A/N: Some Quick Facts About This Fic:
Chapters: 30
Pairing: Foxface x Clove
Rated: T for intense nongraphic violence, sexual themes, mild coarse language and violent references.
Notes: This is my first fic for the Hunger Games fandom. I just really love this ship and it doesn't have many fics for it, so I decided to write my own. The POV alternates once halfway through each chapter. It is 98% based on the book universe (with a huge AU butterfly-effect) but borrows some from the movie universe. That's about it for important tidbits. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.
FLOWERS FOR THE DEAD
The weak would never enter the kingdom of love.
-Gabriel Garcia Marquez-
CHAPTER ONE
FOXFACE
"Solanine Jones!" calls out the District Five escort.
The Town Square remains silent. No one rejoices as Valentina Nyxeris scans the crowd, searching for the girl whose name was on the slip of paper in her hand.
It takes a few moments to register that she announced my name. My expression remains blank—but not vacant—as I force my legs to propel me towards the stage. I take slow, deep breaths, refusing to look frightened on television, and continue my silent and steady march until Valentina Nyxeris grabs my wrist with her soft, manicured hand and helps me up.
I wonder if the square truly is struck soundless, or if I am just so panicked and overwhelmed that I cannot hear them. The halfhearted applause does not answer my question, but it does snap me back to reality.
Moments later, Valentina draws the name of a boy I do not know called Aster Smith. I watch him tremble as he blatantly suppresses tears. As much as I pity him, I do not want to know him. District Five often does not make it past the bloodbath.
Cordelia Shepherd and Volt Collins—two of the four victors in my district—usher us from the stage along with five peacekeepers. They take us into the Justice Building and situate us in separate rooms to say our goodbyes.
My eleven-year-old brother, Fission, is my only visitor.
"Sol," he cries out, his chest shuddering from the pain of loss. "Sol, you need to live, okay? I can't live if you don't live."
I hug him and ruffle his hair. Usually, in my family, we do not show affection openly, but I think right now is an exception. He must feel the same way because he tightly returns the embrace and tolerates my fingers in his brunet locks.
Fission grabs me by the wrist and presses a token into my palm. Once he reluctantly releases me, I look down at the cold metal. It is a priceless comb I stole from the wealthiest woman in town. She never even noticed it was gone; it was buried in the bottom of a closet, dusty and unloved.
I rarely went for objects that were not edible, helpful for survival or easy to trade on the black market. It drew my attention, though, screaming out my name. The silver sparkled even though it was dark and the turquoise stones set in it only made it more desirable.
"Where did you find this?" I whisper, since I can never wear it openly.
"It was in your box. The one that has mom's stuff in it," Fission says.
I have a wooden case. In it is every memory of my mother I own. My favorite is the book of plants I always take out when I cannot sleep. That is where she found my name. Sol is a very common name in Five, but she would not settle for Solanna or Solaris. She sought a name everywhere but then found it by accident in an old book my grandmother gave her. Solanine. It was in the entry for nightshade.
The comb reminds me of the book, the note she left me the night before she died, little tidbits. Even if it was not my mother's, it lived in that hiding place for long enough to carry some of the memories with it.
Maybe that reading material will help me in the Arena; I know what wild plants are safe to eat and which bring certain death.
After examining the comb and suppressing the tears in my eyes, "I promise I'll come home," I say, quietly but firmly. "I'm… it might be interesting. I've always wondered about the Capitol and now I get to discover it up close. And you know I have a leg up."
He does. His eyes light up as he thinks about the way I have provided for my family for the past several years.
I, Sol Jones, am a thief. And a good one.
[X]
Still as a statue, I sit on the train. My silence makes me fade into the background. Cordelia and Volt do not seem to notice I am in the room as they and Aster watch the replays of the Reapings. Volt is out of his mind and half-asleep on pills I noticed him take when Cordelia was focused on Aster's sobbing. Valentina has her hands clasped and a dizzy smile on her fuchsia lips. However, my female mentor insisted we study the competition.
I agree with her; I would have done it anyway.
In District One, I see a girl who deeply draws my attention. When she smiles at the cameras, the chill in my bones does not come from fear, but an uncomfortable attraction. Her district partner has arrogance in his eyes that anyone could see from a mile away, or so I assume.
In District Two, I see a girl and boy coldly and calmly volunteer in an impressively orderly fashion. They keep themselves frigid and emotionless as the stone their District harvests, up until the point I see them flash a fleeting, agonized glance at each other. I wonder if they are forced to volunteer for some reason, or if something else concerns the duet.
The other districts fly by. I see fear and pain, even in District Four. The girl is a volunteer, but not as professional as District One and Two, while the boy is Reaped against his will.
Not a single tribute is out of the ordinary except for District Twelve.
The sight brings tears to my eyes as my thoughts linger on the brother I have always provided for, always taken care of. Although I had hoped to keep quiet, when the people in the square touch three fingers to their lips and extend their arm, I ask, "What does that mean?"
Aster jumps, Volt looks confused, and Cordelia casually looks up and meets my gaze.
"I don't know," she remarks, turning in her chair to fully face me. Her strawberry-blonde hair gleams in the fluorescent light. "You've been very attentive. You're a curious girl, aren't you? Good. You don't look strong, yet you look unafraid. Why is that?"
"I've been through worse than the Games," I softly say, averting my eyes.
Cordelia now stands. "I hope you mean that."
She studies me, and then exits the television car.
No one else speaks to me for the remainder of the afternoon.
[X]
When we leave the speedy train, my eyes flicker around the crowd, trying to avoid distraction by the flashing cameras, taking in every motion of a reporter, scream of my name or thrilled wave of a teenager's hand. I take slow breaths and maintain an erudite expression, in hopes that they will believe I have a plan. I don't, but the Hunger Games are a fantasy to the people of the Capitol. If I play a part, perhaps they will fall for it.
I'm separated from my mentors and partner and ushered into a room where I'm swiftly surrounded by three blindingly colorful and eager women. Their names are Aelia, Domitilla and Nerva. The latter two women are locked in a conversation together as they put me through a series of torments I did not know existed.
Aelia runs her fingers through my hair with her violet eyes widened.
"This color is amazing. Is it natural?" she asks.
"Yes," I quietly reply.
"I guessed that! You simply can't mix those perfect golden highlights—and oh the red—in a bowl!" she gushes as Domitilla and Nerva pull me away from her and introduce me to waxing.
The wonders of the Capitol are not wonderful, in my opinion.
[X]
A willowy woman with wispy purple hair rests her tattooed arms on my shoulders as she examines every inch of a body that no longer feels like mine. The silk robe wrapped around me does not protect me from the strong air conditioning; the goosebumps on my now-hairless skin ache.
"I'm Septima and I'm your stylist, as I'm sure you've figured out by now. I've been working on my plans for a month; I assure you you'll make a splash." Pause. "I adore your hair," she comments, flipping a lock of it with her long fingernails. "I don't think I've seen anything exactly like it. It'll be hard not to notice."
"That's what I'm afraid of," I thoughtless admit. She cocks her head like a confused puppy. "It'll be hard to hide from the other tributes when they can see my hair from a mile away."
Septima laughs. I don't understand the joke, but I keep my lips sealed.
She whips out fabric from a garment bag and sets it on my lap, "Let me just adjust this to your size and we'll have you ready in no time."
No time. It seems humorous when I do not think I have ever been in a situation that felt longer than this, but I have already decided that the people of the Capitol will take more time for me to dissect and understand than I anticipated.
My dress is… interesting. The tributes tend to be garbed in silver, or power-plant worker outfits. Once, they were dressed up in sparkling golden fabric that seemed to fit District One better than District Five. This year, I hold a dark grey gown with strands of bright white lights crisscrossed on it, forming a glistening, luminescent bodice.
Septima stands behind me as I look in the mirror. Our dual reflections blur together.
"You're very beautiful." She pokes her sharp nail into my spine and I barely suppress a yelp. "If only you'd stand up straight…"
I touch the blinking lights on my chest. "These are tight… and a little…"
"Noticeable?" Septima smirks. "You can't hide from me, and you don't want to hide from the sponsors and tributes. Even if you dye your hair brown and slouch even further, I don't think anybody could miss the look in your eyes."
I squint, but notice nothing in the blue irises.
"I have a lot of practice at hiding. My brother always laughs at it. He's always been an expert at fitting in. I've been a master of blending in. There's a big difference," I explain. Septima disarms me; I don't think I've ever spoken to someone other than Fission about that comparison.
"It's not a bad strategy, but I don't think you realize the effect you could have if you wanted."
"I don't want to have an effect. I want to be a shadow."
Septima smirks again. "Alright then, little shadow. I'll tell you a secret." She leans in and whispers in my ear, "This year's uniforms have hoods."
I try not to smile often, but I can't stop myself this time.
CLOVE
The District Two escort, Satin Athens, holds up the metallic microphone to my lips.
"I, Clove Conium, volunteer as tribute," are the words I have rehearsed since I was a child.
My life at the Academy has not been perfect, but I know it was the right path for me. After my father died in a quarry accident, my mother gave me to the Academy. I was barely seven - the minimum age for entry - and I have known nothing but preparation for today. My success is all my own prowess, giftedness and drive.
I am a year away from eighteen and already am the best girl they had. A mentor—a victor—took me as one of her potential tributes nine months ago, and I beat all the others in the final trials. Now, I have the opportunity to bring glory to my district and myself.
Anyone who ever doubted me must be agonized and humiliated, and nothing feels better than knowing that. And no thought satisfies me more than seeing the eighteen-year-olds I outperformed who now have no chances left.
When a young boy's name is called, my closest friend stands up and volunteers. I swallow and pretend not to care. Cato and I knew we would be chosen. They told us a few weeks ahead of time so that we would have time to prepare with our mentors.
It will be difficult to fight him. We always have been perfectly matched in combat, which is how our close friendship was born in the first place.
He glances at me with a flicker of pain in his eyes that I hope the cameras do not notice.
A year ago, Cato told me he was romantically interested in me. He kissed me; I punched him.
I cared for someone else more than him. He was arrogant and angry for two weeks before he came around. The girls always fawned over him anyway. He got over me with a series of lovers, or so I assume. People in the Academy do not have attachments. Not even friendships are acceptable, much less a romantic relationship.
My lesbian affair of eight months—with someone so much older even if I were outside of the Academy I would have kept under wraps—is a secret so as not to risk my chances of being chosen as tribute. Love is not in the career vocabulary. Me and Cato's comradery is common knowledge. I can tell from how Brutus and Enobaria look at us that they know as well as anyone it will complicate our path to victory and the Academy heads were fools to place us in the same Games.
I shake hands with Cato and let our mentors guide us off the stage.
[X]
Only one person would have visited me if he were not sequestered to another room. I find myself wishing the Academy Heads made a different decision again as I sit alone.
I remind myself that other people can matter when I come back as a celebrated victor.
For now, I need to keep focused on the Games and nothing else.
[X]
The trip to the Capitol is relatively short according to Satin Athens, but we must sit around and wait for each Reaping to be televised. I study my fingernails and act disinterested in the conversation an enamored Satin Athens upholds with Cato. Hiding how funny I think his aggravation is proves difficult, but I have enough experience hiding my emotions to succeed.
I stand up at the brief intermission between Six and Seven and find food.
My mentor follows me and I turn to face her, wary of the two peacekeepers in diagonal corners and likely surveillance cameras above.
"The Reapings are unimpressive. The tributes look as pathetic as usual," I comment, crossing my arms.
"They never are very promising except for Two and occasionally One. I'm not overconfident when I say that I know you'll win," states Enobaria, her tone confident, not cavalier. "I trained you, didn't I? I've never failed to bring home a tribute."
Everyone knows that. The reason is probably because she has only mentored for four Hunger Games, but I try not to think about that.
"Did I express any doubt?" I coldly ask with a defiant twist of my lips.
The fleeting flash of her amused smile is more gold than white.
"No, no you didn't." She smirks at me and throws an apple from the table. My reflexes kick in and I catch it in one unwavering hand.
I wonder if it is fake until I take a bite.
[X]
The tributes from Four are weak. The girl tribute from Eleven draws my attention.
"She looks…?" I turn to Cato, not needing to finish my sentence.
"Yeah. She's agile," he comments. "Not that it'll help something so scrawny get past the bloodbath."
I narrow my eyes. "Do you remember your little spar with me? When we first met, I think you underestimated an agile little girl." I touch the scar on his neck from a small blade. "Don't make the same mistakes twice, like you always do with bows at target practice."
He scowls at me, on the verge of releasing a growl.
Cato glares until a girl on the screen screams, "I volunteer as tribute!"
It only takes me one look at her to make my blood boil, and my instinctive hatred is never unfounded.
[X]
The dress being pinned to my body is grey with spackled décor that makes it look like stone. They paint my skin the same shade. My black hair is straightened but intertwined with silver ribbons.
I consider it to be ugly, but I am not stupid enough to get on anyone's bad side here. I keep my expression as stoic as the stone they have garbed me in and wordlessly glare at the mirror.
"You're one pretty girl," says my stylist, Gallus. "All eyes will be on you. Just remember to smile."
I shift my glare from my reflection to him, and he flinches from the mere look.
Good.
[X]
When I at last escape the clutches of my spacey stylist, I walk out to the chariots and see Cato talking to the girl from District One. Her partner glowers, leaning against his chariot, and my eyes lock on him. I do not even know him, and I already want to claim him as one of my kills. He has that look of ego and overconfidence that I have always despised.
The girl flips her blonde hair and draws my attention. I purse my lips. She is very beautiful. I cannot help but stare and catch myself just in time to look away when she peels her emerald eyes from Cato and glances up at me.
My district partner turns to face me and brusquely states, "This is Glimmer. Over there is Marvel."
I can tell from the gravel in my best friend's voice that he disapproves of the boy as much as I do. It makes a wicked smirk flash across my face for a split second.
My eyes wander as Cato makes connections with other careers. They land on a girl who flashes with bright lights, only making her red hair stick out further. It is not her appearance that makes me stare at an otherwise meaningless tribute.
The way she studies me makes my blood run cold. Her gaze pierces my soul.
I flash her a bitter glare but she does not look away.
She locks eyes with me, like no one dares to do. My nostrils flare, and, wisely, she looks away first. I mentally put her on my kill list; she is pathetic and overbold.
Before I can fantasize about stabbing the throat of the eerie tribute with fiery hair, Satin Athens ushers me and Cato towards the chariot.
My best friend offers his hand to help me up and I brush it away, stepping up myself. His help is unnecessary and only would serve to make me look weak.
I grip the edge of the chariot until my knuckles turn white and straighten my back.
The other tributes will fear me and the Capitol will never forget me.
Of that I am certain.