one that had hurt Francis, turned him around and in a wild rage punched him a total of four times in the face. After whirling and giving a similar treatment to the stunned soldier who had taken Matthew, he managed to floor two others of the burly men. Despite being only sixteen, Arthur had come to live by the truth that you would not survive in this world if you could not decently rumble, and as it had in the past, this rule was doing a damn good job by him.

At least until a soldier grabbed him from behind and smashed his skull into the doorframe.

Before he could collapse quite fully, because his body seemed pretty hell-bent on doing that all of a sudden, a steel-toed boot connected firmly with his gut. The only sound that passed his lips was a choked grunt of agony as he was kicked, harder, in the stomach and then the ribcage again and again as he lay limp on the ground, and all he could think was when did I fall?

The pain was gone already— black and scarlet dots were clouding his vision and he barely noticed the steady pulse of blood streaming down his face; ears ringing too loudly to hear the horrified screaming of his name from his family.

He watched, feeling detached and far away and numb all over as Francis scrambled to him, shouting and shaking his shoulder sharply, navy optics filled to brimming with fear and concern. But Arthur couldn't focus; he couldn't breathe, much less meet the other's eyes and answer. He vaguely noticed as Francis stopped yelling, eyes widening and absorbing a new emotion: absolute, white-hot hatred.

An anger and loathing like none other passed over the teen's face as he stood and glared at the man that had beaten his friend, and then, without warning, launched himself at him in an all out attack. Arthur wanted to help him, wanted to rise, wanted to save his brothers, wanted to do something, but he couldn't pick himself up. Couldn't lift a finger, couldn't even follow the fight as it left his vision. And the last thing he saw was Alfred and Matthew, crying, desperate, as the woman discreetly ushered them out.

For them, Arthur found the strength to lift his hand, trembling, reaching, because they couldn't take the twins, please, not his brothers, not his boys; but then they grew hazy, his hand fell listless, and blackness took him.

When he came to, he found himself on his side on the cold wood floor, lying in a pool of his own semi-dried blood. He couldn't move without wanting horribly to vomit and his head to pound angrily in protest, and he was about to allow himself to slip into unconsciousness again because that sounded like the most appealing idea in the whole blooming century, when he caught sight of Francis crouched on the other side of the room.

The boy's legs were drawn up to his chest, face buried in his knees, one hand fisted and tugging at blood soaked locks. Dry sobs shook him as he shivered violently, muttering a constant slew of distraught French and English.

Forcing himself up to lean on his elbows, Arthur focused on his friend with worry and confusion.

"Fran-cis…?"

The blonde's head snapped up, eyes wide, and Arthur winced as he did so. The Frenchman's features were marred with cuts and bruises; his mouth split and bleeding, left eye blackened and soon to swell. His free arm was draped protectively around his midsection, where there were undoubtedly more wounds.

"A-Arthur…" His voice broke with shock, before the expression melted and gave way to a look of honest relief. He gave a shaky, uncertain laugh, and his eyes slipped closed. "I thought you died,bâtard rosbif,"

Arthur scowled, and was about to retaliate sharply when he found the words lodged in his throat. He blinked several times, eyebrows raised. It was suddenly clear that Francis had been telling the truth; a small part of him had honestly believed he had died, and had cried for him, and this revelation stunned the Englishman.

"…Git. I've been breathing just fine this whole time. All you had to do was haul your lazy arse over and check,"

He crossed his arms over his chest as he pulled himself into a sitting position, one eyebrow arched haughtily. But green eyes were gentle as he offered a small, comforting smile. For a moment, the gesture was returned by his companion, silent thanks for the reassurance gleaming in his navy blue eyes. But Arthur watched, the corners of his grin dipping to a frown, as Francis bent in on himself, shaking heavily once again.

"They took them, Arthur," He hissed bitterly, voice hoarse. The sobs now were less dry now and filled with a both a burning ire and an agonized helplessness. "Those damn Hetalia soldiers…"

At this, Arthur's heart jumped to his throat, choking him, his tongue dead weight in his mouth. Francis couldn't mean what he was saying. It had all been a bad dream, and if he turned now and looked in the room, they would be there, sleeping soundly and—

"They took Alfred and Matthew…!"

Arthur couldn't breathe.

For a full year afterwards, the two struggled endlessly, desperately, to regain custody. But they were grasping at straws; they hadn't even been able to find out what district they had been placed in. The best information they'd managed to secure was that the twins hadn't been separated.

Somewhere along the way, Francis had moved back into his old house that he had lived in with his mother across the street, and by the time Peter came to live with Arthur a year and a half after the twins were taken, the friends resolved, silently, never to speak of their younger brothers again.

The only time their memory was ever brought out of the shadows was around their birthdays (July first and fourth, because just like their last names, the two hadn't been able to agree on a date, given that they weren't sure what it actually was) during which Francis would come over for the weekend, and the two would hold a silent toast.

And after seven years, Arthur had successfully blocked their memory out— he'd grown jaded, never spoke of them, never thought of them; the people who had once known the four as a family never brought them up. And the few who did, well, through multiple irate outbursts that were a notch short of seizures (needless to say Francis nearly pissed himself laughing, the twat) by Arthur ensured that they never did again. Arthur had managed to all but forget his two younger brothers that he once held dear.

Forget, at least, until now.

"Maybe it's a sign,"

The Briton started, and looked over at the other incredulously. By now they were on the cusp of their normal hunting grounds, and soon dawn would be upon them. When he didn't answer, Francis continued.

"I can't remember the last time I've heard their names," he said casually, reaching up and brushing his fingers on the low hanging branches. "I haven't even thought of them until now. And then I find that you're thinking of them too, just when I do for the first time in years? Somewhat odd, oui?"

"Not at all. As of yesterday, they've been gone seven years. It makes sense for us to think of them now, so don't start up with this 'sign' folly."

Francis reached over and ruffled the other's hair, snickering at the indignant squawks of protest. "A little grumpy, hm, mon chou?"

Swatting the hand away, the Brit huffed and crossed his arms tightly over his chest childishly, giving an angry cry when Francis pinched his cheek and cooed, for God's sake.

"Aw, he's pouting. How adorable,"

"Let me go, Frog Face!"

"Midget."

"Pervert."

"Drunken limey bastard."

"Foppish surrender monkey."

"Eyebrows."

"That's not an insult, twit."

"Arthur, darling, those abominations on your face are an insult to beauty such as mine everywhere."

"Wha—? Why, you…!"

The chase and almost-homicide that ensued quickly led to their normal hunting competition, and by the time they were through, the sun was high and pulsing. Meeting up at their normal spot, there was a short debate as to whether the winner was quantity or quality, before they made their way back to the market, buying and selling, haggling, trying to get god deals.

Until one-thirty, at least.

By that time, the market was practically deserted—a very rare occurrence reserved especially for Reaping Day. Splitting and pocketing the money, the two trudged back home, identical feelings of dread settling in the pits of their stomachs. Before long, their houses came into sight, and Peter only a moment after, bursting from the door and plowing straight to them.

"Arthur! Uncle Francis! Come on, we're gonna be late!"

The boy also decided it would be a splendid idea to stop his hyperactive stampede in their directing by diving headfirst into the poor, defenseless stomach of his elder brother.

"Fantastique, Peter, wonderful job," Francis commended with a smirk, scooping Arthur's small charge up onto his shoulders and off of said man's abdomen. Peter threw an annoyed glare over his shoulder, clicking his tongue impatiently.

"Come on, Arthur, you're falling behind!"

"Bloody… bastards…"

The twenty three year old, with a supreme amount of effort, hauled himself to his feet, stumbling after the two and leaving a string of profanities in his wake. It wasn't long before they arrived at the square, or lack thereof; a stage of epic proportions, brought in from Hetalia itself, took up half the space while the large block of district members took up the other. The tension was palpable—Arthur felt it the moment he pried his way into the crowd. Somewhere to his left, he heard a group of girls muttering anxiously. A frown split his face; Reaping Day was the only time of year when he almost wished he were female (emphasis on almost).

While yes, girls were picked for the Hunger Games, there were, without doubt, always more men. Only two or three unlucky girls were drawn every year, and that was more because of protocol than anything else. Sure, the drawing was supposed to be fair and random, but who gives a bugger about overrated things like 'fairness' when it comes to the Hunger Games and higher ratings?

Arthur Bloody Kirkland, that's who.

Up on stage, a young woman in her twenties was chatting idly with one f the workers. Arthur's nose crinkled and his frown grew deeper. This girl he knew—not personally, but she had been the host of the Hunger Games since she was ten, her cuteness factor winning over viewers. In a surprising turn of events, the good looks she grew into scored even more viewers and she got to keep the job. She was an icon in Hetalia, a hero—poor little girl, straight off the streets of one of the twelve crummy districts, plucked out of thousands for a once in a lifetime chance. And now she helped her fellow people from the districts through the Hunger Games.

"Oh yeah, a real saint," Arthur grumbled sourly, eyeing the pretty blonde with a critical emerald glare. An elbow to the side effectively brought him back to reality, surprise melting to a scowl in record time as his gaze focused on an amused looking Francis. The Frenchman smirked knowingly.

"Bitter much?"

Arthur shoved him back in answer, ignoring the climbing heat in his cheeks at the comment.

"Ow!" Both looked down in bewilderment to see Peter hopping up and down on one foot while the other, having been promptly crushed by his uncle, was gripped tightly in his small fists. And Arthur and Francis, the good guardians they were, took the most logical course of action.

Which involved a lot of laughing and a quick noogie to an already infuriated boy.

"Alright, it's time to get started!"

They froze as the peppy voice of Bella boomed out over the crowd. Slowly, Francis set a still huffing peter down, and Arthur swallowed thickly. It was time.

"This year, we're doing this a little differently. We've got some surprises for the Hunger Games!" She smiled brightly despite the unnerving silence of the crowd, and continued on with vigor. "But, we'll tell you that later. First we have the Reaping! What lucky two will be participating this year?"

As a large crystal globe was wheeled on stage, names on little white slips of paper swirling within, Arthur's heart began to pound. His knees were shaking, and the only sound he heard was the roaring of blood in his ears. This was it. While he and Francis only had a few years left in the Reaping, and their chances of being drawn from the glass were a few handfuls to several hundred, Peter was only twelve. This being his first year of eligibility, his name had only been entered once, but there were still several years left before he was through. Years of dread and fear, of the chance that his time, at last, would come.

If that happened while he himself was spared, he knew he wouldn't be able to bear it.

Another elbow, gentler this time, prodded at his ribs to catch his crestfallen attention. Navy blue orbs locked on bright green ones, and Arthur found himself being comforted by the small smile of reassurance Francis offered. He was reminded of a similar situation seven years before, when he'd been the one doing the comforting, and he allowed himself, for once, vulnerability; lightly he punched his friend's arm, smiling back and giving his thanks through a pleasant silence that he knew the other would understand. They had learned to pick up on each other's mute cues a long time ago.

Together, they could make it through this—he, Francis and Peter. That silly feeling of foreboding was nothing more than paranoia, thoughts of his long gone kid brothers meaning little more than nostalgia. In five minutes, the crowd would disperse, and another Reaping would be over, and—

"Francis Bonnefoy!"

—and they could all go home—

"Arthur Kirkland!"

—and, for one night, be a family again.

Together.

Safe.

The Hunger Games, Arthur thought as Francis shaking fingers latched onto his numb arm and pulled him to the stage, had other plans.

…

Alright, that's the first part. Next you meet two more tributes- Any guesses as to who they'll be? Or any comments at all? Seriously, I live for reviews. Because I'm honestly freaking out 'cause this is the first APH fanfic I've posted here and I'm not sure how it is and... yeah. Pathetic author is pathetic. Review her patheticness?

There was a silence