TW: Discussion of borderline-traumatic sexual acts in Grey's POV, meriting the rating change of T to M to be made early. Be advised.

chariots

grey patten, district one female

…

Grey Patten has never had a particularly healthy relationship with her own body.

It began, she thinks, around the time that she was thirteen - the same period of time in which she entered the Academy, before she'd first had sex, but after she'd already begun to notice the physical changes in both her own body, and the bodies of those around her. She was a late bloomer, something a handful of her fellow trainees had seen fit to tease her for; no tits, no ass, flat as a board. Hair's too curly, skin's too pale, she's a bit pudgy in the stomach, isn't she, not attractive at all.

Grey would be lying if she said she hadn't internalized it; the sneering and the jibes and the insinuation of her ugliness. Not that such an insinuation had been long lived; by the time Grey was fifteen, the teasing had become something more akin to back-handed praise, even admiration, where boys were concerned. She'd rounded out not just in her skills, but in her physique; the too-thin wrists and too-fat arms she'd been mocked for at thirteen proved to be strong and muscular, the pudgy waist that her peers loved to ridicule grew toned and stiff, and her notoriously flat ass grew to be something curvaceous, thick and pert - much to the pleasure of her first boyfriend.

Grey knows well enough, at eighteen, that her body is her greatest asset. She knows that her physique is desirable compared to the waifishness of outer-district girls and the broadness of other Careers. She's managed to maintain the type of figure that many people her age would kill for; a striking mesh of curves in the right places offset by rounded features and appropriately thick muscles. But while she's certain many would consider her impressive, if not downright attractive, she's never been able to keep insecurity from nagging at her. Five years worth of disparaging comments cannot be made to disappear overnight - and the Capitol's particular brand of exhibitionism is only prone to making her thoughts spiral when she divests herself of the thin robe that's been pulled tight about her frame, baring herself to her stylists.

"Oh, dear. Look at those legs -"

"... all the hair. So unsightly…"

"- and those cheeks. No, not just the cheeks, but - her face. The skin. She's cute enough, but -"

"- pale!"

"Too pale!"

Grey's halfway to burning with shame by the time the frenzied Capitolites drag her over to a chair and tip her back so that her head is half submerged in water. She can feel something wet and almost sticky being smeared over her skin, can't help but take notice of the way it burns, how it leaves her skin tingling and raw before the cloth is dragged over her legs to wet them - and then rub them dry. The hands in her hair have nails like talons, and she has to actively keep herself from flinching when one of them drags across her jaw, sharply enough for her to gasp as her skin is nicked.

"- is it just me, or has District One been getting more lax about their hygiene?"

"Quit your complaining, Phoebus, at least we didn't get saddled with Twelve. Those poor coal rats are always so filthy. Dirt and grime everywhere…"

"Matted hair."

"Don't remind me. Ugh."

Grey tries to force her body to relax as the stylists chatter amongst themselves, letting her eyes slip closed and her mind drift. She thinks that, if she wanted to, she could try to speak to them - let them know exactly how she feels about the poking, the prodding, the jibes made at her expense. She thinks she could even tell them to stop, ask them to be quiet - or better still, scream at them to shut up - because she's a Career girl, and the Capitol favors her sort. But she doesn't. She can't. Because there are too many voices and too many hands and all she can think of is

Cobalt. How he'd cornered her in the archery room just before the Academy was set to close, edged her back against a wall and kissed her, all heat and tongue and dominance, demanding in all the ways that sex is supposed to be.

Tarian. How he'd eased her onto her knees in a supply closet, fisting a hand in her hair so hard that she could feel it pulling and shoved his girth between her lips, used her throat until she gagged.

Rhett. How he'd held her legs in place around his waist as he drove into her in his bedroom, his nails leaving bloody tears in the flesh of her thighs, the vicious movements of his hips against her own so rough that she'd been left with bruises along her abdomen.

All the pain and the insecurity and the neuroses, the desperation to make herself useful, make herself beautiful, make herself real, and it's led to this. Grey Patten, eighteen, standing in the middle of a too-cold and too-sterile room in the Capitol, with nothing to ground her but touch that she doesn't care for, touch that she doesn't want. She feels tears pricking at her eyes and stubbornly blinks them away because she can't give in to her feelings, not as a tribute, not as a Career. She needs to be strong. Stronger than this, stronger than what she is, stronger than her weakness.

She doesn't breathe a word as her head stylist finally enters and sets to work dressing her. She keeps her head facing forward as he applies her makeup, watching herself in the mirror over his shoulder as he lines her eyes with kohl, and smears something sweet on her lips. The girl in the mirror looks stony; elegant and untouchable, without a trace of humor in her face, without a hint of emotion in her eyes.

Grey doesn't recognize her.

"Okay, just one more little thing, I promise. One more. And steady - hold still, okay? I don't want to jab you on accident… needles belong in fabric, not skin, thank you very much…"

Grey can scarcely register her stylist's voice. And even once she does, she hasn't the mind to reply.

She should. She's supposed to. She can't be the quiet, pliant Academy trainee anymore, no, she has to be tough, command attention, put on a show. But she feels empty. She's still in that too-cold, too-sterile room, but her mind is far away, as far away as her reflection in the mirror.

She ought to give him something to go off of. Some sort of acknowledgment.

When Grey finally inclines her head in a semblance of an acquiescent nod, she's thankful that he doesn't press for anything more.

Her stylist eases her up from the chair and onto her feet, giving her a tiny clap on her shoulder as she obediently makes her way toward the place where he's gesturing for her to stand. Her shoulders droop for all of a moment before she rights them, adjusting her stance to try and convey confidence… or something close to it, anyhow. It's hard to muster any sort of certainty in this room… in this place.

The Capitol atmosphere is draining, and she's certain her discomfort is palpable despite her attempts to bury it under a mask of stoicism and aloofness. At best, she's probably coming across like Cecilia; robotic and distant. At worst, everyone tonight will be able to see her taciturn air for what it is; an attempt at shielding her deeper anxieties. A cover for vulnerability - for the emotional inner layer of her character, the girl who's weak and sensitive and undesirable as an ally.

(They already think you're unsuited for the Games, you know; the prim and proper One girl that doesn't speak unless she's spoken to, doesn't act with any degree of certainty or confidence. You're not cut out to be a Career, Grey - even the Academy knows that. It's why they were so reluctant to properly claim you, so unwilling to give you verbal support before you volunteered. You may have been their best prospect, but you're also a lost cause; top trainee out of a subpar group is nothing more than mediocre at best. You're weak. You're worthless. You're…)

"Damn, girl." Her stylist adjusts the waist of the dress on her hips, giving an appreciative murmur as he smooths down the fabric. "Wish I had an ass that nice."

She hears a belt clip together, watches his hands as they deftly move from her hips to her shoulder, the right one holding onto some sort of elaborate crystalline decoration.

"This is the needle I mentioned. Stay still."

Grey nods again, and her stylist hooks the shoulderpiece through the fabric on her gown, wrapping some sort of band around the straps of her dress and pulling it tight to keep the thing in place. He takes a step back, looking her up and down before clapping his hands in excitement. Grey forces herself to smile, feeling sure that his efforts deserve the reward even for as awkward as it is for her to give. Her face feels plastic when she forces the corners of her lips to turn upward. She's half-tempted to blame it on the oversaturation of makeup on her face, but...

"Stunning." The man tuts, resting his chin on his hand. "You're a jewel. An absolute gem."

... are those compliments, or is he mocking me?

(Does it matter one way or the other?)

No, Grey decides, as he reaches forward once more to adjust the metal fastenings at her hips. The stylist raises a brow, hmphs, and then lifts one hand to tug at the ends of her headpiece, successfully pulling it down far enough to partially obscure her vision. Great, she thinks to herself, doing her best not to step backwards as she so desperately wants to. Not only am I about to head face-first into the parade of nightmares, but I'm heading in blind.

"Oh, yes! Yes, yes, yes, you're going to be the star of the opening ceremony this year - though I'd expect no less from District One! Marvelous, every year, I tell you!" He laughs jovially, sitting down in the chair that Grey had only recently vacated, eyes twinkling with mirth as she watches him.

"You know," he continues. "Ambrosia was a quiet one too. Very sweet, really, and she had the nicest things to say about my designs…"

The words taper off. Grey focuses her eyes on the wall, keeping her fake smile on her lips, and her false confidence in her shoulders. If Ambrosia made it through this - the Tribute Parade, training, the Games themselves - she can, too. All she needs to do is hold herself together and play it smart. All she needs to do is put on a show.

I can't disappoint One. I can't disappoint the Academy. I can't disappoint my family.

Dad, I'm going to be your Victor. I swear it.

hana suzuki, district six female

…

"Why am I such an idiot?"

Hana's sympathetic smile morphs into a concerned frown as her stylist, Aisha, frantically tries to school her headpiece back into place, one hand resting on the Six girl's shoulder as she works. With such little proximity between their bodies, she's practically hyperaware of the slight stammer to Aisha's words, the lapses in breath that signal her distress. The anxiety in the Capitolite's body is so acute that it's worrying. And not just to Hana, it seems - she can see Merrick standing beside their chariot, eying the woman with a raised brow before allowing his gaze to flit toward his District partner, expression curious.

Hana wonders for a moment if she ought to call over to him - try and reassure him the way that she's been trying to reassure Aisha. But before she has a chance to so much as signal him, he's looking away - awarding her concern with a turned back, as if he doesn't find the situation worthy of his time. Hana can't say that she's surprised; from what she's gathered Merrick's not much of a conversationalist, nor much one for compassion. His misanthropy has been obvious since they boarded the train together in Six, when he'd seen fit to repay Hana's attempts at making conversation with a scowl before closing the door in her face. And his asociality has only grown more evident after reaching the Capitol; Hana's only managed to pry one sentence from him since their arrival. Which is frustrating; she's dealt with plenty of resentment and indifference back home (her work made certain of that - addiction doesn't tend to go hand-in-hand with receptiveness) - but this feels different. Maybe it's because they aren't in Six anymore. Maybe it's because this entire situation… the reaping, the Capitol, the Games, the thought that she might be dead in a week… is so confounding that Hana can't help but feel lost. Merrick's the only familiar thing that she's got, here. He's unapproachable, but he's from home. And she can't help but want to connect with him because of it.

It's clear he doesn't feel the same, though. Maybe it's better if I give him space - save my energy for other tributes and other situations. If the best I can get out of him is a single sentence...

(Still, it's one sentence more than our mentors have gotten. I shouldn't give up so soon.)

A small whimper alerts Hana to her stylist's distress once more, and her focus snaps back to Aisha in an instant, sympathy turning her gut when she notices the tears welling in the woman's eyes.

"- can fix this, back in th-the other room, it'll be fine, we have time, I'm sure Misty's got something we can patch this with, oh hells, Hana, I'm so sorry, I -"

"Hey, hey, hey," Hana murmurs, taking hold of Aisha's arms, her fingers locked in a steady - but not firm - hold around her stylist's biceps. "Look at me, Aisha - come on, it's alright."

Aisha glances up, her lower lip trembling, expression so open and full of anxiety that it's almost painful. Hana smiles at her, the look soft enough to convey kindness even for as steady and pointed as it remains. Not for the first time, she can't help but notice just how young the Capitolite is; they can't be more than a few years apart in age, and yet their positions are almost impossibly different. Strange to think about, really; what would Hana's life have been like if she'd grown up in the Capitol, rather than the Districts? Would she find the Games as repulsive as she does now, being from Six, or would she see them as commonplace? Would she even care about the fact that people her own age were being reaped every year, that children in the Districts were losing their lives to an unfair system, or would she think of it as just? It's so hard to say...

She rubs Aisha's shoulders gently. "Everything's alright. You've done a fantastic job with the costumes overall - nobody's going to notice a little rip in the fabric, I promise. Besides, if it's that disconcerting, I can wear it as a cowl instead of a headscarf, okay? Mistakes happen to the best of us, and this is just a little wardrobe malfunction, nothing that can't be mended. It's going to be fine."

Aisha nods, but her cheeks are flushed, and there are little crystalline droplets clinging to her lashes as she blinks. Hana relaxes her grip, her tone pitching slightly lower so that her words won't be overheard.

"Are you going to be okay?"

"Y-yes." Aisha almost chokes on her own words. "Sorry, I just - it's my first year, and I… I want to make a good impression, but you're a tribute, I shouldn't be bothering you with this, I…"

"You're not bothering me at all," Hana encourages the woman, continuing to soothingly massage her arms for another moment. When she finally lets her hands fall back to her side and steps away, she's glad to see that Aisha's posture doesn't seem quite so stiff as before. "I'm honestly glad to have a stylist who's so kind and conscientious - the Capitol's a bit of a shock for me, you know, and you've done so much to try and make sure I'm comfortable. I can't tell you how much I appreciate that."

"... Hana, I really think I should try and mend the tear real quick."

Hana sighs. "If you think it's necessary, I trust you. But we only have a couple of -"

"Tributes! Please proceed toward your District's chariot in a prompt and orderly manner. You have five minutes to take your places."

"Five minutes," Hana corrects as Aisha's back straightens and her teeth clench. "I don't know if we have time to run back to the dressing room."

"... I suppose a cowl wouldn't be the worst idea." Aisha murmurs finally, and Hana grins.

"I think it'll look lovely."

Her stylist blushes slightly and averts her eyes as she reaches up to the circlet keeping the fabric in place over Hana's hair. Once it's removed, she begins unwrapping the lightweight fabric from around her skull, adjusting it so that it's looped about her neck instead, though not so tightly that it's stifling. The map-like print on the fabric that's meant to resemble Panem's train routes is still visible, for the most part; not quite as showy, but…

"It'll do." Aisha sighs in disappointment, but she seems far more settled than she had been a few minutes ago. Hana counts that as a win.

"I love it," she says plainly, and even if the words don't quite ring true, Aisha doesn't need to know.

"Two minutes remaining!" A loud voice crows. Hana gives her stylist a friendly wave.

"I'll see you after the ceremony!"

She makes her way over to Merrick's side quickly, unsurprised to find him standing in place with his arms crossed, glaring at the chariot steps as though the very thought of climbing them is personally offensive.

"You alright?" Hana asks. Merrick hmphs, inclining his head to the side to acknowledge her presence. Hana has to bite back a sigh at his utter lack of decorum. She understands - to a degree, that is, because she doesn't truly know the scope of Merrick's feelings, nor the particulars of his history - but she can't help but find his standoffishness frustrating. I get that he doesn't want to be here; but very few of us actually do, and it's not so hard to play along. Doesn't he recognize that?

She purses her lips, wracking her brain to try and conjure up something that she thinks will resonate. He seems like someone who prefers others to be straightforward - blunt, even. He's cynical… not keen on conversation in general, so probably won't be receptive to an emotional approach. Rational, then?

"The sooner we get on the chariot, the sooner we can get this over with," she says.

Merrick's eyes dart to her briefly, a huff escaping him. After a moment or two, he nods.

"Yeah, okay, fine." He uncrosses his arms, motioning toward the step with one hand. "Ladies first."

"How gentlemanly of you," Hana rolls her eyes good-naturedly, taking hold of the bar on the chariot's side to hoist herself up from the ground. It's not too much of a struggle to get herself situated (the steps aren't exactly hard to ascend) but she's surprised at just how much taller she feels once she's got herself in place. It's a little odd, for someone of her stature, who isn't at all used to looking down on people - Merrick's head is about level with her chest, and Hana can't help but find it almost funny.

"You're a lot less intimidating from up here," she muses.

Merrick snorts. It's a dry, rasping noise - not anywhere near an actual laugh, but close enough that it still betrays amusement.

"Guess I oughta remedy that, then."

He follows Hana's lead, using the metal bar over the stairs to climb into the chariot at her side, rolling his shoulders back and flexing his hands as he stands beside her, in all his six-foot-whatever glory. Hana nudges his arm with her own, only wondering a second too late if doing so is overstepping - they may be District partners, but they don't really know each other, do they? Just because he's from Six doesn't mean he's her ally.

Still, if Merrick's discomforted, he doesn't show it. He crosses his arms over his chest again, body stiffening as a signal is given from near the front of the assembly, and their chariot begins to roll forward, the horses leading it in a slow trot.

"S'pose we should try and enjoy all this ritzy bullshit." Merrick says, surprising Hana with his words. "Fuck knows it's only gonna get worse from here."

leiothrix dogwood, district seven male

…

As Seven's chariot lurches forward, Leiothrix feels his mind go blank.

Part of it's because he's vaguely nauseous, and the jarring movement is enough to make his gut groan in protest of what's soon to come; he's not really one for vehicles, because he seems to get sick whenever he so much as rides in one, and a chariot's not really any different than a car or a train. Actually, it's probably worse, given the uneven wheels and the way the horses aren't quite moving in sync and oh god oh fuck I think I'm gonna puke -

"Leio, I am honest to Capitol begging you not to get sick again." Devika huffs from beside him, bracing her arms on the rail separating them from the horses… and the very hard-looking ground. "Once was more than enough."

"Again? You weren't even there last time!" Leiothrix protests, well-aware of how much his anxiety is starting to color his voice. It's the peacekeepers, honestly; he hadn't expected there to be quite so many in the Capitol, hadn't expected the unease of a post-rioting Seven to make itself known again here. But there they were, in their stiff, inflexible uniforms, with their white-gloved hands and electric batons at their waists, just milling about outside of the room where his stylists had stripped him down and dressed him up.

He'd like to say that it didn't bother him, being here, being a tribute, being around Capitolites. But he'd be lying, and Leiothrix doesn't see any point in trying to fib to himself. Yeah, he's scared. Not in the way he's usually scared, but in a more primal, unsettling, difficult-to-describe way; his mind is a whirlwind of thoughts that he doesn't know how to sort through, his body a mess of nerves, all wound up with feelings that he can't put a name to. It's like he's constantly flipping between being at ease and on edge, and the tumult of it - the randomness of it - is perturbing.

Leiothrix isn't used to not knowing what he's feeling; though he's not the most talented or the most intelligent guy around, he's always had a knack for intuition. Feelings are something that he gets, something he's good at understanding, good at managing. He knows how to deal with emotions, most of the time, and even when he doesn't, he's used to having anchors. Taliyah, his sisters, his parents - Leiothrix had never been shy about broaching the subject of anxiety or discomfort or anger with them, because he'd grown up with the understanding that talking it out is helpful. Well, unless Linnet's involved. She's kind of a dick with that stuff.

Case in point, though - not knowing what he's feeling is weird. And irritating. And just a little panic-worthy. Leiothrix doesn't like it.

"Y'know, for such a big guy, you sure do worry a lot." Devika smirks at him, cocking her head to the side. "I thought you were gonna be all tough and scary when we left Seven, but nope! You just mother over people and glitch out."

"Hey, that's not all I do!" Leiothrix chuckles. "I'm also really good at embarrassing my District partner."

As if on cue, he throws an arm around the thirteen-year-old, pinching at her cheek before waving wildly to the audience as they roll out onto the walkway. Devika's brow scrunches up as she shoves at his chest, making sure to reward the cheek-pinching by giving him a fat raspberry.

"Oh, look, we're on camera," the Seven boy comments, unable to keep himself from cackling when Devika immediately snaps to attention, looking around for one of the screens playing the broadcast, a look of sheer horror on her face when she discerns that Leiothrix was, indeed, telling the truth.

"Please tell me that the whole of Panem didn't just see my cheeks get pinched."

"Eheh," Leiothrix smiles, managing to come off as somehow guileless and impish at the same time. "Sorry, kid."

"... I hate you."

"No, you don't," he answers confidently. Devika gives a long-suffering sigh, reaching down to take hold of his hand with her own.

"No, I don't."

Whatever thoughts Leiothrix had been holding onto before - worries over the peacekeepers and the tribute parade and Seven - fade away the second Devika twines their fingers together. The gesture's more comforting than it has any right to be - more comforting than Leiothrix had even expected it to be, although maybe that's because he hadn't been expecting Devika to try and comfort him at all. Although when he turns his head to the side and catches the downcast twist of her mouth, he thinks that maybe her intent wasn't to give comfort so much as to seek it out. She's nervous. As nervous as he is, if not more, and of course she is, she's an actual child! Well, maybe I'm one too, but like, she's thirteen! Thirteen year olds don't belong in the Games. Shit, I can't even imagine what her family's gotta be goin' through right now. If it were Lark here, and me at home, I don't think I'd be able to stand it.

"Leio?" Devika asks, her voice small.

"Yeah?" He answers, swallowing down the lump that's built in his throat, squeezing her palm tight in his own.

"I'm glad you weren't tough and scary," she mumbles, squeezing right back. The words are so quiet and so unexpected and so genuine that Leiothrix is pretty sure his entire heart has just gone soft.

"Yeah, me too," he replies, smoothing over her knuckles with his thumb. Devika snorts.

"Pretty sure you shouldn't be agreeing with me."

Leiothrix just shrugs. He's never much cared what other people thought of him, and he isn't about to start doing so now. Yeah, sure, tough and scary's good for the Hunger Games - like, the Six boy? Keep him ten feet away from me and I'll be totally happy - and yeah, he's gotten his share of mocking for being sensitive back home, and yeah, it does kinda suck at times to have the other guys in the lumber yard looking down on him because they think he's too emotional and mentally weak and a whole slew of other things that he doesn't care to dwell on, but…

He's not changing just because other people want him to. Leiothrix Dogwood likes who he is, generally speaking. And that's what really matters, isn't it? Especially if…

Especially if I've only got a little bit of time left. Especially if my story ends here… if I don't go home. I can at least…

I can at least die as myself, without regrets. The Games aren't gonna make me not me.

Their chariot pulls to a halt, and Leiothrix raises his head. Crowded in by the rows upon rows of Capitolites sitting in the audience, fully aware of the high walls that separate the tributes from their spectators, he can't help but feel small. Not just in his stature, or in his presence, but in his existence. His chest tightens as Devika lets go of his hand, and his lashes flutter as he raises his head to face the President's podium - so far away despite being so close.

For a brief moment, he can't help but wonder if Elowyn felt the same way last year, when it was her standing in this chariot, beside a kid five years her junior. It's weird how many similarities they have, now that Leiothrix thinks of it; both blonde, tall, from District Seven, both parents and multiple siblings, both from the Bracewind region of Seven's territory, just a ways out from the forest. They both had young District partners. They both stood in the same place, worked with the same people, slept in the same room while they were in the Capitol. They'd even been the same age, last year - they were in the same grade at school, even shared the same teacher for their classes. He'd seen her brother at work, hauling wood back and forth in the mill truck, they'd probably broke bread together at some point. Leiothrix can't help but feel a chill creep up his spine at that recognition. Elowyn. He knew her, she was here, and now she's…

Now she's dead.

There's something surreal about that… Elowyn being dead. Leiothrix knowing her. They were never friends, but they were classmates, acquaintances, practically neighbors, even. It's so trivial in the grand scheme of things, but it feels important somehow - because of the Games, because she died in the Games, and now he's standing where she stood, wondering if he's going to share her fate.

Was she scared, too?

She must have been; rebel or not, the Capitol's affinity for the Hunger Games is painfully unsettling, and being Reaped is much the same. When his name was called, Leiothrix swore it was as if the weight of the world had been hefted onto his shoulders in the span of a second. His body froze. His breathing stopped. His heart grew to be his entire world, its uneven beating heavy in his chest and loud in his ears. Just like now, he'd felt small; claustrophobic, even. All of Seven had their eyes on him when he was on that stage, and he was sure his nervousness was clear, even beneath the mask of calmness he'd tried to maintain. Elowyn had been the opposite, when they'd drawn her name. He still remembers her shouting; laughing as she made her way out of the crowd, accusing the escort of rigging it all, more brazen and confident than Leiothrix has ever been.

Did she feel relief, when her name was called?

Did she feel relief, like I did?

Nobody deserves to be reaped. Not really. But Leiothrix… when his name was called, he'd almost been happy before the fear set in. Happy that it was his name the escort had called, and not some other boy's instead, because he wasn't someone Seven would really miss. He wasn't someone important or innocent or even really useful. He wasn't smart. He wasn't good. He wasn't anything.

I'm glad it was me, Leiothrix thinks, as the President stands to give his address. I'm glad I was reaped.

I'm glad that the rest of Seven's safe this year.

A/N: Hello all! My apologies that it's been slow on updates; I've been a bit unhealthy as of late and this chapter took longer than I'd originally anticipated. That said, I hope it was at least mostly decent… chariots are not a favorite thing of mine to write.

Please make sure and vote in the favorite tributes poll on my profile! I'd intended to post the results with this chapter, but only having had five voters, I'd like to get a few more before closing it. On that note, I hope you all are doing well and staying healthy. Until the next!