A/N: I've decided these are likely not going to be chronological. It's not very practical.
This is long. I needed to get a lot into this one to make me happy. XD Sorry…
Disclaimer: The Hunger Games and all the characters in this fic are the property of Suzanne Collins.
Enjoy!
Hazelle shifted the squirming two-year-old in her arms surreptitiously out of the easy reach of the many sharp writing implements, teaching pamphlets and paperweights littering the desk she sat before. A soft whimper of protest came from the toddler at being foiled in her attempt at inserting one of the fascinating jagged, shinny things in her itchy little mouth, but settled for sucking eagerly on her tiny fist when her mother scowled down at her, clucking her tongue.
"She's quite adorable, isn't she?"
The Seam woman's eyes shifted back to the balding fifty-something-year-old behind the desk, fighting back the urge to roll them.
Did he think that was a compliment? Did he think her soft in the head to not notice the patronizing tone he'd used?
Obviously, this man was fond of children, there was no other reason to take his particular position in this district other than that. Teaching wasn't especially well remunerated in Twelve. And doubtlessly, her Posy was a beautiful child. But the way the wrinkles around the corners of this man's eyes and mouth deepened whenever he looked at her, spoke volumes of just how he felt about her dark coloring.
All that taken into account, however, the Hawthorne matriarch had dealt with far worse than veiled disesteem for her kind from his in her lifetime and she could certainly outright ignore the fact that he'd spoken altogether until he had something of actual relevance to impart to their current repartee.
Realizing the woman before him was not going to humor his comment with a reply, the educator's pale cornflower eyes listed back to the three files he had open on his table as he drummed his fingers rhythmically against the table.
Finally, after a few more moments, he lifted them from the literature and, removing his wide-rimmed glasses to rub the bridged of his nose, sighed wearily, "I know you have a long day ahead of you, Mrs. Hawthorne. I'll try to keep this as to-the-point as possible."
He now brought down his hand on the file to his furthest right, staring at her intently. He spoke with a stern, clinical intonation. "Aside from a penchant for speaking pretty much whatever is coursing through his mind at any given moment, coupled with a flagrant disregard for any authority figure that isn't, well… you, Gale is academically one of the most gifted students we have." He then sat back, keeping the same stern expression while bringing both arms to cross over his chest to continue, flatly, "Which is quite extraordinary, considering the fact that if you walked out this moment and asked any random student you passed in that hallway if they had ever seen your son doing a single piece of assigned school work, they honestly could not tell you they ever had. Far as we figure, he must do it while he's out in that wilderness- no one really knows. All his teachers know is that he makes nearly perfect scores in mathematics, high scores in sciences and very decent scores in reading comprehension."
The man shrugged, letting out a breath as his hand dropped down to the open file to his furthest left. "Then we have Vick…"
Hazelle shifted uncomfortably in her chair, cradling her baby closer to her chest, an uneasy feeling rising in the pit of her stomach at the obvious fact that one of her sons had already been passed over in this sequence. This never augured anything good.
The school principal continued, oblivious to the discomfort of the woman before him. "Vick is showing extreme promise in some of the same areas as his oldest brother. He seems to excel in sciences, however. He has a very analytical mind. He also scores higher in reading comprehension. Also, he tends to be well-behaved, he doesn't have his brother's rather unfortunate proclivity toward 'outspokenness'", he paused here to send her a pointed look, "and he seems generally well-adjusted to his peers."
The older fair-haired man now sat forward, bringing both hands up to lace his fingers atop the file in the center of his desk. His brows knit slightly as he focused a look that seemed almost condemning on the Seam woman.
"Then we come to the real reason I have called you here today, Mrs. Hawthorne…"
'Here we go', ran through Hazelle's mind ruefully. She had a pretty good idea what was coming.
"Rory is brilliant, Mrs. Hawthorne. Just because he doesn't earn the same scores in mathematics and sciences as his brothers, doesn't mean he is any less intelligent. His scores in reading comprehension are in the top percentile for the entire school. He plays the violin beautifully in music classes… and that is with minimal instruction, mind you. He is obviously musically inclined, naturally. He does not require any more "motivation" than his brothers; I can vouch for that myself." The man actually made the punctuation gesture with the index and middle fingers of both hands to accentuate motivation.
Okay. Whatever Hazelle had been expecting- it decidedly had not been that. Accordingly, she found herself staring absently and slightly slack-jawed at the man for a tick before managing a fairly ineloquent "What?"
And, at this impasse, she learned that whichever Merchant family this man came from, they had not had the good taste to teach him how rude it was to roll his eyes at a guest, since he chose this moment to indulge in a rather extravagant exposition of the gesture. He started addressing her in a tone she wouldn't belittle the toddler in her arms with. "Please, Mrs. Hawthorne. I've seen this a million times before with the Seam kids from the community home. The detached demeanor, the proclivity toward violent outbursts, the outwardly anti-social behavior toward most children, not his own kin. It's understandable with the children in the home. They have no parents and the caretakers must use a stern hand to keep order, after all. They're fortunate not to be left out in the streets to starve. However, Rory does still have one parent and he's not a particularly ill-behaved child. Yes, he tends to turn to violence as a first resort to resolve conflicts, but that is likely due to his short temper. And boys will be boys, after all, am I right?"
It took her a second to get over that feeling of having the wind knocked out of her by an invisible sucker-punch to the gut, then another to really, ruminate the enormity of the accusation this insensitive bigot had just launched against her.
Then, adjusting her baby on one lap with an arm and bringing a trembling hand to hover over her mouth in agitation, she managed in a barely restrained hiss, "I do not now or have I ever, beat any of my boys." Even she was amazed at her own constraint. How had she not walked out of this idiot's office already?
The balding man sat back aloofly, as if he'd just stated the condition of the weather, arms crossing once more across his chest. "I would not presume to tell you how to raise your children, Mrs. Hawthorne. But, when they start causing disruptions-"
"Is this the crap you feed your Merchant friends when their kids show up battered and bloodied to class, Mr. Glascoe?" She couldn't help herself anymore. This man's insufferable way of speaking to her, the way he looked at Posy, the fact that District Twelve was small enough that everyone knew exactly who beat their kids. Or, more to the point, the fact that beyond those poor, unfortunate souls who fell into the cruel, heartless hands of the caregivers in the community home, there was only really one person in the district cold-blooded enough to wail on her own offspring.
And she was decidedly not Seam.
To her satisfaction, the corners of the man's mouth dipped marginally into a nearly imperceptible frown before he quickly schooled them back to his previous blank expression. He managed to retain that infuriating bored tone. "As I was saying, Mrs. Hawthorne, I wouldn't presume to tell anyone how to raise their children. It is simply not my place."
Hazelle had to use every ounce of equanimity in her body to keep from pouncing on the man when he smirked superiorly at her after that statement. He then continued casually, "You might be surprised to know that Merchant children, curiously don't show these reclusive behaviors your son is exhibiting due to whatever duress he is under. This seems to be a uniquely Seam quirk." God! She hated the way his eyebrow rose as he said that last part!
"I must, however, advise you that there have been seven separate incidents this past year involving your son shoving, kicking or engaging in verbal confrontations with other classmates, all of which would have escalated had the teacher not intervened. If this happens again, Rory will be sent home. We can not have students disrupting our classes, Mrs. Hawthorne- not even students as bright as Rory."
Bringing a hand up to brush a stray strand of dark hair behind her ear, the steel-eyed woman replied heatedly, "I'll make sure Rory tones it down. Don't you worry none about that. What did the other child do or say to my boy to get him so riled up?"
Clearly not expecting that particular follow up question, the man looked down at the file, his brow furrowing as he answered, "The reports all seem to indicate the other child involved reported your son simply lost control.
At hearing this, Hazelle started to rise to her feet, her light gray eyes narrowing dangerously at the man sitting at the desk before her. "What do you mean, 'the other child reported'? You telling me you're basing this off the accusations of another youngin'? Where was the teacher when all this was happening?"
The man visibly swallowed under the Seam woman's intense scrutiny, gazing down to skim the report once more before reporting in a hesitant, almost timid intonation, "All the incidents occurred immediately before or after class. The teachers were not present and responded to the commotion."
Hazelle let out a bemused, disbelieving scoff. "So, let me get this straight. You're accusing my nine-year-old of starting trouble you ain't know for sure he started based on the word of – let me guess – a Merchant child?"
When the man looked down once more at the file and didn't bother looking up again, she had all the answer she needed. Wrapping both arms securely around her daughter, she made her way to the door briskly, stopping only to send a recriminating glare over her shoulder at the man at the desk.
"As I said before, I'll be sure Rory knows exactly how I feel about getting dragged down here because of his fooling around and quarreling in school, but I do suggest you don't ever let my oldest get wind of what you insinuated I did to his baby brother, Mr. Glascoe."
Right as she exited, she threw back into the room, "My Jasper taught that boy all kinds of ways to skin a critter and he's got a heck of a mean streak, that one."
She was gone before she could register the horrified intake of breath from the room she'd just vacated.
Ugh! They were all giggling and staring at him again.
Why couldn't they just leave him alone? He never bothered any of them. He never even spoke to any of them. Why were they always picking on him?
The nine-year-old averted his crystalline eyes to the ground, moving behind his far taller older brother in the hopes of obscuring himself from the visible horizon of the conniving group of Merchant girls. Maybe, for once they would overlook him and he could make it into the school unscathed.
The odds were not in his favor today, however.
"Oh, my God, Gillian. What smells? Is that Seam trash? Oh, no. It's only Vick." A very annoying, high-pitched bout of infantile giggling immediately followed this.
Not even bothering wasting the effort rolling his light charcoal eyes would expend on these useless wastes of human skin and organs, the eleven-year-old did not hesitate in retorting, "Emmy, our mom does your laundry, genius. She uses the same soap on your clothes as she does on ours. You smell like whatever Vick smells like, moron."
"What did you just call my little sister, Hawthorne?"
Both Seam boys turned away from the group of blonde ten-year-olds to face the quickly approaching general storeowner's second born. He was conspicuously flanked by two other boys, both in the same year as their companion, all three in the junior squad of the wrestling team.
'Perfect.'
This was not the first time this particular scenario had played out with this ensemble of players. The Hawthorne second oldest had a good idea how it would end. "Get inside the school, Vick."
Knowing exactly how this was going down, the younger boy clung desperately to his brother's arm, pulling him in the direction of the school. There was a desperate imploration to his near shriek. "Please, Rory, Let it go! I don't care if Emmy or Gillian or any of them make fun of me. You can't get into another fight. Remember what mom told you. You get sent home again and you don't get to go out with Gale. Please, let's just go!"
Wrenching his arm away from his younger brother's grasp, the older Hawthorne hissed out, heatedly, "Get inside now, Vick. If I get sent home, Gale will walk you home after school… now git!"
"It's okay, Chance." The now-panicking voice of the instigating Merchant boy's sister rang in from behind. "We were just messing around. Nobody meant anything by it."
Rory didn't even avert his eyes from glaring at the girl's older brother to acknowledge the statement, however. He was well aware this had little to do with the girl and much more to do with him. It just so happened she was a convenient excuse on this particular day.
"Just go in, Emmy. Let me handle this, okay? Go on, now. You don't wanna be late and get in trouble, do you?" The dirty blonde shot his little sister an appeasing smile and the little girl hesitantly made her way to the building, her friends following close behind.
The youngest Hawthorne male shot them a furtive glance before turning one last beseeching look at his older brother. His only response was a sad smile and whispered, "Go, Vick." Then, he moved slowly away, not daring to look back, knowing his brother wouldn't want him to see.
Once he watched his baby brother's back disappear into the doorway, the eleven-year-old turned back to the general storeowner's son as the two other boys moved around to stand behind him in what was becoming an all-too-familiar dance. He couldn't keep the mocking tone out of his newly deepening voice. "You know, guys, it isn't cowardly at all ganging up on me three on one or anything..."
A positively depraved smirk tugged at the corner of the older boy's mouth as he stepped closer, curiously coming nose to nose with his considerably younger opponent. "I'll seriously take that under advisement."
Then, Rory found himself on the ground, the pain from the knee to his ribs serving as a nice distraction from the barrage of blows the three blondes rained on his torso.
On principle alone, he hated these things on good days.
On a day like today, when he was nursing three bruised ribs and about a dozen other less serious injuries, the school's yearly compulsory assembly of the entire student body for what they called "orientation" felt like torture.
Whom were they orienting, anyway? The five-year-olds? He was fairly sure they were the only ones gathered out in that field behind the school – it was the only space big enough to hold this many children at one time – who hadn't heard this dribble about school etiquette and procedure a thousand times.
He allowed his eyes to roam soberly over the amassed crowd of students, simultaneously grateful and impressed whatever that was Mrs. Everdeen had given Katniss for him, made the swelling in the left one last less than a day. The children were gathered into a humongous circle, segregated by their school year and splayed on the soft grass. The youngest were the closest to the center, where a rudimentary 'stage' – made up of mats from the gym, folding chairs and a podium – had been established for the speakers. This made it pretty obvious the younger kids really were the intended targets of the bulk of the information being disseminated, as there were no microphones and whoever was on that stage would be hard-pressed to get whatever they were saying out to the eighteen-year-olds in the outer rims of the circle.
Not that any of them were paying a lick of attention, anyway.
Of course, that all changed when actual students started making their way onto the stage, causing that same exited murmur to go through the crowd it did every year. This was the part where the clubs and sports teams and what-nots spoke their peace. It was a fan favorite in these things. The eleven-year-old just propped both arms on his bent knees and redoubled his attempts to block the sound out. Younger, unnecessarily excitable voices definitely reached the farther edges of this stupid sphere.
He tried to busy himself with searching out his brothers and Katniss. The field they all occupied had a natural slope, which was likely the inspiration for grouping the students in a circle. It was pretty much a giant bowl in shape and the speakers were set up in the center - it's lowest point - looking up and out at the students. This was decidedly helpful to the eleven-year-old and he found Vick quickly enough. The nine-year-old was sitting in a group of five other Seam boys a couple of sections down to his left, making some ridiculous face in mockery of the student council president who spoke presently from the podium and laughing. Rory's mouth inadvertently twitched into a grin. His baby brother was such a goofball.
Turning his head to scan the opposite side of the field in search of Katniss, his eyes inadvertently locked with the very concerned blue pools of the only person he called a friend outside his family. Of course, right now he'd call her a warden, considering she'd glued herself to his side like a leech ever since she'd learned he'd been in another scuffle three days ago, clandestinely self-appointing herself his personal nurse. Outwardly, he cringed upon making eye contact with her. Inwardly, he was grateful to have her close when he felt this awful.
He'd do anything in his power to maim anyone who divulged what he felt inwardly, however.
"How are you feeling, Rory?"
Inching up an eyebrow before drifting his eyes away to continue his exploration of the crowds in search of both their older siblings, he responded, curtly, "About as well as I felt ten minutes ago. You know, the last time you asked..."
The blonde wrapped both arms across her chest, huffing out angrily is response, "The sarcasm is uncalled for, you know. A simple 'I don't feel any better, Prim. Thank you for asking' would have been just fine. Is that too much to ask?"
His smile growing exponentially as he continued to scan the crowds of children until he was almost staring across from where they sat, the eleven year old answered, mockingly, "I feel every bit as crappy as I did ten minutes ago, Prim. Only now, my left buttcheek's gone numb from sitting here so long. Thanks for asking."
A swift elbow to his shoulder coupled with a lyrical giggle was his response. He didn't turn to acknowledge her, though. It would only make her feel guilty if she saw the pain register on his face since she'd managed to land the hit on one of his bruises.
She was one in a very short list of people he cared to keep looking happy.
His teachers had been telling him for years he needed to be more sociable, make more friends. For the life of him, he couldn't figure out why he'd ever want to do that, though. Seven of his neighbors, children who lived within three blocks of him, children he'd gone to kindergarten with, had died within the previous four years. Some died from disease, others died because they didn't have someone like Gale and his ma to make sure they ate something every day. Why would he want to know more of these slowly dying kids surrounding him? Was he supposed to be an emotional masochist?
If unendingly dealing with losing people you cared about was the definition of being sociable, he was more than happy to bare the brand of antisocial outcast. As far as he was concerned, he was all the slightly less damaged for it. And, let's be honest, he was still pretty freaking damaged.
That's why he liked hanging out with Prim. She was never trying to "fix" him. She listened to his rants without trying to give him useless advice he could never realistically exercise. She understood he was flawed in a certain way and she accommodated it. Not to mention, she had a strange side to her sense of humor, he wasn't sure anyone else knew about.
He'd only seen glimpses of it himself. Like a couple of days prior, when he'd first come back to school in awful shape, she'd pulled him into the girl's bathroom afterschool. She'd been almost gasping for air with delirium as she'd showed him the rather impressive collection of writing in the stalls and walls. His oldest brother was recurrently referred to, as was a boy he quickly recognized as the baker's oldest son. He blushed at some of the things some of the girls wrote, some terms he wasn't even familiar with. He'd never known girls used their bathroom as some sort of confidential about their male peers.
Prim's laughter had intensified when she'd led him to a spot that had what appeared to be newer writing, judging by the freshness of the ink. When he'd looked closer, he'd seen his name referenced everywhere, along with remarks on everything from his height to his build to his derriere. The flush that had rushed up his neck as he read that was so intense, he'd felt the heat through his clothes. He'd looked up at the snickering girl beside him mortified.
"Oh, it gets worse," The pretty blonde had replied, wiping at her eyes while pointing at a different spot with more fresh ink. "I caught Emmy Starnorth writing that the day before yesterday."
Afraid to look, but too curious not to, the eleven-year-old had read what the general storeowner's daughter had written. The one eye that wasn't swollen shut, had widened to the size of a dinner plate. There it was. In the bubble-lettered handwriting only a little girl possessed:
'Vick Hawthorne has the most amazing eyes! He is so gorgeous! He's going to be the best looking of them all!'
The Hawthorne second born suppressed a shudder at that memory as his eye finally lighted on the huntress. His baby brother was bloody nine! And these sick little Merchant girls were already ogling him? Worse yet, he was certain at least three of the altercations with the younger members of the wrestling squad he'd had in the last year, involved some stupid little girl picking on his baby brother. That meant that now he was getting his butt handed to him because some immature twit didn't know a better way to show her feelings besides bullying.
That was just great!
Rory tried to shake the darkening thoughts from his mind by focusing back on his previous task. He looked back at where Katniss sat. She was sitting next to the mayor's daughter, almost across from where they were. She looked as bored as he felt. At least, she had company. The only positive to being stuck out here, besides getting out of schoolwork an hour early, was that they got to sit wherever they wanted as long as it was within the section assigned to their year.
Suddenly, he was wrenched out of his stupor when a very different baritone rang out over the crowds. His eyes traveled to the speaker of their own accord, his voice had something of an entrancing quality to it. It was quite fascinating, really.
The eighteen-year-old's nearly deep purple eyes regarded the amassed student body with a comfort that was almost unnerving, as if he were speaking to a group of intimate friends. No one should feel that at ease speaking to hundreds. "Okay. So, we all know we lose our graduating class of teammates this year, myself included."
To Rory's confoundment, a wave of 'Aw's' and condolences swept through the outer edges of the circle, which was followed by some cheering until the teachers had to restore order to the rowdy upperclassmen.
Wiping at his eye with one hand and letting out an obviously fake sniffle, the blonde continued in what could almost pass for sincere despondency, "Oh, come on, you guys. You're making me cry." This, of course, was answered by a second round of laughter from the upper ring.
"Okay, shush everyone. I have to finish this or principal Glascoe's gonna kick me off the stage. Here are the six students the wrestling team has scouted into this year's roster…" He then picked up a card off the podium and began reading off last names. He had to pause in between as every name met with cheers from some particular clique of blondes in either the section above Rory's or the outer ring. Often both, as one of the upperclassmen's younger brother joined the score of teammates. The only name that caused pause in the student body was the very last.
"Hawthorne!" Rang clear through the entire crowd in that authoritative, mesmerizing inflection.
"No, thank you, Flax."
What appeared to be the cumulative stares of every single person on that field, diverged to the somber seventeen-year-old sitting solitarily with one leg splayed out and the other bent upward, his knee supporting his lax arm, who'd just uttered the reply with unwavering conviction.
Raising an intrigued, bemused pale eyebrow, the towhead on stage sent him a flirtatious grin. "Oh, I'm beyond tired of barking up your particular tree, Gale. You've made it more than clear your extracurricular activities card is more than full. Plus, you've simply broken my heart one too many times. Ask any of the girls around you. I don't take rejection particularly well." This brought on a renewed round of hooting and wolf-calling, which the teachers did their best to squelch.
Still snickering as he turned back to gaze in the opposite direction into the swarm of students, the bulky teenager continued nonchalantly, "Still, you do have a point. I wasn't very clear. The call is for Rory Hawthorne." Then his eyes landed on the rather confused boy and he elaborated, "You're supposed to stand when I call your name, kid."
Too surprised to register what exactly was happening, the Hawthorne second born stared dumbly into the oceanic eyes that felt as if they were burrowing directly into him, somehow paralyzed by the older boy's scrutiny. It wasn't until he felt the jab to his arm and heard the softly whispered "Get up, Rory" from the girl on his right that his neurons aligned and got out message to his limbs. He cautiously got to his feet, still wary this was some kind of intricate ruse to humiliate him on some astronomically epic scale.
And maybe it was, considering the comment that rang through the air the instant he was on his feet.
"You can't do this, Flax!"
The teenager on the podium's eyes flashed dangerously to a section above and to the right of where Rory stood. "I'm sorry, Chance. Were you under the misconception that this team is a democracy? Because I can assure you right now that, it is not. The only requirements to qualify for the roster are academic and athletic. Or, maybe your issue is the fact that this choice was made by a retiring captain, without the input of his successor? That would be a deplorable breech in procedure wouldn't it be?" The blonde now violently swung his head back toward the section behind and to the far right of the podium, scanning the student body for someone. Once he found whoever it was he was looking for, he called out in a voice dripping with anger and sarcasm, "So, what's your opinion on my choices for this year's roster?"
The sixteen-year-old had to lick his lips to keep from outright laughing at the inanity of this entire exercise before vociferating his response. "Looks like a very decent crop of boys to me, big brother."
"Oh, like he'll ever disagree with anything you say, Flax."
"You really feel like eating grass, Joe?"
Rory watched in dumbfounded fascination as the boy in his brother's section cowed at the poorly veiled threat from the younger teen. He'd never seen Merchant kids act this way. He still didn't understand why the baker's oldest sons were singling him out.
He watched as the principal stood from his chair, narrowing his eyes in the Mellark middle child's direction. "Miss Stone, there is more than enough lawn in this field to accommodate everyone. Please, vacate Mr. Mellark's lap and find your own plot to occupy." Before turning back to his seat, he added over his shoulder as an afterthought, "And do make sure that plot is in the general vicinity of your pertinent school year, Miss Stone."
As Rory looked on, amidst a chorus of laughter from the students, a very pretty blonde girl stood from the section in the far right behind the stage with a huff, straightened her lovely lavender dress and proceeded to stomp the few yards to the section where Katniss and the mayor's daughter were sitting. She made her way to a covey of six Merchant kids and plopped down next to another fair-haired teenager, grabbing his arm protectively in both of hers while shooting a belligerent look at the principal. The fifteen-year-old who'd just been all but accosted by her did nothing but smile congenially at the man who shook his head in disapproval.
"Well, there's certainly never any shortage of Mellarks," the eleven-year-old heard his friend snort out in amusement below him.
Taking a closer look at the boy in Katniss' section, the Hawthorne second born realized he did favor the speaker on the stage and the boy in the Sixteens quite a bit. That was something of a disarming thought. What'd they do? Share girls?
'Eewww!'
As soon as the principal was back in his chair, the sports' coach was turning in the same direction the older man had spoken before. "Rye! For the love of mercy, you're co-captain of the team, son. What're you doing seating through this out there? Get on this stage!"
The muscled teen let his head loll back in clear indication he really didn't want to move. However, after a moment's hesitation, got to his feet with a groan and made his way to the stage.
He diverted to pass his baby brother as he went, ruffling the younger teenager's hair and remarking a very inappropriate, "Keep her warm for me, little brother", which started a new round of snickering from the students.
Once he reached the podium, his older brother greeted him with a scowl and a "Way to make a jackass of yourself" that may or may not have been meant for everyone else's ears- but everyone present heard.
"Bite me." Rye's response was definitely meant for the general audience.
Rolling his eyes in aggravation away from his younger brother to land on the Seam boy still standing in the Elevens section, Flax repeated his invitation. "So, what do you say, Rory. The spot on the team is yours if you want it."
Realizing this wasn't some kind of a joke, that this was actually happening, that he was being offered a chance to learn to fight back against the guys who randomly attacked him out of the blue… the eleven-year-old found himself at a loss as to how to respond.
"I-I'm not old enough…" He instantly berated himself for sounding so unsure, so feeble. But, that was technically true. The starting age for the team was twelve.
Flipping a glance back at his baby brother behind the stage, who'd been allowed into the team at only ten, the co-captain spoke up easily, "Allowances are made all the time for legacies. The age thing can be overlooked as long as the athlete is fit enough to take the rigors of the sport." He now narrowed his eyes into a piercing look. "No one here can argue you've been taking it for long enough to prove you can handle the rigors."
No longer able to hold those gazes that saw way too far into a place he was not comfortable with anyone exploring, the Seam boy instead shifted his deep gray eyes pleadingly to his older brother across the stage. He was surprised to find Gale was on his feet and glaring right back, the answer to his unvoiced plea written clearly in the silver of his eyes.
Rory's shoulders slumped as his eyes found the ground. He struggled desperately to contain the dread and disappointment welling up inside from displaying too prominently on his face.
"Only parental consent is necessary to join the squad, Rory."
The eleven-year-old looked up at the baker's oldest son, a lost, defeated expression twisting his features. How could this boy he'd never met or even spoken to read him so well? Did it even really matter? "He might as well be…" It was barely above a moaned whisper.
"Flax!"
The Mellark elder boys turned to see the Seam hunter making his way through the throngs towards the stage in an unconcealed irate haste. The principal made to get up and reprimand him, but a hand on his shoulder and a pointed look from the coach had the older man turning back in his seat.
Gale wasted no time hissing out venomously upon reaching the stage, "What are you doing?"
Undaunted by the acerbic tone the taller boy used, the older teen answered matter-of-factly, "The guys on the team won't stop targeting him, Gale. He looks nothing close to his actual age, so they don't feel raw about picking on someone younger. He doesn't have the good sense to back down from impossible fights. He's a very convenient target to stupid, over-zealous boys who think they have something to prove and aren't allowed by the rules on the team to fight amongst themselves. The only protection we can offer is to teach him how to defend himself. Plus, as long as he's on the team, he'll be off-limits. These beatings are only going to get worse. He's going to get hurt bad."
The Seam teenager ran a hand through his hair in exasperation. He understood their logic. He appreciated what they were trying to accomplish. Really, he did. He still felt deep down this was wrong for Rory. Never mind, his baby brother was his responsibility and his alone. "I understand you guys need this to deal, but I don't want him fighting. Not in the schoolyard, not on the mat. He has to deal with this another way."
The Mellark middle child now spoke up. "Have you gotten a good look at him lately, Gale? Keeping that pent up is not good for anybody. It's going to show up one way or another."
"So what? I'm supposed to let you teach him to unleash it until he all but rips people's arms off unwittingly in blind rage or turns into little more than a barely sane brute?"
His brother's softly placed hand on his shoulder brought Rye back from that dark place that had instantly caused him to stiffen into an offensive posture at the steel-eyed teen's words. His eyes flicked shortly to lock with those of his baby brother's in the crowd. Even when the fifteen-year-old had no idea what they were discussing, he could see concern in those baby blue depths… his empathic, ever-so-good little brother. This brought him back to himself and he hissed out defensively at the older teenager, "The sport is the sport, Hawthorne. We all choose to exploit it however we see fit. The best of us choose not to exploit it at all. There's a blaring example of that out in this crowd."
Lowering his head in abdication at the younger blonde, the ebony replied with remorse, "I don't doubt that's true, but I don't want this for Rory. I'll take him out with Katniss and teach him to shoot. I'll figure something else out for him. I want more than violence to be his answer for this."
Flax nodded his assent and Gale turned back to make his way to his previous position on the field. Before he'd taken four steps, however, he heard the Mellark middle child address the crowd again.
"Well, due to familial responsibilities, Rory Hawthorne can not participate as an active member of the team. Therefore, we have determined he will be considered an honorary member instead and the sixth slot will not be filled this year." The sixteen-year-old now lowered his intonation to something unmistakably baneful. "This will mean he is entitled to the same considerations as anyone else on the team. Whomever violates the code of conduct will be expelled summarily from all team activities. I hope this is clear to everyone." Then, the baker's two sons left the stage, heading for in the separate general directions their friends were sitting in the assembly.
Rory barely registered the last words spoken by the Mellarks as he ran around the back of the school, away from the field, away from the assembly, away from his brother.
He couldn't let him have even this.
No, instead he had to step in and find the most humiliating compromise… leave poor, pathetic Rory alone or lose your precious position on your worthless team.
How long did they think that'd work, anyway? How long did his brother expect to keep those bastards from acting against their nature? How long did his brother think he'd act against his own nature?
Everyone respected Gale, he'd even wager they feared him. But, they weren't afraid of him and his older brother couldn't protect him, he couldn't protect Vick.
Gale had to be the politician, the avid diplomat. He could afford to be feared and respected, but ultimately needed to be accepted by the Merchants. They were the people he traded with. He couldn't afford to alienate them- they'd all starve.
So, Rory had to be the protector. He had to take the beatings. He had to stand up to them. He had to be disliked. Who else was there?
The eleven-year-old was grateful he was a good hundred yards from the school when the tears started flowing in earnest. Last thing he needed now was for the kids in school to see him cry, another weakness to exploit.
God, he missed his dad.
A/N: Wow! Sorry this is so long! I'd tell you this will be the longest one of these but I honestly have absolutely no idea. These things tend to take on a life of their own at a certain point and I think this is where it happened. I mean, I knew it would be long, but I had no idea. I'm actually not done with this kid. I'm done for now, but I still have ideas, mostly focusing on him with Vick and Gale or him with Prim (I REALLY like my ideas for him with PrimXD). If you like where I'm heading with my characterizations for this family...
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