CHAPTER IV: DISTRICT TEN
Asahel Cervantes, 18;
District Ten Male, HE/HIM
- A WEEK BEFORE -
Asahel sat on the floor, exasperated, but feeling productive after spending the last hour fixing the same busted pipe that refused to work two times earlier that week. It felt as if he had spent almost the entire day just running back and forth from the water well to the house, desperately pumping out the stubborn residue that lay entrenched within the pipes. His whole body ached with exhaustion, but staring at the newly repaired pipe, he felt content.
Asahel wiped the sweat that was beading on his forehead with the back of his arm. We seriously gotta scrounge some money from somewhere to get this shi- this pipe replaced. He liked saving money as much as the next family in District Ten, but having to fix it again and again was costing Asahel the little inklings of free time he had in a day. And it was much more trouble than it was worth.
There on the ground he sat,, resting for a couple beats before rising to get back to work. All right… let's check the mental itinerary.
Feed the chickens. Check.
Collect the eggs. Check. There were eight, a great haul.
Get the mail. Check.
Head off to the Tarandruses'. Done. What was already a shortened day of work became even more bearable when the mister let him off early. And speaking of, he had accidentally forgotten to bring his jacket back with him. He made a mental note: Tomorrow, I'll remember to ask for it back. He continued reviewing his list.
Feed the chickens again. Check.
Fix the pipe. Asahel sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose with his ungloved hand. Check. "Thank Panem," he muttered under his breath. He closed his eyes, and resumed skimming his list.
Make dinner.
Clean up after dinner.
Shower.
Final inspection around the grounds.
Just four tasks remaining. A lot of stuff to get done, but all in all, not bad. It was good that he got most of it done before sundown. Still, it could've gotten done faster if Ainara and Rezo didn't decide to conveniently vanish everytime Asahel could use a hand. There was always an overwhelming amount of work to do around the household, and it didn't ease the slightest with two other siblings that were practically deadweight. He couldn't truly resent Rezo for hiding off somewhere at every available opportunity- Asahel wanted him to enjoy being a kid for as long as possible. And as for Ainara, while it was true that she was older than him by a couple years, he understood that she wanted a life outside of family. Yet with the both of them shirking off work, it left Asahel, the child sandwiched in between, with no choice but to pick up all the forgotten chores and odd jobs in the house. Over the years, he had become pretty handy and versatile with the skills he picked up, but still he wouldn't deny that some help would be appreciated.
Asahel rose to attend to the next item on his list: dinner. He shot up from his crouched position and dusted himself off with his ungloved hands, flesh batting against coarse, rough fabric. With the newly-fixed pipe, Asahel washed his hands, and headed inside to start preparing for supper. He threw on his trusty apron and got to business.
As he chopped the onions he took from out of the pantry, he let his mind wander. It had been a while since he had a Saturday to himself, and unfortunately, he spent this one the same as he spent his other evenings: working. On the weekends, his daily shifts at the Tarandruses were halved, but instead of being able to use the time to relax, he was thrust into the menial chores around the house that couldn't be attended to over the week. And while he was working his ass off, Rezo was probably somewhere in the house playing games by himself, and Ainara off frolicking in the city with some new boy toy she picked up.
A spray of onion juice sprang up, burning his eyes slightly. But Asahel kept working, refusing to stop and wash out his eyes until the onions were diced and the garlic was minced. He then shifted his focus to the scraps of meat gifted to him by the mister hours earlier. There was no point in getting aggravated about the things he couldn't control. Asahel was used to being the one to take care of everything, so his frustrations were nothing more than a dull ache at this point.
Plus, he was happy to help his parents out wherever he could. Papá and Mamá worked day in and day out, juggling several part-time jobs each day to provide for Ainara, him, and Rezo, so of course he wasn't going to ask them for anything. On weekends, they usually spent the afternoons napping, and Asahel was going to be the last person to interrupt them from their slumber to ask them to help him with stuff he could feasibly get done himself. He took on this burden a long, long time ago, when he turned twelve and joined his dad as one of the men in the household. He resigned himself to this life when Rezo turned twelve himself, and Asahel took it upon himself to carry all the tesserae slips for the family.
And on top of housework, Asahel had a job of his own. Every week, he would walk a mile back and forth to work for the Tarandruses, further into the outskirts of District Ten where his family already resided. To call them his next-door neighbor would technically be true, but horribly understated. Their ranch was huge. Asahel had started working for them about four years ago, and he still had yet to explore every crook and crevice of the land, forget the estate itself. The Tarandruses were rich rich, which came at no surprise at all when their entire gig was exporting only the most premium, expensive steaks directly to the Capitol. Thinking about it made him salivate ever so slightly, but he stubbornly rerouted his concentration to the simmering onions and meat in front of him.
All in all, Asahel did a lot of work. But he couldn't really complain, and he didn't particularly want to complain, either. He was going to do everything in his power to feed his family and keep their finances afloat, and if that meant working eight hours a day on the Taradruses' Ranch, then so be it. The pay wasn't bad at all… and neither was his employer's daughter.
He remembered the first time he had caught a glimpse of her. His neighbor and new employer, Mister Tarandrus, was personally escorting Asahel around the estate, leading him to the places where was sanctioned to be, and showing him the ropes regarding what he would be doing. Asahel was following along, earnest and attentive, until the mister took a short detour through the mansion.
If he thought the estate was gorgeous, his breath was stolen by the interior of the house itself. Everything was so pristine, so white, so ornamented. He knew that the Tarandruses were easily the richest family in District Ten, but it was practically unfathomable that such luxury existed in the same dusky outskirts he had grown up in. In this green, flat expanse of land, Asahel could've gone on believing that there was nothing more to life than cows, chickens, grass, dirt and flies. Just a single painting in the house would probably be enough to feed his whole family for a month- no, for six. (If he sold it, not if he ate the painting itself, of course.) To have his eyes be met with so much wealth in one room was almost riveting. But it wasn't even the interior design that he would become most enamored with- no, it would be Falo Tarandrus herself.
She sat at the piano, unaware of his or her father's presence. Before Asahel had walked into the mansion, he could hear the sound of a distant piano, but he paid no mind to the music until he was made aware of the source. Suddenly, it was the only thing he could hear: the twinkling of ivory keys, the gentle dissonance of hammer hitting strings. Everything about his new surroundings felt so bright and glossy; every aspect of the sight, he drank in. Was this what it was like to be entranced?
The moment was fleeting; it lasted but only for a second because upon his first step into the dining room, she shot her head up, evidently startled. The doe-like girl made almost immediate eye content with Asahel, and with the faintest hint of pink in her cheeks, she smiled up at him, bashful.
That was it- that was all it took. Just like that, he was whipped and rendered a dead man.
Asahel had never understood the concept of love at first sight, and in a lot of ways, he still didn't. But ever since that day, no matter how hard he tried, Asahel just couldn't seem to get Falo out of his head. As childish as he knew it was, he couldn't help but hope for the day his employer's daughter would look at him back. He never took himself for that kinda guy- Ainara would always become infatuated one day and fall out of love the next- but something about Falo made him more than willing to make a fool of himself.
After chopping up the cilantro and washing the lettuce, he walked over to the other side of the kitchen with a large, wooden bowl of cooked rice in tow and lit up the fireplace. Asahel took a minute to sit and bask by the flames with the rice, duly noting how dark it was outside already. He was contemplating whether to sit for a little while longer when a boisterous voice interrupted his thoughts.
"Asaheeeelll, you're cooking the same thing?!" Ainara hiccuped. She stood in the front doorway, uncontrollable giggles rising up out of her chest and spilling into the house, effectively breaking what peaceful silence Asahel had just been enjoying.
He narrowed his eyes and tsked at her. "You're never even home. If you were, you'd know I didn't make this yesterday. Or the day before that." Asahel got up off the floor and stalked back into the kitchen. "Either way, I'm tired as hell, so kill me for recycling recipes."
"Ayaaa, I was just poking fun! Get that stick outta yer ass!" Ainara then promptly began to laugh at her own joke. Next to her, Asahel caught himself preemptively wrinkling his nose before recognizing the pungent smell of her breath.
"You were out drinking again?" he asked, somehow mustering the energy to sound scandalized even though she pulled this stunt more nights than she didn't. Before she could respond, he interjected, "Whatever. I don't know why I asked. Anyway, you didn't tell me you'd be home today- I didn't make enough food for you."
"Aww, but you'll share with me, riiiight?"
"...yeah, I will." He sighed. "Can you wake up Mamá n' Papá n' Rezo? I'm almost done."
Ainara left the kitchen to gather the others ("Ma, Pa, Rezo, food's ready!"), while Asahel stayed in it to gather the food. As soon as he finished setting the table, his family began rolling in one by one. The kitchen went from empty to lively in the matter of seconds, the sounds of chattering voices and rumbling chairs filling up the room as everyone got themselves situated. Asahel barely had time to take off his apron before being hassled almost immediately.
"Asahel, are you gonna sit down?" Papá asked, peering up at him from his seat. All around the table, his family members mirrored his expression, staring at Asahel expectantly.
Ainara cleared her throat. "Yeah, it would be cool to eat in the next hour, if that's okay with you," she guffawed loudly.
Asahel was unamused. How are they going to eat my food and then have the nerve to act like I'm the one holding them up, he grumbled, but he kept these thoughts inside. He pulled out the chair next to Rezo and sat in it, clasping his little brother's hands in his calloused ones to give thanks.
His father spoke up first. "Panem, thank you for keeping our family safe and happy for another day. Give us the strength to keep working hard so that we may continue to be safe and happy."
"To the Capitol, we are thankful that peacetime within the Districts persists," his mother's sweet voice interjected. "And for the meal,"- Asahel's heart leapt- "the utmost gratitude to the Tarandruses, who provide us with meat and money. We can't take for granted how much they've done for the family."
Everyone at the table bowed their head down in one fluid motion, and like that, the prayer was over. Rezo let Asahel's hand fall and his heart followed suit. He didn't know what he had expected. Thanks? Appreciation? Asahel had to ask himself, did he really think he would be mentioned in the family prayer just for carrying out his duties, for doing what he always did?
He felt frustrated at the lack of acknowledgement. He felt frustrated that he was even frustrated in the first place. Asahel was the middle child; he should've already grown used to being overlooked, right? Yet, he had let himself hope only to feel dejected all over again.
Asahel knew that. Still, he thought to himself, some thanks would be nice.
Falo Tarandrus, 17;
District Ten Female, SHE/HER
- A WEEK BEFORE -
"How is the steak, girl?"
Same as it's always been, is what Falo thought. "Better," is what she said instead. "Did you change the way you seasoned it?"
Her father grunted in affirmation, raising another meat cube skewered on his fork and bringing to his lips. He never seemed to get tired of eating the same thing, day in and day out. And as for Falo herself… well. It'd be too soon if she ever had beef steak again.
It wasn't bad, by any means. The quality of the beef left nothing to be desired, the way it was perfectly marbled and the ratio of fat to meat was masterfully balanced. And the seasoning amplified the flavor in an inexplicably harmonious way. Her father had meticulously rubbed salts into the flesh for the better part of an hour earlier that morning, and his care didn't go unnoticed by Falo. So it would be horrifically inaccurate to say that she hated or even disliked it. It was more like she was so used to having lavish, extravagantly prepared meals that this smoked beef, despite how objectively good it was, was just another meal. Nothing she hadn't already had before. And if Falo was being honest with herself, she had never really craved that type of fleeting, edible luxury. But that posed the question: was she only dismissive of it because she had never been in a position of scarcity in the first place?
With that thought, she cut out another dainty slice of meat from her steak and placed it into her mouth. The juices fizzled out onto her tongue, the tender meat practically dissolving into a thick but not totally unpleasant combination of salt and grease. It left a savory aftertaste that lingered persistently in her mouth long after she had swallowed the meat. Glistening on her lips was the fat from the meat, like some sort of… carnal lip gloss. With a handkerchief she kept on her person, she wiped the residue grease off her mouth. Gross.
Falo raised a glass of water to her lips, cool, liquid relief slipping into her throat and temporarily waiving the taste of meat from her palate. It was a very pretty glass, tinged crystal blue with etchings at the bottom of the cup that looked geometric the way that diamonds were. However, much unlike diamonds, the glass felt incredibly delicate and breakable, even in Falo's gentle grip. Perhaps it was supposed to be a testament to its worth, but she only felt unimpressed with its practicality. This was mostly likely because the glass was a part of a set manufactured and sold in the Capitol; the only way the Tarandruses had been able to get a hold of it was through the family business, the Tarandarus Meat Company.
The company started when Falo's grandfather passed two decades prior, leaving the substantial amount of wealth he had acquired throughout his life to his one and only son, Angus Tarandrus. Angus took that money and founded a meat production business, buying a herd of cows which he raised from birth to slaughter. It gained significant traction in a surprisingly short amount of time, and by the time Falo was born, the Tarandrus Meat Company was exporting to both the District Ten upper-class folk and Capitolites alike.
Angus had married Falo's mother when business was beginning to boom, but she didn't stick around to see the fruits of her husband's labor. Soon after she gave to birth to Falo, she left the picture with an abrupt but amicable parting from Angus. He never remarried and had no other children, which meant that Falo was the sole heiress to the company. That was where her puzzle piece fell into the story; from the moment she was born, Falo was destined to inherit the plantation and see the Tarandrus family into the next generation of wealth.
Falo was no stranger to her wealth. Her family plantation was located on the outskirts of District Ten, a quiet and idyllic part of Panem where all the rich ranch owners pay off Peacekeepers to keep out of their business and the Peacekeepers gladly oblige. It was peaceful but painstakingly artificial, a reality that had only been made possible by corruption. Falo didn't know how it was in other Districts, but from a very young age she realized it was possible to acquire anything as long as you had the money. With money, you could buy your way into anywhere and everywhere, pave your way into anything and everything. It wasn't a concept that she particularly relished or enjoyed thinking about, but she couldn't deny that her life had been made content and comfortable by the countless benefits an unethical amount of wealth could offer.
Still, it irked and unsettled Falo within the deepest parts of herself. She knew it was unfair that she was out here living so comfortably when there were so many people in District Ten that were in need. They would kill for what she had and enjoyed on a daily basis; so many people couldn't even feasibly dream of attaining the same things she experienced everyday, and it made her feel… guilty. No matter how hard she tried, Falo felt like she couldn't appreciate her lifestyle properly when it was just her ordinary, everyday life. And yet, she felt uncomfortable and displeased coming face to face with the privilege she knew she took for granted, despite how much she tried to be conscious of it.
With the clink of her father's stainless steel fork against porcelain, Falo was jolted back to reality. She always zoned out like this at the dinner table. Falo and her father were the sole occupants of the Tarandrus mansion, and apart from initial small talk, they were always dead silent while dining. Rich people really don't have anything to talk about, she remarked. Admittedly, it was a pretty eerie atmosphere, but Falo had never known anything else. It had always been just them, just like this, for as long as she could remember.
Despite that, Falo wasn't close to her father. There was undeniable tension at the dinner table that couldn't even be cut with a butcher's cleaver. Around her father, she always held her tongue because if she was being honest, she didn't really like speaking with him. Whenever Falo said anything, anything at all, the man would somehow warp her words into a lecture, a sermon, a spiel, something that furthered his agenda of giving Falo "the privilege" of inheriting the family business. It seemed to be all he could talk about these days, which made for some bitter irony because Falo didn't want to take up the entrepreneur position. In fact, she never had. At some point, her father had just plopped these plans into Falo's lap, but instead of a long-awaited gift, it felt more like an unwanted baby. The whole situation made Falo almost want to laugh but instead, every time she contemplated this future, a cold shiver would overtake her body and render her rigid. She really should've corrected him ages ago when he first expressed his intentions, but she didn't— or rather, couldn't— in fear of being at the receiving end of one of her father's outbursts. And now, it was far too late to make any sort of revision to his grand scheme.
Falo knew that her father meant well. Still, she wasn't in the slightest interested in taking over the business. She'd much rather enjoy the pleasant simplicities in life, like playing her instruments, or painting, or gardening— literally anything else would be better. She felt guilty for being ungrateful, but it wasn't like her father had ever stopped to consider how she might've felt on the matter. Who would blame me for feeling this way? Her thoughts were loud in her head to compensate for the fact that she'd never be able to vocalize them.
Her father cleared his throat, shaking her from yet another endless stream of internal monologue. She reprimanded herself silently, and braced herself for what her father was about to say.
"Asahel left his jacket here," he said. Falo stared at him blankly until he clarified. "You know, the, er, the farmhand." Oh, right, she thought. Now we're talking about him...?
Her father continued talking. "Peculiar fellow, isn't he?" He chortled as if he had said something funny, while Falo took a couple seconds to contemplate approaching a response.
Falo wasn't sure what to make of him. Although he had been working at her father's plantation for years, they had never been formally introduced. She remembered the first time she had seen him at the mansion though, that one winter day when she was playing the piano with her fingers gloved in silk when, from out the corner of her eye, she saw a boy her age standing and gawking at her from the entrance. It was strange. He was strange. Falo had felt herself redden, from shyness but more so a feeling of uncomfortableness. The problem didn't even lie in the boy himself, but rather his unfamiliarity and the idea of being perceived by a complete stranger. It was unfair to fault Asahel— all he did was literally exist within her peripheral when she was unprepared for it— and yet, ever since that interaction, his presence just left a bad taste in her mouth.
Even more than a bad taste, for the past four years whenever Falo was working in the same space as him on the plantation, her skin would crawl and she would fall headfirst into a state of visceral unease. She had seen the longing looks he would give her, the way he would open his mouth (most likely to try and say something to her) only to clamp it back shut and resume working. She had even caught glimpses of the little piano he would carve in between breaks, a crude reinterpretation of her own piano in the den. She was sure the boy didn't have any sinister intentions— he seemed kind enough— but still, there were many moments she could reminisce on that made her feel nothing short of nervous.
"Yes, he's… strange," she finally said, pursing her lips together. Her father stared at her for a beat before responding. "It's exciting to think that in a year's time, you'll officially be his employer, no?"
Oh, dear god. He's talking about the business, she thought helplessly. Falo felt her mind start to retreat to static; suddenly, the atmosphere in the dining room had gone from uncomfortable to unbearable in a matter of seconds.
She wished she had the courage to tell her father that she didn't want to be caged into this path, to be confined in a life she had never asked for. Every time her mind would even brush against the idea, she would feel like she was suffocating, unable to breathe or swim to safety. But frankly, the idea of confronting her father was terrifying, and she'd much rather look for an immediate yet impermanent means of escape, at least for the time being. Falo wanted nothing more than to separate herself from this present conversation, to abscond hastily and isolate, to do and think about absolutely anything and everything else besides what was to come in her imminent future. It wasn't a healthy coping mechanism in the slightest, but it was the only thing she had ever been able to come up with to deal with her overbearing father and his overwhelming expectations.
And so, she began reading off her internalized script, a tried and true method of retreat, away from her father and into a space where she didn't have to face her relentless feelings of inadequacy. Falo plastered on a smile and nodded pleasantly, a wordless gesture of affirmation. She had never been able to mitigate confrontation well— like the Capitol glass that held her water, she was fragile, fracturing apart at the smallest disagreement or discord.
The sooner I get out of this conversation, the sooner I can leave the table and not have to think about this all. She would conform to her father's expectations, despite how much she hated it. "I'm grateful to be the next heiress of the company, Father." I never asked for this. "Thank you for extending to me this opportunity." I never wanted it. "I'll make you proud."
… There's no way I'm capable.
Her father beamed at her, obviously overjoyed, but it only succeeded in making Falo's heart lurch and heave. "The day'll come sooner than you know it," he said. "Just a week, after the Reapings."
"Just a week," Falo echoed, her voice hollow. Just a week until Doomsday.
DISTRICT TEN REAPINGS
July 4th, 10:09 AM
Female Slot: Falo Tarandrus - 6 slips
Male Slot: Bakar Ocejo / Asahel Cervantes - 42 slips
a/n: hi guys its linds aka ladyqueerfoot aka the most important person in the world and i hope you enjoyed bronk's chapter, i know i did and i also beta read it because im #special like that. fun fact, i left my first comment on the doc in november and now its february... jeez bronk takes forever but at least she popped off with the content like seriously she didn't need to go so hard. like this masterpiece took time. anyways were both curious what you have to think of simp master 5000 asahel and #RichGirlProblems falo xx they are pretty swag. because asahel is the d10m, he was of course naturally spawned from the loins of my brother josephm611 and falo is from the love of my life besides brooke aka firedawn'd. okay now question for u, would you rather have fingers for toes or toes for fingers. let brooke know in a review. next chapter coming this spring hopefully
fuck this shit im out,
lindsay
