District 8! It was difficult finding a title for this chapter, but I think this one fits the mood of the later half
This lil kiddo was sent in by shiftseveny! I hope I did a good job!
08 - Doubts
Her finger barely shakes anymore as she pushes the pin through the thick fabric. Three weeks ago she'd been full of fear and nerves over the idea of messing up, but today she comes to notice just how much she's improved.
To say Chambray is giddy over her progress is an understatement.
Ever since learning about Calico's journal, since he trusted her enough to show her the sketches inside, she's been adamant to show her appreciation in a way that wouldn't make him uncomfortable. Hugs and the like would make him recluse in on himself, close off from Chambray by only a little bit—but every bit of him he showed her was important. And so Chambray did the one thing she knew she'd be good at, that maybe even Calico could appreciate.
Organza used to do a lot of embroidering back when she was younger, Chambray had recalled last month. It'd taken less convincing than she'd thought to get her mother to show her the basics of the craft, to supply her with yarn and a frame. It was almost as though Organza knew just what intentions Chambray had in mind when she'd said, "It's for Callie."
Chambray has a brilliant memory, and with it she's been recreating images of the flowers he'd drawn in his journal. She has no idea where he'd found them—District 8 is basically a barren, smoky wasteland compared to even District 12—but the detail he'd captured them in spoke leagues of how much he treasured those finds.
Over the past three weeks she's completed every flower except for one. They'd all been somewhat easier to complete, simple colours and designs for her to follow from memory. But a hydrangea is a cluster of complication that she needs all of her focus for. For three days Chambray has woken up earlier than Calico just to peek at his journal, just to make sure what she's doing is right. The hydrangea has to be perfect—it's his favourite one, after all.
In and out. In and out. The pale purple thread slowly spreads over the fabric in a simple pattern. The cluster is slowly growing, even if it's just at a snail's pace. But it'll be ready by their birthdays. She'll make sure of it.
Under the light of her desk lamp, she can feel the sweat beading on her brow. She has to take breaks every now and then to stop from getting burnt by the light, and with each one she can see how much farther she's getting. Chambray smiles proudly to herself, at the budding hydrangea. Calico will love it, she's certain of it.
A soft knock sounds at her door. Chambray is quick to drop her needle and fling herself over the fabric, the blanket over her shoulders acting as a shield to the image. Only her head is poking out as the door opens, heavy footsteps entering the room.
Poplin Hemingway looks her up and down with a squint, an uncertain groan in the back of his throat. Chambray blinks at him, waiting for him to figure out if it's her or Calico under the blanket, before finally she says, "Cham, Dad."
Poplin exhales with relief. "Thank you, Cham," he wheezes. "I swear, I actually got stuck there for a second."
She nods in understanding as she pulls the blanket off of the frame. Poplin catches sight of the embroidery, slides the door shut behind him as he checks for any sign of Calico. When he turns back to Chambray, there's an almost excited smile on his face. "So this is the enigmatic gift Organza told me about," he says lightly.
Chambray flushes ever so slightly. She tugs at the yarn threaded through the needle, almost embarrassed at the comment. "It won't be done for a bit," she mumbles. Poplin chuckles.
"He'll love it."
She nods in agreement. "I know he will. I just hope I can get this hydrangea right so it doesn't come out looking like a deformed blob."
Another soft laugh, probably at the mental image she'd conjured in him. Poplin takes his time walking over to her, watching over her shoulder as she threads another stitch into the fabric. He lets out a pleased hum, almost praising her, before he pats her shoulder softly.
"Hate to pull you away," he says, "but I came to see if you and Callie would make a delivery for me?"
Chambray hums curiously.
"Your mother was commissioned to make dresses for the mentor this year."
"Oh?" Chambray turns in her seat to actually look up at him. "She knows who it is?"
"Charlotte Harper. Young woman, hates Capitol clothing," he sighs. "Organza just now finished up the last of her order, but we need to go to the market for more supplies."
She hums as she mulls over the decision. It'd get Calico out of the house for once, and they'd only spend time with each other. No one ever goes to the Victors' Village, either, so he won't be bothered by the idea of people forcing him to socialise. It'd just be the two of them, able to talk about the things only they can enjoy.
"We get the bike, yeah?"
Poplin grins.
"Goggles?"
"Check." Chambray slides them snugly over her eyes. Calico crosses off a line on his list.
"Sturdy gloves?"
She checks either side of the large leather gloves. No holes, no frays. "Check."
"Something to cover your mouth?"
As he says this, Chambray ties the folded bandana around her face. "Check," comes her muffled voice.
Calico nods with a satisfied hum. He snaps his journal shut and tucks it into his back pocket, then pulls his own goggles over his eyes and wraps a scarf around the lower half of his face. The backpack that holds Charlotte's clothes is slung over his front, protected from being squashed while also keeping Calico's own torso safe if he falls out.
He climbs into the sidecar, careful not to tangle his feet in the small belt tucked inside. Once he's comfortable, he pushes the earplugs into his ears and gives Chambray a thumbs up.
The bike roars to life with a splutter. It sounds almost like a Peacekeeper's rifle going off, followed by the humming of a malfunctioning hovercraft. Everyone in the area is used to the sounds by now, none of them even batting an eye when Chambray guides the bike slowly onto the streets. The bike slowly picks up speed until she's on the bare road, weaving around pedestrians and other bikes.
This bike has been in their family for a while, miraculously still running after all these years. It's thin and expels a lot of exhaust, but it's a fast little thing. Poplin said he wouldn't part with it until it stopped moving altogether, which Chambray finds to be a relief. She's grown attached to the old bike since she started doing the deliveries with Calico. It has a certain character to it.
She speeds past a few kids dressed in school uniforms, returning from their morning assemblies. Around the corners, fitting narrowing between vendors. District 8 looks like a maze when they travel through its streets. All of the buildings are the same dull grey, every factory looking alike right down to the size of the smoke billowing out of the chimneys. Chambray knows that the inside looks the same in every factory as well—she and Calico have worked in several, resulting in their shared raspy voices and aged tones. It's become the norm for kids to have a voice like that nowadays, she notes as a few enter a factory. Smaller hands make for better work, and there's never a shortage of smoke and steam in the factories.
A small group of Peacekeepers watch as they ride past. By now this is a normal sight for the newer ones, deliveries an almost constant necessity in their bustling District. Some delivery kids actually stop to talk with the Peacekeepers on their way back, bold enough to show their brashness right in front of the troops, but not Calico and Chambray. The Peacekeepers make Calico uncomfortable almost as much as people who are touchy-feely, and Chambray doesn't like the idea of being scrutinised for merely existing in a place that happens to have a high crime rate and low approval of the Capitol.
Chambray brings the bike to a slow as they get closer to the gates of the Victors' Village. The wrought iron stands out against the brick walls dividing the so-called paradise from the rest of District 8, like a giant sign broadcasting what everyone would have if they were just a little better at not getting killed in the Hunger Games. Chambray's always hated how barbaric the Hunger Games are, how people are praised for killing children younger than them. At the front of the gates are two Peacekeepers, both guarding the entrance like it's a train bound for the Capitol.
She needs only to show them her identification—a card with her name, the number to ring to confirm with Charlotte that they're expected—before the gates are opened and the Peacekeepers step aside to let her in. Chambray revs the bike loudly, almost deliberately, before she and Calico are propelled inside at a high speed.
According to the address Poplin had given her, Charlotte lives in the farthest corner of the Victors' Village. Far away from everyone else, no houses to either side of her. Chambray can't think of what would drive a person to want to live in isolation while in an isolated area already. The number of victors in District 8 is already fairly low, though she supposes even the victors don't like being reminded of what they've all had to do in the past.
The house is hidden behind another brick wall within the Village, positioned almost in a way that would allow Charlotte to see people coming. Chambray brings the bike to a slow as she passes it, not wanting to run into anything she can't see beyond; as soon as it's cleared, it's just a matter of navigating the long, winding road leading to the front door of Charlotte Harper's large, almost mansion-like home. Chambray's jaw drops before she can even stop herself from gasping. How can one person live all alone in a place so big?
She stops the bike just a short distance away from the gutter. It goes silent almost immediately, a final puff of exhaust coming out of its pipes as she lifts her goggles and wipes her eyes. Calico shifts, quick to remove the earplugs, as he gazes up at Charlotte's house.
"It's big," is all he can muster.
"I wonder how much she commissioned Mom for," Chambray ponders aloud. Calico hums in agreement, also curious. "Do you want me to take it over? Or do you wanna come with?"
He removes his goggles and yawns with a strained expression. "I'll stretch my legs," he tells her. "I think my foot's starting to fall asleep, so walking would be good."
Chambray grins at him. She throws herself off of the bike and wobbles a bit on her feet, then rushes to the sidecar to take the bag from Calico. He struggles to pull himself out, not nearly as strong as Chambray when it comes to pulling his own weight up, but somehow manages to stumble out of the high sidecar with a grunt. He sets down one foot, steady as he can be, and then tries to set down the other. He's right about it being asleep—almost immediately the foot buckles under the pressure of being leaned on, the ankle rolling and sending Calico back onto the sidecar with a desperate reach for help.
Chambray drops the bag and does her best to lift him up, slinging an arm over her shoulder as she holds him steady. Calico groans, hisses; he holds his foot loosely off of the ground, putting all of his weight onto Chambray.
"You alright?" Chambray asks. It's not the first time he's taken a tumble getting out of the sidecar, but it's definitely the first time he's rolled his ankle trying to walk.
Calico merely scrunches his face up at his foot. He lifts the leg of his pants to check the damage, watching as the ankle starts to turn red. It'll be hard to explain it to Organza and Poplin if he can't walk on it. They'll probably stop him from ever getting in the sidecar again, leaving Chambray to make the deliveries on her own.
"Hindsight is a funny thing," Calico replies.
She just chuckles softly at him. He lowers the pants and shakes the foot somewhat, probably in an attempt to get rid of the rest of the numbness. "I'll see if Ms. Harper has an ice pack here for you to borrow," she tells him. "After that, I'll take us to the old warehouse so you can rest it till the Reaping."
"Sounds like a plan."
It's an awkward walk to the front door, but it's adequate at the least. They don't stumble or fall, the bag doesn't drop from Calico's grip. It's all going peachy, she thinks, but whether or not it gets better will depend entirely on the secluded Charlotte's generosity. They make good time as they hobble together along the path, the front door to the house approaching faster than she'd hoped.
Just as they're a good few feet away from the doorknob, the white wood door swings open with the urgency of a panicked mother spotting her injured child outside. Chambray freezes mid-step and clings tighter to Calico. Part of her panics that Charlotte had been watching them from a window, that she'll simply dismiss them and take the package without a kind word to spare.
But instead of seeing who she wants to assume is Charlotte, Chambray sees a very… Capitol-like woman in the doorway. There's a colourful silk robe shielding her body from the slight chill, a hairband holding back her bangs as the half-finished lilac makeup covers her face. A pair of entirely black eyes look in Chambray's direction, and the girl can't help the shiver that runs down her spine.
"Oh, goodness," the Capitol woman gasps. "I thought we'd missed you earlier today."
Calico shifts on his foot as Chambray blinks up at the woman in surprise. "Pardon?" Chambray squeaks.
The woman nods, lilac lips slowly curling into a relieved smile. "We went out to have brunch with the Freemans," she explains. Before Chambray can even get another word in, the woman hovers her manicured hand over her mouth. "You two are the Hemingway kids, aren't you? The ones who make the deliveries for Organza?"
Chambray nods. "That's us."
A blink, the woman's nose scrunching up as she thinks hard for a second. "I thought you two were brother and sister," she says slowly.
Chambray has to bite back a laugh, exhaling softly as Calico lets out a small grumble. If it's hard for their own parents to tell the difference between them from the neck up, it should be no surprise that even strangers can't tell which one is which. When both dress in pants and sweaters, everyone thinks they're brothers. When Chambray wears a dress and Calico his regular everyday wear, everyone assumes a pair of sisters. It's almost funny how often people assume they're the same gender, solely because of how androgynous both of them appear.
"We are," Chambray explains politely. "We just look really alike."
"Ah…" The woman nods in understanding. An almost uncomfortable silence settles over them, no one able to meet anyone's gaze as Chambray and Calico shift on their feet. Part of her wonders if she'll have to just signal for Calico to hand over the bag and forget asking for something to help with his ankle.
"Well—"
"Goodness, I'm so sorry for not noticing sooner—is something wrong with your foot, young man?"
Both Calico and Chambray hum in surprise. It seems neither of them had expected her to ask about it, she thinks.
Before her brother can deny anything—like he usually does, unwilling to admit he needs help to strangers—Chambray nods vigorously at the woman. "He rolled his ankle coming out of the sidecar. We were hoping you'd have an ice pack or something to help with swelling, but we don't want to impose…"
The woman scoffs. "Nonsense. Come inside, both of you— Lottie!" she calls over her shoulder. "Lottie, the dresses are here!"
She steps aside to let both of them in, waiting patiently for the twins to make it inside the large house's lobby. To say that Chambray is floored by the beauty inside the house is an understatement. Everything glistens with a certain neatness, flecks of silver and gold mixing in with the ivory floor. Chambray can feel her grip on Calico going slack as she takes in the lobby—the large, almost room-wide staircase leading to the second floor; the assortment of flowers and plants lining the walls alongside paintings framed in gold.
She's in heaven, she decides as the woman shuts the door behind them.
"I hate to be a bother," the woman says, pulling Chambray from her train of thought. As she comes back to reality, no longer drooling over a house that could never be hers, she notices that Calico has already handed the backpack to the woman. "I didn't quite get your names from Organza."
"Oh! Sorry about that," Chambray giggles. "I'm Chambray, and this is Calico. Just call us Cham and Callie for short, if you want!"
The woman nods, pleased by the names. "Obviously I'm not Charlotte," she says with a wink. Calico lets out an unimpressed grunt. "I'm Taffeta, her wife. Lottie's busy with helping Zephyr clean up—Lottie!"
There's a distant shout back to them, coming from the second floor. "What?"
"Guests!"
A groan, followed by a childish cheer. That must've been Zephyr cheering, Chambray thinks.
"Now," Taffeta goes on, her attention back to the twins, "follow me to the kitchen. I'll prepare you some tea while that ankle rests a bit."
True to Chambray's expectations, the rest of the house is even more stunning than the lobby. The living room that they walk through looks almost like it was pulled straight out of a home design magazine, and the dining room after that is large enough to host at least her entire shift at the textile factory. From there is the glorious kitchen, with a space wide enough that a small team of chefs could work peacefully together.
Taffeta leads them to the bench, pulling out a stool and offering to help Calico climb up. Calico declines politely, giving Taffeta a moment of surprise as she backs away from the twins.
"You even sound alike," she marvels. "Neither of you is transitioning, are you? It's just uncanny."
Chambray waves a hand with a smile. "We work in one of the factories. All the smoke left us with a rasp before we were even twelve."
Taffeta looks them up and down with a pitying gaze. "A shame," she sighs. "Your District is so lovely with its produce, yet you live in such horrid conditions. Don't you wish you had, say, the voice of an angel?"
They both shrug. "A voice is a voice," Chambray says. "Even if we sounded pretty talking, who's to say we wouldn't be tone deaf?"
Calico lets out a small huff of laughter. She grins at him, proud of the very Calico-like statement she'd made. If Taffeta were someone they knew just a little more, she's more than certain he would've said it himself. Around a practical stranger, though, Calico may as well be mute.
Taffeta takes her time looking for just the right blend of tea, as she puts it, once she pulls out a small bag of frozen peas for Calico. Chambray presses the bag softly to his ankle—he hisses sharply—as she watches Taffeta flit about her kitchen.
Something isn't sitting right with her, she thinks. Something Taffeta's said just doesn't sound right, like Chambray was supposed to pick up something from the barest of clues. Taffeta speaks so casually, though, it's hard to pick up what's out of place. She runs over their conversation so far with a hum.
As she does, Calico coughs quietly and keeps his gaze trained to the bench, almost as though unwilling to show interest in Taffeta. "I've never seen so many calla lilies in one place," he says lamely.
Taffeta looks over her shoulder at him with a shy smile. "They were my favourite back home," she says with a soft voice. There it is again, Chambray thinks. That casual out of place sentence.
Your District, she'd said earlier. Back home, she's just now specified.
Chambray frowns, her brows furrowing as she asks, "Are you from a different District?"
Taffeta laughs. She pulls a small jar from the overhead cupboard. Inside are an array of colourful herbs. "Not a District, no. Capitol-born, Capitol-raised," she admits. "I moved here with Zephyr after Lottie and I got married."
"You got the short end of the stick," Calico mumbles. Chambray hisses out Calico's name, embarrassed he'd say something so cruel. Taffeta takes no offense, though. Instead, she pulls out a pearly teacup and sets to work making tea for him.
"Maybe." She sighs wistfully. "Like I said, you have such poor living conditions. I wish the President were doing more for you here. But being with Lottie is better than staying in the Capitol, to me."
The tea is prepared just as loud shouts can be heard coming from across the house. Chambray watches as Calico tenses, as he moves to take the frozen peas from her and withdraw into himself. Chambray barely gets any time to ask him if he's okay before a small bundle of energy dashes into the room. All she sees is bright red hair and a long trail of fabric being dragged along into the kitchen, the high pitched giggling of a young child filling the air.
When she finally catches a complete view of the child, he's standing right in front of her and Calico and gazing up at the two with stars in his eyes. Chambray offers him a sweet smile—prompting one in return from him—and gives him a small wave hello.
"I'm four!" he declares proudly. Chambray feigns surprise.
"Goodness, look how tall you are!" she marvels. "Do you know how old you'll be on your next birthday?"
"Five!" he yells. Calico buries his face in his hand with a sigh.
Someone else enters the room then, an exasperated sigh escaping them as they call out, "Zephyr!"
The small boy—now revealed to be Zephyr—breaks into a sprint in the direction of the doorway. He crashes into a pair of legs, clings almost insistently as he looks up at the woman with a wide grin.
This must be Charlotte, Chambray thinks. No one else is in the house as far as she knows, and the woman sounds remarkably similar to the voice that had responded to Taffeta's calls earlier. Chambray can't help staring, almost enthralled by the beauty of the woman in front of her. As Taffeta moves to Charlotte's side, planting a kiss down on her cheek, Charlotte's gaze locks with Chambray's.
Tawny gold eyes stare at her, a blemish free face remaining apathetic to the appearance of strangers in her house. Unlike Taffeta, whose hair is tied up and out of her face, Charlotte's dark curls sit around her tanned face in delicate waves. Part of Chambray feels almost jealous of Taffeta—her wife is so gorgeous!—while another part can see just why she wants to stay by Charlotte's side.
"Cham, Callie," Taffeta says to the twins, "this is Lottie. Lottie, these are Organza's children—they delivered our dresses just now."
Charlotte looks between both twins. Calico hasn't moved to glance at her yet, keeping his focus on his swollen ankle.
"I see," comes Charlotte's quiet reply. Zephyr continues to tug at her pyjama pants, almost demanding Charlotte's attention as she pats his head softly. "Why are they still here?"
Chambray flushes at the blunt question. She's seen how people react to Calico being as blunt as he is, but she's never been on the receiving end of it. She feels almost embarrassed, like she's now intruding on the Harper residence despite being invited inside.
Taffeta merely laughs and returns for Calico's teacup, placing it on a saucer and sliding it delicately to him. Calico finally acknowledges Charlotte and Zephyr, giving the duo a slight nod before blowing at the steam rising from his tea.
"I invited them inside," Taffeta says. Charlotte blinks in surprise, wide eyes on her wife. "Oh, don't be so shocked. Poor Calico rolled his ankle getting out of the sidecar of their bike, and I couldn't just send them off without giving him an ice pack."
Charlotte looks Calico up and down—just barely spots the bag of peas on his ankle as she steps further into the kitchen. Before Chambray even has a chance to prepare for the worst, Charlotte's gaze snaps onto her.
"And you are…?" Charlotte prompts.
"Ch—" She tries to hold back her stutter. "Chambray."
Charlotte hums. With nothing else to say, she picks Zephyr up and carries him over to the bench; once she places him in a stool near Chambray, she moves for the backpack on the floor. She must have gathered that the dresses are in it, and she shows no hesitation when she reaches in for the package. Wrapped in brown paper and twine, there is no hint to what the dresses inside look like.
With her breath held, Chambray turns in her stool and watches Charlotte as she unties the twine. Taffeta hovers near her wife, excited squeaks escaping her, while Zephyr and Calico find interest in their own surroundings.
The first dress to be pulled out is apparently for Taffeta. The woman squeals happily as she takes the dress from Charlotte and holds it against her body. It's an off-the-shoulder piece, almost entirely black until it reaches the bottom of its loose skirt. Towards the end of the fabric it begins to almost fade into a beautiful shade of purple, so close to matching Taffeta's makeup that Chambray almost wonders how specific the instructions Organza had been given were.
There's tears threatening to spill over from Taffeta's eyes. She looks over at the twins with almost relief in her expression. "This is better than any Capitol dress," she chokes. "It's just like six years ago."
Chambray blinks in surprise. She tries to piece together what could've happened six years prior—an event Taffeta attended? Her and Charlotte's wedding, even?—while Calico looks her up and down.
"It's like a purple pansy," he tells her. Taffeta looks at him in surprise.
"You're right!" she gasps. "Dark fading to light around the edges… Oh, now it's beyond perfection!"
There's a rustling of paper after Taffeta's declaration. All eyes flit to Charlotte as she lifts out her own dress, an almost nostalgic and proud expression on her face as she looks it up and down.
The dress itself is a cheongsam—Chambray's seem a few of them made before for escorts, worn on some televised Reapings. She'd had no idea Organza knew how to make one, especially since no one she knows at the factory has been taught how to. Like Taffeta's the colour fades, though instead of black it's all purple. From the collar and shoulders, down to the waist, it's all a gorgeous fuchsia; from there, it slowly gradients into royal purple. The stitching around the collar, as well as the clasp just shy of the right shoulder, are a deep, dark purple.
Charlotte actually smiles at the sight of it, casting a glance at Taffeta. Taffeta wipes at her eyes as she clutches her own dress with a shaking hand.
"It's just like the one your mother made, Lottie," she sighs.
Charlotte nods in agreement. "Right down to the feel of it," she muses. She runs a hand over the material almost longingly. "No stylist could ever capture this kind of feeling in a dress."
It takes a moment for Chambray to realise Charlotte means the emotions that the dress evokes. All manner of silk and fabric is available to stylists in the Capitol, but from the way Charlotte speaks it's as though the clothing they design are lifeless outside of their colour schemes. Like something from home feels more alive.
Charlotte turns to the twins, her smile gone as she carefully lays the dress down on one of the empty stools. Chambray can't help the audible gulp she makes once they make eye contact. She's worried that the tender moment will be ended abruptly, all because the Hemingway twins have stayed longer than Charlotte would like them to. They've intruded on what was supposed to be their personal moment.
The woman inhales deeply, her eyes sliding shut as her chest rises. Calico shifts in his seat as he readjusts the peas.
"Thank you," Charlotte breathes out. She sounds almost relieved. "Your family will be paid handsomely for this."
Chambray stares at her in surprise. "It's…" She glances at Calico, speechless, as he waits for her to finish her sentence.
When she doesn't, he says simply, "It's okay. Mom was just doing her job."
The way Charlotte looks at Calico—a small grin forming on her face, brows knitted together in thought—looks almost like it's the first time she's truly seen the boy. Like she'd taken her time to acknowledge him properly, just as he did to her.
With an almost knowing look on her face, she tells the twins, "Stay another half hour. Taffeta and I will get ready while Zephyr sits with you."
"Th—Thank you," Chambray stutters. "We really didn't want to impose—"
Taffeta's already skipping out of the room, dress bundled up in her arms as she giggles to herself. Charlotte watches fondly, then casts her gaze to Zephyr. He perks up at the attention she pays him almost immediately.
"Zeph, help Callie and Cham find whatever they need. Mommy and I will only be a bit."
Zephyr nods dutifully. "Aye aye, Mama!"
From the moment Charlotte leaves the room, Zephyr climbs down from his stool and begins to bounce between both twins. He bombards them with questions—"Who is older? How did you hurt your foot? Can you make dresses too?"—and Chambray can't help the weak laugh that escapes her. All this nervousness over intruding, and all it took was two of her mother's best dresses to melt the ice entirely.
Part of Chambray likes to think Calico had something to do with Charlotte's sudden warmth. She can see bits of him in her—the bluntness, the professional way she conducts herself, the almost uncannily similar way they express themselves emotionally—and a nagging part of Chambray almost begs for someone else who understands, perhaps even sympathises with Calico.
After the fifteenth question from Zephyr ("Do you know what my shirt's made of?") the twins finally get a breath of air in. Zephyr announces that he wants a biscuit, that he can't quite reach them, and promises to share them if one of the twins helps him. He's remarkably silent for the first time since his mothers left.
Chambray walks into the kitchen and asks Calico if he wants a biscuit as well. He gives a soft confirmation, sipping the rest of his tea. He sounds almost distracted, the way he usually sounds when he pulls out his journal to document a flower or chemical reaction.
"Can you grab the blend Taffeta used for the tea, too?" he asks. "I want to note down what she used."
"Why not ask her when she comes back?" Chambray says. "I didn't even recognise half of the things in there—"
"This one!" Zephyr insists. He points up to the cupboard closest to the pantry door.
"Okay… Let's see…" Chambray reaches up and searches with her fingers for the feel of a tin, a box of some sort that'd house biscuits. When she hears a hollow clang as her nail taps the lid of something, Zephyr cheers that she's found it.
The biscuits inside look almost diabetic. One bite from any could possibly send all three into a sugar rush. Assorted pinks and blues and yellows, all covered in coconut shavings and edible beads. They look less like cookies and more like a child's attempt at cooking, mixed in with an artistic eye for colour schemes.
Zephyr picks out a blue cookie—star-shaped and covered in an impossible amount of edible glitter—and leaves Chambray to choose for herself. He practically sprints out of the kitchen, running for his mothers no doubt, as the twins try to pick the least sugary of the cookies.
As she pulls out a yellow cookie, shaped like a flower and decorated so, she says to Calico, "So much for going to the warehouse."
Calico nods in agreement. He starts to nibble on his own cookie—a pink one in the shape of a heart, simple icing decorations covering it—as he turns a page of his journal. Chambray is quick to put the cookies back in their cupboard. Just as she's about to sit with him again, Calico reminds her to grab the tea blend. She rolls her eyes and searches around a bit, and then slides the small jar in front of him as she makes her way back to her stool.
He stares at it intently. Pops open the lid and even gives it a sniff. Chambray watches him with wonder, taking in the way he makes his notes. Calico's always been the observant type, always calculating and thinking. He doesn't give himself time to daydream—never wants to—and Chambray finds it absolutely extraordinary how he does it all the time. It's like his brain is some kind of unstopping machine, constantly making connections and revisions that need to be written down for future reference.
Chambray chews at her lip. If only he could see tailoring the same way he sees flowers and chemicals. He hates the job with a passion—complains at the warehouse just how much living here has ruined clothing for him—but Chambray will be damned if he isn't one of the best in their family. The best in the family, and his heart isn't even in it. She can't even imagine how much he'd accomplish if he found some form of joy in the job.
He lets out a low groan as he sniffs at the blend again. His lip is curled up in a sneer, the short charcoal pencil poking at his chin rhythmically. He's hit a wall, she thinks.
"What's wrong?" she asks. Calico rubs at his brow.
"There's something missing," he mutters. "I smell rose and hibiscus. Dried tea leaves as well, naturally. But none of them can…" He trails off, an almost faraway look in his eye.
"Callie?"
"Those alone don't alleviate pain."
Her eyes bulge wide at the statement. "What do you mean?"
"The tea—it's like a painkiller, I think. By now I'd still be feeling a little pain in my ankle, even with the ice, but there's nothing. As soon as I drank the tea, it stopped hurting. But I can't place what ingredient would do that."
Chambray glances between the kitchen doorway and Calico's cup. A feeling of dread knots up in her stomach, making her wish she hadn't eaten that sickly cookie. "You don't think… Do you think they soak it in morphling or something?"
Her voice comes out almost like a whisper, but Calico doesn't even bother to lower his own voice. "No. Morphling is supposed to have a distinct taste when it's ingested—like the taste of spirits." He flips through the pages of his journal, until he finds a small entry about medicinal herbs. "I haven't tasted any of these, but I think one of them might be sweet enough to sit with the rest of the ingredients. What do you think?"
Honestly, it's all too nerve wracking for Chambray to think about. "I hope it's just some kind of herb," she mumbles. Calico shrugs.
"Probably is. I just need to figure out what—it'd be helpful to have the recipe for Mom and Dad."
Chambray shoves the rest of the cookie into her mouth, hoping to muffle any attempt at voicing concern. She just hopes that whatever is in that tea blend, it won't be something that'll get Calico in trouble for wanting.
Calico stops her when they're in line for the Reaping, waiting to be identified. He puts a hand reluctantly on her shoulder and says, "The choker's coming loose."
Chambray gasps softly, immediately flapping her arms about. "Fix it!" she hisses. "Fix it!"
He lets out a small snort of a laugh. She can feel the lace choker tighten a little, the amount of seconds it takes to fix making her grimace. It must've been barely dangling by its ribbons, ready to fall off at any second. Organza would have a fit if Chambray lost it on her way to a Reaping, of all things.
Calico taps her on the shoulder again when he's done, just as Chambray is called over for identification. Her finger is pricked, her name read out, and then she's guided over to the seventeens section. There's already so many children here, nervously chattering amongst themselves as they wait for the last of the teens to line up. Chambray is almost certain she's the last of the seventeens girls to arrive, the section looking ready to burst with how tightly compacted all of the girls are.
She fiddles with her dress somewhat as she makes her way over; it's one of her favourites, featuring both her and Calico's namesakes that never fails to make her beam proudly. Varying blues to match the twins' eyes, with just enough ruffles around the shoulders and chest to make Chambray feel absolutely adorable.
She sees Calico walking by to his own section just as she settles in, and can't help staring at his feet as he makes his way into the lines. Ever since consuming that tea, he's had no sign of a limp outside of a reluctance to press too much weight onto the injured foot. Had Chambray not been there when he'd taken the tumble, she'd never guess that Calico had rolled his ankle. He catches her eye and nods in greeting, prompting her to nod back. Their sections look to already be full by now, meaning it won't be too long before the escort takes the stage.
As the hands of the Justice Building's clock move to 12:30, the familiar face of Greve takes centrestage. Clad in her signature studded clothing and almost punk-like style, complete with her green hair styled in the shape of a bow, she looks every bit ready to talk about how this generation isn't a great as the ones during the first President Snow's time in power.
Behind Greve are the officials—the mayor, assistants—and just at the end of the row of seats resides Charlotte and Taffeta. Zephyr sits quietly on Taffeta's lap, nibbling on a cookie as his mothers wait patiently for Greve to finish her opening speech. From where Chambray stands, she can see Charlotte's dress properly; it looks absolutely stunning on her, making her look even more regal and awe-inspiring than she already is.
The loud thump of the Reaping Ball gains everyone's attention, including Greve's. As she dips her hand into the Ball, she boldly declares that no Tribute this year will be as good as the ones from the 50th can't help the roll of her eyes and groan that escapes her. The paper shuffles loudly, Greve practically pulling herself into the Ball at this point. When she emerges, there's two slips of paper stuck together—one of which cracks open as she shakes the other back into the bowl.
Greve pouts and complains about the paper under her breath. It's heard as clear as day through the microphone, but the woman continues to act as though only she had heard it. She clears her throat daintily as she leans into the microphone, and with a voice painfully clear to all she announces, "Chambray Hemingway."
In all her life, working in the factories and fearing mistakes that would take her fingers or even her entire arm, Chambray's never trembled this hard. She's never looked to Calico with an almost pleading fear before today, and she's most certainly never been looked back to by him with equal amounts of fear and panic. Her legs feel like jelly as she makes her way up onto the stage, not a single soul volunteering for her. Greve makes some sort of comment about how underwhelming Chambray looks—she's long since tuned out, too focused on listening for a volunteer. All she's dimly aware of as the Reaping comes to a close is Taffeta bringing her into a hug and patting her head, almost like a mother would her sobbing child.
She's back to her senses in the Justice Building, sitting patiently on a leather chair and watching the door like a hawke. She tugs at the small pearl dangling from the choker, careful not to rip it off entirely. A few minutes have already passed, anxiety welling in her chest at the idea of her family not coming to say goodbye. She feels almost lonely, for the first time in her life—like she's been abandoned in her time of need.
And then the walking source of comfort that is Calico Hemingway bursts into the room, out of breath and slamming the door shut behind him. He's on his own, no sign of Organza and Poplin behind him, and there's a fire in his eyes.
"Where's—" Chambray barely gets any time to finish her sentence. Calico just tackles her into a hug, the most physically affectionate action he can take with anyone.
"Dad passed out from shock," Calico says all at once. "Mom's taking him to the hospital. They begged me to come and I couldn't leave you—"
Chambray starts to shake again. She clings back to Calico, the anxiety only getting worse as she claws at his shirt like a lifeline. "Callie, I'm scared," she whimpers.
He pulls away from her—she panics as the warmth of him leaves her so suddenly—only to place a hand on either side of her face and stare at her with an unwavering determination.
"You're strong," he says. His voice isn't shaking like hers, isn't filled with doubt. "I know you're going to be okay, Cham. We will be okay. Trust me."
As she stares back at him, finally at her tipping point, Chambray feels something she's never felt towards Calico before.
Doubt.
And with that we have eight tributes established. I think we're making good progress! This chapter's Quell Question is a bit simpler than the last, so don't worry about having to come up with some kind of pun again lmao
QQ #3: If you could hold a job in District 8, what would it be?
For those interested as well, the ending of D7's chapter has been edited a bit to feel a bit better paced - it's not much of a change of events, but a bit easier to process pace-wise.
All that said, I'll see you all next time in District 9! We're almost at the mentor introductions and Capitol Reapings!