Chapter One
A/N: I OWN NOTHING! Honestly, I wonder what goes on with my brain sometimes. There are days where I just won't want to write, and then there are days where I keep coming up with new ideas for stories. This is also my first time trying Slash, so I'm a little worried about the quality.
I sighed as the bow snapped and the arrow soared through the squirrel's neck. My mother taught me how to hunt when I was eight, even though we never needed to scrounge for food for the rest of our lives. My mother is a Victor of the 74th Hunger Games—Katniss Mellark nee Everdeen, the Girl on Fire.
"Davis!" my little sister shouted from the house. The woods weren't that far away but I ran back to her. She knew not to disturb me when I was hunting; the only time she did that was when Dad cut himself severely in the bakery.
"What is it Christina?" I ask as I kick my boots off by the door. Not one person in District 12 thinks we're related, even my customers think we're dating. Christina is twelve, something which makes our parents very nervous. They were nervous on my twelfth birthday as well. She inherited our mother's height and eyes, while having our father's blonde hair grace her head.
"Shh!" Christina shushed me, and I roll my blue eyes. The same eyes which are the same shade as my father's, while I brush my long brown hair out of the way. Our parents are in the next room, and from what I can hear our father is comforting our mother. Mom never cries, which alerts me that this was the only reason Christina would call me out from the normalcy of the woods.
"We knew this would happen Peeta!" our mother shouts, causing both of us to jump. "The peace wasn't enough. Some genius decided that the Games needed to come back."
"There's a slim chance they'll get picked," our father states in his calming tone. The one that makes it hard to believe that he too is a Victor of the 74th Hunger Games. "Neither one of them signed up for tesserae after all. They don't even have it anymore, not after the rebellion eliminated most of the food supply in Eleven."
I look down at my threadbare socks. After a hard winter where so many children died from starvation, I noticed an official looking woman by the area that used to be the Hob. She was selling grain and oil in exchange for putting ones name into a bucket.
"Such a good boy," she told me after I put my name down. I wasn't going to use it, but include it in my usual fare for my customers—free of charge of course. Nothing too bad could happen. Right? I was only eleven after all.
"What if they are?" our mother continues to panic., bringing me back to reality. "Peeta, we were in the revolution! I was the Mockingjay for crying out loud. You know Christina and Davis are going to be picked!"
"We will be too," our father points out. "We were victors and since Haymitch is currently indisposed we will be the mentors to the poor kids forced into the arena. At least we'll know our children's strengths and weaknesses, and be able to help them out."
I drop my bow and it crashes to the ground. I know now what they are talking about. The Hunger Games. Father and Mother never tell us about their time at the Games, or this Revolution Mother mentioned. In fact, it's never mentioned in school either. But everyone knows about the Games. It's hard not to. Twelve has only had three victors, until the Games ended without explanation.
"Does Snow have a relation in office or something?" our mother paces around the room—apparently not have heard my bow. "No one liked the Hunger Games except for those in the Capitol."
"We'll just have to wait until tomorrow and see," our father says, kissing our mother on the top of her head. "At least Gale's not here."
Gale. The one word that is taboo in our home, only mentioned if one really wanted to get our father upset. I was slightly surprised that he mentioned him.
"Why is that?" our mother raises an eyebrow. "You know he's in as much danger in Two as we are here in Twelve. What if one of his kids gets picked?"
While traveling between districts is still not allowed, letters are—and Mother has been exchanging letters with this Gale person ever since it was allowed. Well, scratch that. She did have a few weeks of protest, but gave in when she realized that she missed her old friend (according to her at least) too much.
"We'd best tell the kids," our father sighs and then stands up. I pulled Christina away from the door and grabbed my bow. We shouldn't have been eavesdropping.
"Davis?" Christina looks at me when we get outside. Despite being twelve, she's quite tall for her age—while I'm quite short for my age of sixteen. Actually, we're around the same size. "What are the Hunger Games?"
I pause, unsure how to answer that. My sister means the world to me, despite how much we bicker about things. I don't want her to worry about being picked—whenever that happens.
"I don't know," I tell her and then look at my watch. My buddy George was going to meet me in the woods for some more hunting. "Look Chrissie, I've got to go."
I run off before she can shout at me for the nickname and duck under the fence. It's never on, and sometimes I wonder why we even have it. It just seems like a waste. On my way back to the woods, I think about what I heard.
"Hey dude!" George calls down from his tree. George is my best friend and hunting buddy, not to mention pretty cute. Yeah, I swing the other way—not that my family knows though. I doubt they'd understand, and besides I don't want to have George know. His family got hit hard during that winter of starvation, and so I taught him how to hunt. That's all. He's two years younger than me, has a family who needs him—and I don't think he's gay either.
"Hey George!" I call back. George is handy with a bow but his real weapon of choice is a knife. He's a genius at throwing them and can hit a target with ease—despite being hunting for less time than I have.
"Did you hear?" George asks as he perches on the branch he was sitting on. "The Hunger Games are coming back."
I nod as I started climbing the tree. "Yeah. I heard."
George notices the look on my face and doesn't mention the games again for the whole trip. George is a bit of a gossip, hopeless when it comes to secrets, and hopelessly naïve but he's a good friend.
"Nice haul," I comment at the end of the hour. George managed to grab six squirrels and a duck while I've only got two squirrels. Guess the sight of my parents fighting affected me more than I thought. "Come on. We should sell these while they're fresh."
George hesitated for a minute and then looked at me. "Actually, I was wondering if I could keep this haul. Massie's sick and—"
"Say no more," I told him. Massie was his only sister who survived that winter, along with her twin brother Freddie. She was like a little sister to me almost—better than the one I had at any rate. "Go, tell Squirt I hope she feels better."
"You know she hates that nickname," George tells me.
"Which is why I call her that," I smirk. George playfully shoves me before running to his home in the Seam. Sighing, I pack up and hide my bow away in a dead tree. Technically, this is a time of peace (according to what I've been able to gather from my parents conversations) but we're still not allowed to have weapons on our side of the fence. I'm glad I didn't get caught when I brought my bow last time.
"How was hunting?" my mother asks as I walk in. Her eyes were red—a clear sign that she had been crying some more.
"Not that great," I said and laid the two squirrels down on the table. Mother purses her lips but says nothing. I know that she's disappointed though. I've let my thoughts get in the way of hunting and that's a big no-no in our family.
"Where's Christina?" I ask, looking around. Normally the house is full of her laughter—unless she's at a friend's house or helping Father in the bakery. I stay away from there at all times. I'd rather hunt than frost cakes—though according to Dad, I'm not half-bad. Not as good as Christina though, and defiantly not as good as Dad.
"Detoxicing Haymitch," our mother tells me and then says no more. I make a face behind her back. She knows we both hate Haymitch—she does too! He's always drunk, and it's usually our job to make sure he's sober most of the time. That's a task that's easier said than done.
"Davis," my mother says with her back to me, "make sure your nice clothes are clean."
"Why?" I ask. The only time I have to wear my nice clothes was at the last award ceremony at the Justice Building. An explosion in the mines had killed five miners when that ceremony happened.
"Just do it!" my mother snaps and I scurry to my room. Now I may not be afraid of much, but I am afraid of my mother at some times. One doesn't win the Hunger Games without being a little scary. My nice clothes aren't much, but they're decent.
"What's with everyone today?" I mutter as I laid them out and then looked around my room. It's normal, as far as boys' rooms go. Except for the mural Dad painted on my wall under the window when I was five. It's a Mockingjay fluttering into the sunset, with a small boy—who looks just like me—flying on its back.
Dinner is tense, for once. Christina hates it when it's her duty to detoxify Haymitch, so she's mainly eating her squirrel. Our parents aren't eating a thing and I'm just not hungry. Mother sends us to bed soon after dinner.
"Going to eavesdrop?" Christina glares at me while I lean on the wall over the phone. For being the houses of Victors and their families, the walls are thin as can be; which is how I've been able to gain all the information that I know. I've learned more from eavesdropping than I have in school.
"What? You want to know what's going on just as much as I do!" I hiss while brushing my hair out of the way of my ear.
"We'll find out in the morning," Christina turned on her heal and almost slammed her door in anger. She can be a tad touchy about rules at times.
"How am I related to her?" I muttered as I strain to hear any words from downstairs. Mother and Father usually talk late at night, when they think the two of us have gone to bed. The thing is though; I'm a night owl. I can never sleep at night. My sister is a morning person though.
"Davis," I hear my sister hiss and open my eyes. Apparently, I fell asleep at my vigil.
"Thanks sis," I whisper as I rub my eyes.
"Take a bath and get dressed," she mouthed. "Mom and Dad are at it again. We'd best get ready for whatever they or the Capitol throw at us."
It's then that I see that my little sister is wearing a light blue shirt and a skirt that I knew she didn't own yesterday. Her hair was pulled back and shoved into a messy bun.
My bath is quick and unenjoyed. I despise sitting in one place for too long, except in the bath. It's truly the one place I can think. It is a shame that it should have to be ruined on such a hectic day.
"Davis, Christina!" our mother called just as I roll up my shirt cuffs. I hate dressing up for anything. It's just a way for society to get their claws into you—if they haven't already. Panem isn't exactly friendly to the idea of equality, if you know what I mean.
"Coming mom!" I shout back and tied my shoes. Brushing my hair out of my eyes one last time, I walk downstairs and watch my sister's actions as she sat on the couch. Had she learned something while I was getting ready?
"We'd best be going," my father sighed and locked the house after we leave. My heart clenches at that. Dad never locks the door, even when at work. We never know when someone could need help—according to dad. Haymitch thinks it's dumb (the only thing I agree with him on).
"Where are we going mom?" I asked after a while of walking but then I see it. A crowd of people outside the Justice Building. My mother give my sister and me a hug before she and my father go on stage with Haymitch. Someone leads my sister away to the front, while I'm directed to the back. Someone states something on stage, but I'm not even paying attention until I hear the words "victors" and "arena".
"What!"
I know that voice. Everyone in District Twelve knows that voice. That voice belongs to my mother.
"Ladies first," a woman with bright blue hair says with a smile. Who could enjoy this? I think as she fishes through a bowl near her. "First, the victors I believe. For the women….Katniss Mellark!"
No one applauds, something, which startles the woman on stage. What did she expect? Cheering?
"For the males….Peeta Mellark!"
Oh God, please let it be over, I can't help but think. But the knot in my stomach won't go away. The blue haired woman has yet another bowl, and I can't help but wonder who the bastard in the Capitol brought this back.
"For the new tributes," the woman states with a smile, "for the ladies, we have…."
My eyes seek out my sister, and I keep them locked on her. I don't want her to be involved in this. Even if I don't know what this is.
"Christina Mellark!"
My heart stops, and I watch my sister take the stage. The only thing I can think is that I hope the name that comes out of the next drawing is my own.
"For the males….."
My fingers are crossed, hoping beyond hope that my name gets picked.
"Davis Mellark! Why, isn't this interesting! An entire family for the Hunger Games."
I walk to the stage and lock eyes with my sister. Without speaking, we both agree that we'd look out for each other—along with Mother and Father. We would win this thing, if it was the last thing we did.