A/N: My timelines are all screwy so basically I've changed some stuff so now Orlick goes to work at 13 instead of 14. Also, the ages are a bit odd because of where the birthdays lie.
DENNIS
I'm up early, and ready for a long day. Times are trying, there can be no holidays in District 12, but somehow I'm going to figure out how to celebrate. After all, today is the day of the Winter Festival. The holiday lasts a whole month in the Capitol, but I've always chosen to celebrate in the teens of December, so as to not interfere with the Victory Tour at all.
I get ready for the day before going to the kitchen to try and find something for breakfast. I scour the cabinets as I do every morning to try and find something to eat.
"Don't get your hopes up," my father says, watching me from his favorite wooden rocking chair in the living room, "The food fairy never visits District 12."
He takes a swig of alcohol, rocking back and forth slowly.
"Right," I mumble, disappointed. He peers at me over his newspaper as I put the helmet on my head and heft the pick-ax I have to use in the mines.
"I see you're getting ready to go to work," he says, gray eyes unreadable. I nod a little, glancing at his newspaper. "Celebrating something?" I hardly ever notice my father's doodles all over the paper, but today I can't help but pay attention to the little compasses and cakes and strawberries all over the page.
My Dad's told me very little about them; all I know is that the various symbols represent someone that he lost but really cared about, his first love, but I don't even know her name.
The only things I know about my Dad's life before me are that
1) I'm named partly after his best friend Salem Christenson, who died in the 41st Hunger Games. We share a middle name. Penn.
2) He once had a good number of friends, but one way or another, he eventually lost them all.
3) He had that one lost love that I noting about other than the fact that she had something to do with compasses, strawberries, and cakes. It's not my Mom. My Dad shows particular spite for Haymitch Abernathy, so I think it's connected to the 50th Games.
4) He and his friends celebrated the winter holiday, as well. I think he said once that they celebrated it closer to the beginning of them month.
Yep, that's it.
I go out to the mines, carrying the supplies I'll need for the day. Soon, Sylvester Stallosky falls into step with me.
"Good morning," I say quietly as I walk. He nods in silent greeting.
"You should come over tonight. You and your sisters, and Bannister." He shrugs a little as we approach the mines.
Stallosky, Bannister and I are the youngest team that works in the mines. Stallosky, Sylvester, is 17, I'm 16, and Bannister, well, Orlick, is 13.
Working in the mines is a hard, long, and under-payed work day, but what else can we do!?
I remember when Orlick joined us, earlier this year, and I insisted on carrying stuff for him. He's matured so much over the past couple of months that I can barely recognize him. I've just been trying to be there for him.
When I see the little guy, my heart soars. He's the cutest thing, honest to God. I smile, picking him up in a tight hug of greeting. "Hey there Coffeecake!" I greet happily.
He's stiff and seems a bit uncomfortable, but I blame that on him maturing from being so carefree. I kiss him, smiling, and he smiles back just a little bit.
I put him down and walk with him and Stallosky into the mines.
"We're having a celebration at my place, by the way!" I say as we walk.
"For what?" he asks, reaching up to switch the light of his helmet on.
"For the winter holiday, of course. The Capitol isn't the only one that can have fun! We may not have a feast, but we can still gather after-hours and be merry, right?"
For a second, I see the carefree childishness of his old self come back into his eyes. He coughs a little in the musty mines and it goes away again. I sigh a heavy sigh and the three of us are soon working too hard to talk.
~.~.
After the work day is done, the sky is already getting dark. I hope my Dad's either out drinking or up in his room, sleeping. Sylvester goes to get his sisters, while Orlick and I sit by the fireplace in the living room.
Once Sylvester gets his sisters, we can have our "feast." Today I was able to sweet-talk my way into getting some squirrel meat and some stew from the Hob.
He sits on my lap in the rocking chair, and we sit in a comfortable silence, rocking back and forth calmingly. In such a busy, working kind of life, I just need something to cling to sometimes, and Orlick is that thing for me.
He's so tiny he fits easily into my lap, and by the firelight I just keep on rocking back and forth, my arms around his thin little stomach, his hands lightly on top of mine.
For a second, just for one evening… I can forget about everything I've ever worried about.
Soon, Sylvester shows up with one of his sisters and a roll of stale bred.
It's a weak meal, but better than I think any of the others have eaten in a while. Sylvester usually avoids the Hob, and Orlick wouldn't dream of going there.
"Hey you two," says Willow with a soft smile. She's still in school, she's not allowed to leave and work by the power of Sylvester's steel-like, rock-hard, stubborn-ass will.
"Hi!" Orlick chirps, and I raise a hand in silent greeting. The Stallosky siblings settle on opposite ends of the couch and we sit in another comfortable silence. I focus on Orlick's breathing against me, until I hear the door open.
My eyes fly open. My Dad glances at the group of us sitting in the living room. I swear quietly to myself.
But, instead of lashing out on me or them, he smiles a little.
Now, this is crazy, because my Dad never smiles. He's practically the most miserable person in the whole District, he never ever smiles.
Orlick relaxes against me again, though I just feel confused.
He smiles at all of us before he gazes at me, serious gray eyes peering at my own.
He speaks quietly, smiling a little bit. "You all have a good holiday."
He nods a tiny big, smiling sadly, looking like he might cry, before he grabs his coat and a pair of gloves that look like he's had them since he was a teen (he probably has).
"Your Dad seems nice," Orlick says, nuzzling the side of my face.
"He's not usually that pleasant." Maybe it's because he's sober.
"Do you think it's possible that all our parents knew each other?" Willow asks, looking at the ceiling thoughtfully, "Our Mom seemed to know where we were going when we left."
I take a second to consider the possibility of some complex system of ties between any or all of our families.
Finally, I shake my head. My father is a friendless bastard, and besides, that'd be way too much irony for my taste.
"That'd be, like, so cool!" Orlick says, "Really!"
"We'll never know, though. My Dad never talks about his past. All I've been able to figure out is what I've gathered from his newspaper doodles."
I pick up the paper with those weird symbols on them and find, in the very top corner, a very elaborately-drawn sprig of some leafy plant.
"Hey, I think I know what that is!" Willow says, "I think that's mistletoe!"
"What the hell?" Sylvester asks, the first time he's spoken since this morning.
"Haven't you ever listened to Mom's cute love stories? It's a plant that you hang up, and if two people are caught under it together, they have to kiss."
"That's stupid," mutters Sylvester, crossing his arms.
"I think it's cute!" Orlick says.
"I just think you're sour because you have no one you want to be caught with. You'll find her someday, Vesty."
"Hm," he grumbles, keeping his arms crossed.
"Anyways, if you'd ever listen to our girl talk, you'd know that under the mistletoe is the first place and time Mom and Dad ever kissed." She sighs dreamily, a huge smile on her face.
"Sounds romantic!" squeaks Orlick, at the same time I say, "Sounds fun."
We sit in another comfortable silence until I decide to break it, "Why don't I heat up the meat I got at the Hob for dinner?"
The others nod eagerly, so Orlick moves to another chair and I start heating the meat over the fire. Soon the house smells about as good as dead squirrel can smell, though all of us are practically drooling.
The servings are smaller than any of us would've liked, but they're above the size we were expecting.
And so my favorite part of the Winter Festival begins: the eating.
Sylvester offers his portion around but nobody wants to take it from him. He tries to pocket it to take home to his Mom, but we all know it won't last that long. After so long arguing that the rest of us are done eating, we convince him to just eat the damn thing.
After that, we sit in a comfortable silence.
"I hope this never changes. Y'know? This group of friends. I never ever want it to change."
"Me neither," says Willow.
Orlick leans back against me and I put my chin gently on his shoulder, kissing the side of his face. "Nothing can come in between us. No people, things, no Games, nothing. Promise?"
"Promise," the others say quietly.
~.~.
Gray.
Everything is gray.
Everything is organized and shiny, but none of it is homely.
My home is gone. The Hob. The mines. My house. Orlick. Sylvester. My Dad. All of it. Reduced to ashes.
And for Christmas I'm stuck in this stupid compartment. Another day of doing common work for District 13, trying to read the schedules printed on my arms, but tattoos make that kind of hard. Everywhere I go I get looks. People ask me if I'm from the Capitol. I've gotten every kind of stink-eye in the book from these people.
They don't know how much I've lost. They don't know how much their dumb revolution has hurt me.
They destroyed my home, my last remnants of Orlick. They destroyed the graves. The Capitol bombed everything I could see. But that's not even the worst of the disaster.
See, my Dad had an infatuation with that Hanging Tree song. That's where the trouble started. Since the first air of rebellion was whispered, he was all on-board. He planned things, he was always there, the first to raise three fingers, the first to whistle those damned four notes of that stupid damn song!
The Peacekeeper that shot him is one I actually knew. One I drank with. I tattooed him.
Pow! One loud shot and it was over. Right in the head. No mercy in his eyes, no remorse for the life he just took, someone who was just singing for fuck's sake!
Rebellion is inevitable, after what they did to him, but it's ruined everything just as much as the Games have.
Then the bombs dropped and I ended up in this hell-hole. I left it all behind, I carried Willow over my shoulder as she was trying to get home and find her Mom and sister. I trusted Hawthorne and he got us to safety. Willow fought so hard she gave me a black eye. I eventually had to drag Twinkler too, drag all of them under the gate, not let them even think of going back.
I'm rugged now, I've lost everything. It started with the 73rd Games, dammit, right after we promised to stay together. Orlick went off and died, dammit, I should've volunteered for him like Everdeen did for her little sister! I was too big a coward.
We lost Sylvester a while later, to starvation. Stubborn-ass.
Then my Dad got shot, though I doubt he regrets a single thing. He's been a revolutionary from the second I knew how to talk, even before, he was sending me messages through things like the Hanging Tree. We were never very friendly, but I thought maybe after this is all over, we could try.
I sit by myself late into the night, the light of a single lantern illuminating the paper that's already littered with doodles. They sanction everything in this crap-hole, which means I've found ways to make life more interesting. I've been chastised countless times for drawing where I shouldn't be, but I barely care at this point. I'm already the least-13-like citizen here. Soon I'll train to join the army and fight, anyways.
There's a knock on my door and I open it to see Willow on the other side.
"Uh…"
"Hi Dennis. Happy Winter Fest." She holds out some paper to me.
I take it with wide-eyes, "No way. How'd you get all this!?"
"I've been saving up since I got here, taking from people that don't want theirs, and making a little collection."
I'm touched. I throw my arms around my friend and she hugs me back, laughing. Giving actually makes her radiantly happy. I feel like shit because I have nothing to give her.
"Th-That's amazing."
"Yeah. You don't have to get yelled at for doodling all over stuff now."
"I wish the revolutionaries could use an artist."
"I'm sure they could. Have to make propaganda and everything. Maybe someone could conveniently stumble on one of your drawings." She winks, I have to laugh.
"I doubt they'd say anything but, What a waste of paper!"
"You're talented. You never know."
I shrug a little. "I've got nothing to give you… I didn't think you'd remember me," I confess.
"How could I forget? You and Christian are all I have left."
"You… Your Mom…"
"I-I didn't find them."
I hug her again, tightly, and she hugs back. "I'm sorry."
"It's… It's okay…" she doesn't sound very okay. When I let go, she wipes tears out of her eyes.
"But it's okay." A smile spreads across her face, slowly but surely. "Christian had some mistletoe he saved among other things from his house. Today… He kissed me under it."
I let out a little sigh of relief. Well, one thing seems to have gone right.
"About time."
She laughs. "Well, don't feel like you need to get me anything. Really."
"I'll get you something someday. I'll draw you something."
"Oh, that'd be great! Maybe if we ever get out of this fun-sucker you can tattoo it on me!"
I try not to look so dumbly shocked. "Seriously?"
"Yeah." She smiles, "I'd love to have some of your art on me."
I blush and stare at the ground, embarrassed. "Oh. Thanks."
"Sure thing." She smiles warmly at me. "I should get back to my compartment before they yell at me for being out. Good night."
I smile, "Night."
She leaves, and for just a second, through all the loss and all the heartbreak, I think that maybe, just maybe, everything is going to be okay.