Title: Cotton Fluff Ambitions
Chapter: Two
Rating: T for language and character death
Word Count: 3,714
A/N: Thanks to all who favorited and followed on Tumblr. It means so much! If you want more information on the story, spoilers for upcoming chapters, or just want to learn more about me, visit my tumblr (no spaces): http : / / beauty from pain eventually . tumblr . com/. This story is not centered around Blaine, but I included his reaping because I felt like you needed to read it. But I will not be including his train ride, nor arrival at the Capitol. Kurt's POV will be continued throughout the rest of the story unless I see fit for another appearance from Blaine's mind. I can tell you right now that this story will not end well; it's the Hunger Games after all, and there can only be one winner. Another gracious thank you to my splendid beta: xBleedingBlackRosex. I update every Saturday! :)
Disclaimer: I do not own Glee, nor the Hunger Games, both of which are too amazing for me.
Kurt Hummel stumbled over the plush white carpet as he was shoved into the Justice Building waiting room. The door slammed, a framed picture of the President shaking hands with the mayor trembled against the wall.
He climbed to his feet, wiping his hands on his overalls. The room was exquisitely furnished, with a satin couch and a coffee table complete with little candies in a china dish bowl.
For a moment, he allowed himself to be amazed and sat down on the couch. Kurt thumbed over the soft material, a leisure, and fixated his gaze on the window across from the sofa.
A perfect image of the caved openings of the coal mines nestled in the midst of a grassy green hill. Further beyond was the fence that encircled the district, and the line of Peacemakers surveying the mine entrances. Although it was the Reaping day, work was not to cease.
Kurt exhaled slowly through his nose and closed his eyes. Everything was so surreal, like he was trapped in a bubble watching himself go up on stage, and watching himself promise to stay strong. He wasn't going to the Hunger Games; no, that was another unlucky boy.
His hands, clenched tightly in his lap, quivered to some foreign rhythm. Pale rose petal lips were wetted with the peak of a strawberry tongue, a familiar nervous habit from Kurt's childhood. He longed to be anywhere else but here. In the mines even, breathing in the thick smoky air and feeling claustrophobic.
A sharp knock on the door startled Kurt and he leapt to his feet. Darcy, with her ragged curls and tear-striped cheeks, was pushed through the doorway. She growled, turning on her heel with balled fists and an inextinguishable fire blooming in her eyes.
"Hey," she snarled at the already bored looking Peacemaker.
He glowered down at her. "Two minutes."
Kurt wrapped his arms around himself as the door clicked shut, awkwardly rubbing the toe of his boot along the carpet. This was his best friend. No matter how hard he could try, there was no way he could maintain his cool with Darcy.
She wiped her eyes on the back of her hand, and smiled sullenly up at Kurt. "Capitol's a bitch," she remarked sourly.
Kurt glanced up at the ceiling. "Darce," he croaked. "They've got to have cameras or something. You're going to get in trouble…"
She sniffled and began to pace. "I don't give a fuck. These people - assholes - are taking you away from me and forcing you to…to compete to the death." Darcy voice cracked at the end and she collapsed on the couch, dragging a hand through her hair. "To the death," Darcy repeated softly. "How can they take innocent children, stick them in a cage with some knives, and make them kill each other. I'm ashamed to be a part of it! They think they own the districts like we're pets, or toys - I don't even know. It's wrong, Kurt, I know it. And so do you."
The Peacemaker pounded on the door gruffly. "One minute!"
Darcy grasped Kurt's wrist, peering deeply into his eyes. "This is wrong."
"Please, we can't spend the only time I have left trying to change destiny," Kurt said.
"You need to understand. Just going through life like you're nothing but playthings is not living, it's torture. Why should where you're born, what you look like and how you act determine what kind of person you are? Kurt, you're the bravest man I have ever met, but I don't want you to win. I want you to rebel. Show them you're not some kind of fucking puppet that bends to do whatever they want."
"You're asking me t-to die?" Kurt asked, heart burdened with a thousand agonies.
"No." Darcy cupped his face. He could smell the peppermint leaves on her breath, and the smoke on her clothes. "I'm asking to change Panem for the better."
He pressed his forehead to hers, debating a response. At last, he settled for saying the three words he was sure of. "I love you, Darce."
The door snapped open. "Time's up," announced the Peacemaker. "Come along."
"I love you, too," she said. "Kurt, remember what I said. It means something, it all means something. You are your own person, not a toy!"
The Peacemaker rolled his eyes and gripped her around the bicep, beginning to drag her out. Kurt nodded at her insistently. "Look after my dad, Darce, please."
Another man appeared in the doorway, escorted by yet another uniformed guard; Darcy's screams faded. A broad shouldered middle-aged man with a balding head and sunken brown eyes stepped up to his son.
"Kurt," he mumbled, a stray tear sliding from the corner of his eye down to his square jaw.
"D-dad," Kurt cried.
Burt embraced his son. Emotions, unspoken words were transferred through overalls and mining coats, seeping into hearts. Kurt felt his father's raw concern, fear, desire that this was all a dream. He hugged him tighter and buried his nose in the scuff of his dad's neck.
They stood like that, unmoving, shaken with sobs, even as the door opened once more. "Time's up," the Peacemaker said for the second time. "We've got to get the tribute to the train station."
Burt turned defiantly, and Kurt could sense the argument before it came. "You're not taking my son from me," Burt hissed out.
Kurt watched the guard, who sneered. "I'm not going to say it again. Get your ass outside before I call up some of my friends to kick you out there."
"How can you do this so calmly? Bring my son to his death match?" Burt's tone was spiked with piercing venom. "Don't you realize this is barbarian?"
"Dad," Kurt murmured, resting his hand on Burt's shoulder. "Please."
The Peacemaker chuckled. "It's fun."
Burt was wrenched roughly away and Kurt started after him, shaking so hard his vision blurred. "D-d-dad, I'll be okay. Take care of yourself," Kurt called.
"My only son!" His shouts could be heard although he was out of sight. The door shook with the volume. "Don't take him from me! He's my only son! How can you kill him off like he's nothing?"
Another set of Peacemakers arrived at the entrance, supporting guns beneath their bulky jackets. Kurt allowed himself to be brought downstairs, and loaded into one of the Capitol's speedy car-like vehicles. The windows sparkled in the now past-noon sun, the bright green coloring of the automobile flashing gaudily.
He climbed inside, the seats were a polished leather, and sat down beside Santana. Her glossy ebony hair concealing her expression, hands knotted tightly in her lap. Across from them sat Holly, and a petite blonde woman.
Kurt swallowed hard as the cart lurched and gripped the window handle. "Shall we roll down the top?" Holly asked, peering gleefully at Santana and Kurt. "I think we should. That way, you can wave to all your adoring fans."
She pressed a button and with a creak, the top retracted and the sunshine was allowed in. Santana cowered further back, drawing her knees up to her chest and scowling darkly towards Holly.
The vehicle rolled forward, driving around the Justice Building and picking up speed as it sped through the Seam, and towards the train station. Kurt observed the solemn, pity-coated faces and his heart twanged at the thought of leaving his family and friends.
"Luck be with you," an elderly woman with sagging features croaked, patting Kurt's hand as they raced past.
He looked over his shoulder, the corners of his lips twitching up in an effort to offer a small smile of appreciation. Nothing would come.
The woman across from Kurt had stringy, white-blonde hair and clouded blue eyes. Her lips were sloppily dotted with crimson lipstick and her eyes were shadowed with mascara. She slapped Holly's arm, slumping down in the chair.
"'Eyyyyy," she grumbled. "I dunno why…why ya wouldn't let me bring the d-damn liquor."
Holly dug around in her purse for her kerchief, no doubt to sanitize her arm. "April, there will be paparazzi at the station. They will have cameras and the film will be sent directly to the Capitol. May I remind you that you're trying to make a good impression in order to keep your tributes alive? You don't want to come off as a drunken slut, do you?"
Santana's head snapped up. "April? April Rhodes?" she demanded. "The only District 12 mentor? You've got to be kidding me."
The word "mentor" clicked in Kurt's mind and he tensed. "She's going to be keeping us alive?" The question was directed at Holly, but April responded icily.
"You bet ya prissy asses. I'm the…the bestest you gots," she sniffed indignantly.
Santana shook her head, crossing her arms over her chest. "We're beyond screwed."
Holly clapped her hands after a rather awkward moment of silence. "Chins up, tributes, we're about to arrive at the train station. I want you to look pretty for the cameras, alright? These are your first photographs, and you want them to be spectacular," Holly instructed. "Now, dear, wipe your face. Dirt is not attractive."
Santana snatched the cloth and used the corner to angrily swipe at her cheek. "Happy?" she snarled.
Kurt thought she would be a good friend for the time being, with her defiant streak and bitchy personality. She reminded him faintly of Darcy.
Holly flinched. "None of that sass, sweetheart. You want to come off as innocent."
The car drove up to the station, slowing as it parked. Kurt had only been here once before, when he was eight, to watch the train transport his mother's dead body to the Capitol to be accounted for and buried in the huge cemetery.
He remembered his father's firm figure hovering over him, and the way dark clouds loomed in a wet sky. Kurt's tears stained his complexion, and his nose was red from the cold. He shivered inside his mother's roomy white jacket, which still smelt of faded roses and the porridge she had baked for breakfast a couple days ago.
Elizabeth Hummel was sick with pneumonia, one of the few diseases that the District 12 medical team was unable to treat. No matter how many times Burt groveled at the expensively clad boots of the Capitol, they refused to assist.
One day, the coughs that racked her fevered body proved to be too much and Kurt found her in the bed, pale as the sheets and her chest stilled.
As ritual when somebody from the districts dies, they're taken to the Capitol graveyard. Family and friends are allowed to see them off, but a funeral is a luxury only permitted for "well-known" people.
Kurt was jerked from his memory as the violent light from the camera flashes illuminated the entire perimeter. He covered his eyes and grabbed onto the sleeve of a Peacemaker.
"Hello, hi, yes," Holly was greeting the Capitol photographers, striking poses and projecting brilliant grins. "I'm Holly Holliday, the speaker and escort for the District 12 tributes. Mm? What's that? Oh, of course. Kurt, Kurt, darling. Come here and smile real pretty for our Capitol acquaintances."
Kurt ducked his head, aware of Holly's sharp manicured nails digging into his skin. "Over here, over here!"
"Look over here!"
"Kurt, how do you feel about being the District 12 tribute?"
"How far do you think you'll make it?"
"Are you nervous?"
"Mr. Hummel!"
"Did you say goodbye to your family? Was it emotional?"
"How do you feel?"
"Kurt Hummel!"
He was bombarded with questions and groping paparazzi. Holly only held him still and forced him to endure through the prying stares.
"Mr. Hummel," screamed a purple haired woman holding a microphone. "Tell us about your family! How do they feel about this riveting change in events?"
Kurt looked up, still dizzy from the lights. "Uh, well," he replied nervously. "It's only my dad - he works in the, uh, mine. We weren't expecting for me to be drawn…But I guess it's reasonable because I'm eighteen and it's gone in forty-two t-times. My dad was…well, he was devastated. Who wouldn't be? I mean, his son is going into a blood bath," Kurt rambled.
The reporter watched him blankly. Holly moaned an tugged him away. "What he means," she clarified, "is that his father was hit by a forceful wave of emotion. His only son to fight for such an honorable cause!"
The paparazzi beamed, pleased with the answer. Holly nodded and dragged Kurt off to the boarding train. "Okay," she said as she adjusted his overalls. "Speaking is not your strong point."
The train was made up of several different compartments; kitchen, dining, separate bedrooms with bathrooms, luggage and entertainment. It was the largest confined area Kurt had ever been and it positively captivated him.
Holly swept about, showing them through the different compartments while Santana and Kurt dawdled behind in a daze. The entire place radiated Capitol, with the gold trimming and carpeting that sunk in about five inches wherever you stepped.
"We'll be there in the morning," Holly said, stopping in front of the bedrooms. "For now, you're free to do whatever you like. Please bathe before we reach the stylists tomorrow. It's always a challenge to clean the 12ers, and we don't want to offend anyone! I'm off to discuss things with our lovely driver. If you need anything, just holler."
She pranced off, flicking her fingers in a wave. Santana brushed her hair over her shoulder, wrinkling her nose. "No doubt April's wondered off to find some rum," Santana remarked stiffly.
Kurt chuckled. "Yeah."
"I suppose we should watch the reapings from the other districts. You know, access our opponents."
"G-good idea."
He followed the snappy brunette to another cart, in which expensive-looking crème sofas were positioned in front of the largest television Kurt had ever seen. He was used to the Hummels' tiny, poor reception, box set that set in front of the fireplace and was only used once a year.
"Damn," whispered Santana. "This is really happening. They're giving us the best experiences before they fuckin' kill us off."
With that rather broad comment, Santana plopped down on the couch and propped her feet up on the coffee table, plucking a couple chocolate balls from the dish beside her bare toes.
"Coming, doll face?"
Kurt was yanked out of his day dream as he numbly sat down beside Santana. The television flickered to life and a robotic feminine voice called out, "What would you like to watch?"
Santana and Kurt exchanged surprised glances. "Uh, the reapings?" Santana said tentatively.
"Reapings," the television repeated. "District 1..."
For the next hour, all that Kurt could focus on were the faces. He memorized them, and tucked them away for future reference. A buff boy from District 1 who flexed his muscles: cocky. A girl from District 6 that started to cry when her name was called: sentimental. A boy in with leg assists from District 9: bad legs. A blonde who clapped before realizing it was her from District 10: intelligence. The most intriguing, however, came from District 11. A short, curly-haired boy with soft hazel eyes and a stony expression, along with the youngest of the tributes. He couldn't find a weakness in the boy - Blaine Anderson? - and felt his cheeks flush at the realization of his attraction.
When the reapings ended with Kurt's face on the screen, Santana clicked off the device and sat back, breathing shallowly.
"Well," she said coolly. "I hope your ready for a bit of a challenge, Hummel."
Kurt blinked. "Aren't you…oh, I don't know, terrified?"
Santana stretched and stood up, some of her cocoa hip bone exposed as her cotton shirt lifted. "Of course I am. But I'm good at putting a mask over my emotions. It's a good technique, lady lips, one that you should pick up before those sexy muscle men cook your ass."
She sashayed out of the room, blowing a mocking kiss at Kurt and then heading off to her bedroom. Kurt leaned back against the cushions and swallowed as hard as he could, desperate to remove the thick fear from his body.
But it wouldn't go.
Holly clapped her hands eagerly, eyeing the elaborate foods laid out before them like a hawk. "It's been a tiring day, shall we feast?"
April took a swig from her tequila glass and grinned stupidly, swaying in the slightest. "'Ey, 'ey. Go ahead, but I doubt you'll be able to, heh, keep it down. After all, ya kids have been drinkin' a good load. 'S not good for ya health; you gotta win the…win the games! Bring home the lottery! And…and…what was I sayin'?"
Santana scoffed and rolled her eyes. "Only you've been drinking, Ms. Rhodes," she hissed. "We're clean."
Kurt directed his attention to their dinner. Steaming buttered rolls, cranberry jell-o, rice pudding, steak, duck, chicken, venison, clams, shrimp, lobster, potatoes, soup, salads, freshly cut fruits and vegetables complete with tall glasses of sparkling cider and juice. He didn't know where to begin.
Santana ravenously grabbed a spare rib drizzled with oozing sauce and sunk his teeth into the hot meat. She groaned and motioned to Kurt. "You've got to try this. I swear, I've died and gone to heaven."
I've died and gone to hell, Kurt thought bitterly, but grabbed a roll nonetheless. His fingers slipped against the melted butter, and it felt warm and fuzzy in his stomach. Warm and fuzzy. He took another bite, and another. Pretty soon he and Santana had practically sampled everything on the rich mahogany table.
He slumped back in his chair, rubbing his palms over his swollen stomach. It had tasted wonderful going down, but as it settled he thought he sensed the duck making it's reappearance.
Holly dabbed the corners of her mouth daintily with her ever-present kerchief. "So how was it? Acceptable? You know, we have this spectacular chef, Ravi, he's amazing. Makes the best venison I've ever tasted, mm-hmm."
Santana grimaced. "No mentions of food, I beg of you."
"Oh, that's right," said Holly. "This happens every year. You poor district people aren't used to eating so much. I'm just happy you haven't vomited yet, although the same cannot be said about our dear April here"
Kurt grimly adjusted his body and yawned. How he was tired he had no clue. He was a goddamn tribute, going to fight for his death in a couple days. Santana was soaking up the pleasure, having showered about sixteen times since climbing onto the train.
Suddenly, a shower sounded glorious. "-big, big day tomorrow," Holly was ranting. "Why don't you two get some sleep?"
"I'm up for it," Santana lifted herself out of her chair. "Goodnight drunken delinquent, Hummel, crazy-ass."
Holly flinched at her label and shifted uncomfortably. "You know, I'm quite exhausted, too. April, Kurt, can you find your ways to bed?"
Kurt nodded, standing up. April tipped over her empty bottle sadly. "I think I'll s-stay down here and get some more…more brandy. Yes, that sounds n-nice. Brandy."
Kurt stumbled off to his bedroom, never have felt more full. His room contained a satin sheeted king-sized bed, a television, desk and bathroom. He showered away his worries for the night, washing them down the glittering gold drain with burning water jets. Then he curled up in his bed, the satin sheets cocooning him, and wept.
