Trigger warning: mentions of abuse in the second POV.

Kardal Vannes, aged 14

It starts out innocently enough.

Because Kardal's father is an extremely influential politician and the mayor of District 9, the family is rich. Like, rich. Rich to the point where Kardal has a closet of clothes all to himself and his mother owns a beautiful vanity and once a month, the whole family eats lobster from 4 as a special treat. Kardal and his two younger brothers, Dagan and Barric, spend their days the way children should. they're carefree and they're happy because they don't have to work out in the fields of endless yellow like their peers.

Kardal tries not to take this life for granted.

But he's surrounded by luxuries.

Like the vanity.

It's not a toy, their mother reminds them over and over. It's not to be played with. Of course, that never stopped the boys from making faces n the mirror and giggling at the reflection. Or sticking pictures to the sides. Or spying on their mother as she gets herself ready for another fancy night out and she's applying all this makeup.

"Makeup is for girls," everybody says.

Kardal isn't sure.

It looks to pretty.

His mother gets a new shipment of makeup and Kardal is tasked with carrying it up to the vanity. He's done his studies for the day, studies where some stuffy tutor teaches him about history and arithmetic and politics because he's going to be mayor too, as Mr. Vannes's eldest son. Kardal doesn't mind arithmetic and he loves history, but he couldn't care less about politics. Or becoming the mayor.

There's such pressure on him at hi image. He's practically the textbook definition of masculinity in 9. People whisper as he walks by, because the future leader should be strong and brave, not carelessly skipping along and stopping to pick up cool stones. Most of Kardal's clothes are in blue, the colour of men, and yellow, the colour of the grain his district creates. He likes pink. But pink is too much feminine and too much girly and too much everything Kardal isn't allowed to be. Be mature, Kardal. You're the future, Kardal.

So, with a box of makeup in his arms, he's a little tempted.

Mother always looks so pretty and mature with makeup on.

He's always expected to be more mature.

He opens a container of concealer and dabs a little on the pimple on his nose. It tickles and he holds back a sneeze. But nothing happens. He's still himself, only now he's got some concealer on. he wants to try the blush and carefully opens it up, before taking a brush from the vanity and dabbing on his cheeks. He doesn't look rosy, he looks sunburned. And certainly not a great leader or amazing leader.

Maybe the makeup can fix that.

Eyeliner. He misses his eyelashes entirely and the wand runs down the side of his face. Cover it up with eye shadow. His eyebrows are now a dark shade of green. He tries the bronzer, to balance out the blush and maybe this will actually work. But it's just too tacky. He's got it practically caked on and it gives his face an awful shine. Mascara. Again, too much.

The only thing he applies correctly is the lipstick.

And he's kinda satisfied.

But it doesn't last long before his parents find him upstairs, admiring his perfectly glossed lips in the vanity, kissing a tissue because he wants to see how it looks. He's never had his face scrubbed like that before, and his mother's livid and his father's furious. He's supposed to be a boy, a man. And boys don't wear makeup.

Mother throws away the entire box the same way she throws away her pride in him.

Kardal sneaks the tub of gloss into his pocket and runs off to his room.

It's still innocent, because he isn't doing anything wrong. It's his way of rebellion. He creeps out of the house that night and recovers all the makeup he can. He doesn't wear it, but doodles with it on scraps of paper and tells his bothers they're brand new crayons. Lip stains have been left on every reflective surface in the house, but nobody knows who it was because Kardal wipes it off his face before he can get in trouble. He still skips down the street and collect pretty stones, which he keeps in a little treasure box under his bed.

He goes to the Reaping for the 74th Hunger Games in a white dress shirt and black slacks.

He leaves the District in a faded pink T-shirt and lip gloss.

Seven years later, long after the war, 18 year-old Dagan Vannes is elected as District 9's mayor. He takes every single sip of paper in those damned glass bowls, boys, and girls and he burns them together. Except three of them, which he pockets, brings home, turns them into ash, and places in a little urn.

It sits on a special shelf next to a box of stones and an empty tube of lip gloss.

Oswald Rake, aged 44

When the Quell twists is announced, Oswald leaves Victor's Village.

And he runs away.

He runs and runs until he's banging on the door of a small cottage towards the edge of the main town. It's fairly well-kept; clearly the owners have money to spend. Oswald should know. He reluctantly gave up half of his Victor's earnings to afford this place.
But not like he needs the money anyways. Not when he only spends it on booze and cigarettes.

He tosses one to the ground and steps on it, before slamming his fist against the door. "I'll get it!" someone shouts from inside and a few moments later, the door is opened by a 12 year-old girl.
She's got his hair. And his cheekbones. She looks so much like him.
But she's not his. Not anymore.

"Hello, dearie. Is your mother home?"
The girl hesitates, then slams the door in his face. After a moment, it's opened again. This time, by a scowling woman in her early forties and a broom in her hands.

"Why are you here?"
"Tulia's really grown, hasn't she?"

Avena's eyes are like daggers; she could really kill him with one if she wanted. Much more lethal than the tributes of the 49th Hunger Games. "I thought I told you I don't want you anywhere near my daughter. Now fuck off before I call the Peacekeepers."
"Avena, I'm sorry."
"Don't make me get them!"
"Did you not hear me!? I said I'm sorry!"

"Daddy? Mommy?" Tulia peeks around the corner, trembling slightly. Oswald feels the urge to hug her, to pull her close and promise he won't ever hurt her again. But he's caused much too much damage, too much harm, hurt her too many times for her to ever run back into his arms.

"It doesn't count," Avena hisses. "It doesn't count now that Snow is out for blood and you just happen to be in the way. You're not truly sorry."
"What's your problem, woman!? I'm gonna die in six months and this is how you treat me!?"
"You don't care! You're not the least bit guilty for everyone you've done! All the things you ruined!"

Salty tears blur Oswald's vision. He blinks them away; he isn't going to give Avena the satisfaction of letting her know she's right. If it hadn't been for the twist, he wouldn't be standing here.
"No! I don't want to see you again! I don't want you near Tulia again! How can you sleep at night, knowing what you've done to her!? You've yelled at her, called her names, assaulted her, belittled her appearance, and you-"

Avena hasn't touched him at all, but she might as well slap Oswald across the face. Because that would hurt much less. Tulia grabs onto her mother's waist and says nothing. She just stares. Stares at the man she's ashamed to call her father.
"Just leave."

Part of Oswald wants to beg, plead, say anything to make Avena give him that second chance. Oh, who's he kidding? He doesn't deserve it! So he just mutters, "Goodbye."

And he walks away.

Back to Victor's Village. past Demeter's house. Like him, she's also accepted her fate. They're the only two Victors 9 has. As he peeks through the windows, Demeter doesn't seem the least bit worried or frightened. In fact, it's as if she never heard the announcement at all. She's slow dancing with her husband, past the fireplace containing picture of her two sons. The Games are a distant memory for her, something she suppressed a long time ago as she continues to live.

That could have been Oswald.

But no, he had to go and screw everything up, didn't he?

He's been a mess ever since the 49th Hunger Games. Always drinking, always smoking, cutting everybody out of his life. His parents. His older sister. His girlfriend. Then, for those he stayed, he made a hell on earth for them. He never did anything for Avena and when Tulia was born, he pretended to care. But he was so upset, after years and years of taking in two tributes only to watch him die.

Maybe they would've understood that he frustrated. Maybe they would've given him his space if he let them know how he felt. He could've taken his anger out on something else, like a punching back, or the old furniture in his basement.
instead, he chose his daughter.

Look where that got him.

So, on the night of the Quell twist, when Snow schemes to send the Victors back into the arena, Oswald curls up on his couch, alone. A cigarette hanging from one hand, a bottle of liquor from the other. The house smells of despair and regret. Bad mistakes and horrified whispers. Avena's perfume and the conditioner she ashed Tulia's hair with, because God knows Oswald never did anything for her.

He remains like this until the Reaping six months later.

I know, not really my best chapter. But I thought these would be a bit interesting to explore because so many Victors have fairly good relationships with their loved ones. So I decided to switch things up a little with Oswald and even Kardal.

Also, we only have 3 districts left! 75% done!