cw: mention of suicide in second pov

–

Evelyn Vasseur

District Nine Female

she/they

–

It's on nights like these that Eve remembers why she stays working at Cora's bar.

Well, that, and maybe not having a dollar to their name otherwise. But the endless stream of faces and voices in the summer air surely helped.

The guests blend around them, laughter bouncing off the wooden walls, drunken and looking to forget their sorrows. Eve doesn't know a single one of them, and won't see them ever again, but that part never matters. Here in Nine, people slip through your fingers and disappear into the darkness. She's more than content in capturing their spark for an instant.

Which is what she does, whether behind the counter of the bar or serving drinks to those sitting at tables. She greets them with a smile and lets them unpack their stories. She listens with the ear only an artist can have.

"And, you know, being a merchant is honestly a hard life." The man she's been talking to - he said his name was Gregory, but does it really matter? - has been explaining to them the trials and tribulations of being a merchant in Nine. He claims it's tough work, claims she has it better with a laugh between beer swigs, but Eve can't help but wonder what it's like to live a life like his. One where city borders are only invitations and money comes in abundance where he travels.

(But Eve never judges.)

(She knows that people would kill to be a bartender like them, and they wouldn't know the hardships that come with it.)

Their eyes flicker back to Gregory, amused. "Oh, yeah? Is it the long distances?"

He barks a laugh in response, gruff like many of the men around these parts. "Nah, it's the mundanity." When Eve tilts them head, urging him to continue, he says, "I know some people think there's anything to see once you leave town but… all of Nine's the same, really. Ain't nothing much to see. It's kind of sad to learn, y'know? But, eh, you get used to it."

Eve frowns, for a small second. That doesn't sound right - surely every piece of land past theirs has something unique, some special glow to it? Surely not everything was swaying fields of gold stretching into the distance?

(And even then, that's just Nine.)

(She's sure his tune would be different in Four or any of the richer districts.)

"That's a shame," she says, but their tone remains light. "You'd hope there'd be something around here. But I guess that's why they call us the forgotten District."

"Hell, even our Victors are boring!"

Eve laughs, a melodious and charming sound. "Amen to that." She turns around to the bar, where some guests are lingering, maybe looking for someone to take in an order. Pursing their lips, she nods an apology to Gregory. "I'm afraid I must be going now though! Got some more clients to take care of, and you're not a VIP… yet," she adds, with a wink.

As Gregory lifts his beer as a sign of farewell, she makes their way back to the bar, picking up the pace. She needs to stop getting distracted with the clients and their stories, Cora's trusted them with responsibilities and now's not the time to let them down.

(After all, who else would take in a starved orphan, with nothing but a guitar to their name, and offer them a job, no, a home?)

But the stories that fall into their lap simply are too good to pass out on, something straight out of the poetry books she'd read in their youth, and what was she to do?

(Inspiration has simply been evading them these passing months, in the corner of their mind but always out of reach.)

(Inspiration was an old friend. And just like every old friend she'd come to know, it had abandoned them.)

(But, surely, amidst the days of labor and the nights of celebration, the glasses passed from their hands to others, the inebriated secrets whispered in their ear, she would find it again.)

She finds their way back to their bar and flashes a smile in the guise of apologies to their waiting clients. "Hi there! How can I help you?"

As it turns out, they're a group of young farmers needing a break after a hard day's work, and they'd be quite delighted to have some vodka, thank you. Eve's never been familiar with farmers themself, but she knew a couple kids from the orphanage adopted by the richer ones, taken away into the vast nothingness of the prairies to produce some wheat. It didn't seem like the most fascinating job, but Eve knows there's something to learn from anyone.

Within the next minutes and a few deftly placed chuckles, she learns that there's subtleties in the way plants grow in different soil, that they only take root in certain environments and only bloom in certain seasons. Maybe like humans, then. Maybe all living things have that in common - the need for a place they belong to.

The group of boys make their way to a table to flirt with some girls back from the washroom, and she waves them goodbye.

The rest of the evening passes similarly, a blur and whirl of colors and stories that, really, she should be jotting down.

Cora comes over to assist them at the bar somewhere around midnight, and though there's a weariness in their eyes, they still give them a tight smile. "Business's real good tonight, isn't it?"

"Yeah, a bunch of people. It's summer rolling in, I think."

"And the Reapings with it," Cora sighs. "But let me not drag you down with bad news, that'll all be behind you in two years." They quickly wipe a glass with a napkin, and put it back into the shelves. "You've been taking real good care of my bar, you know that?"

Eve feels themself grow warmer with the compliment. She knows that bartending isn't exactly their calling, but she still has the desire to make their only mentor proud. Still has the desire to do the job right. Unlike one she simply can't quite get right anymore.

As if on cue, Cora continues: "Don't you want to perform for the crowd tonight? I'm sure they'd love to hear you, and it's been a while since you've sung one of your songs."

"I… I don't know, Cora. I'm not really feeling it tonight," she says, that mesmerizing voice of theirs reduced to hesitancy.

She knows she should feel grateful that Cora's offering up that opportunity, and it's one she would've killed for until recently. But their music simply hasn't looked the same under their pen, simply hasn't sounded the same between their lips, simply hasn't felt the same in their plucked strings.

(It'd been this way ever since she'd found out Riley was gone.)

(Gone, slipped between their fingers, found another family like all the others. Gone into the corners of the world she would never know.)

(Maybe it'd been their fault for hoping to find someone again. Their fault for hoping that people could be found again in Nine.)

(Though Eve's always been quite good at hope.)

Sensing Eve's discomfort, Cora shrugs. "That's fair, kid. I won't force it on ya."

Eve smiles at them in relief - of course they won't press them. They've always wanted what was best for them, even if their ways were sometimes a bit rough, they were acts of love.

Cora leaves to let them continue their business, and the evening begins to bleed into night as the hours pass. Guests peel themselves off of their tables and drunken lethargy, stumble out of the front doors and mutter some "thanks for the booze". Others slip away discreetly holding hands, hoping for a quiet escape into each other's beds, not wanting any adults to catch their tender moments.

Eve begins cleaning the tables, wiping the tops from various crumbs and cigarette dust and other litter. As she stacks glasses together to give them to the washer, she halts.

A beautiful melody, soft and imperceptible, floats towards them and reaches their ears. Eve's heart races - she's never heard anything as gorgeous and poignant as it, something as delicate yet strong. Every instinct of theirs screams for them to bottle the sound forever, to keep it close to their chest until she can make it bloom with newfound inspiration, to turn it into a new project.

She whirls around, and finds it originating from one of the only guests left in the bar. She hadn't noticed them at first, his body turned away from others as if preferring not to be approached, but now that she looked at his features closer, in the dimming lights, she's stricken by his features. There's something angelic about them, seraphic and ethereal and nothing like the roughness she's so used to in Nine. Nothing like the hardened workers with calluses on their hands and a taste for gruff fighting. He hums that melody again, so perfect and pretty, and Eve notices them looking right back at them.

Eve makes their way to his table, feeling a tightness in their throat as she does - is this nervosity? She wonders. Something about them, about this, felt crucial, as if tugged by the strings of fate itself.

(Eve's never believed in fate, not ever since the people in their life were shuffled like pawns and disappeared without the farewell they deserved.)

(But maybe she's willing to start.)

"Hey," she says, and the fascination is thick in their voice. "I'm - I'm Eve. It's really nice to meet you."

She watches his eyes widen, slightly, with surprise at their directness. "I'm Oren," he responds, and she sees his pale skin gaining some color. "It's nice to meet you as well."

There's a beat of silence, and Eve knows she needs to take the leap now, knows that this sweet stranger holds answers that she didn't even know she was searching for.

So, she sits down across from them, and gives them the most charming smile she could hope for. "Well, what's someone like you doing here so late at night?"

He grows redder, an involuntary habit it seems. "I, uh I don't know, really. I was looking to clear my thoughts, I think. And then I walked into your bar." Oren shifts uncomfortably in his seat, as if not sure what to do when pinned by Eve's gaze. It's a bit adorable, really.

"What do you say I buy you a drink?" Eve asks, because fuck the damn rules, this one's on them. "Get to know each other?"

"Oh." His voice is soft, even softer than his melody. "That'd be lovely."

So Eve gets them a drink from the bar, takes extra care in pouring it, and hands it to them. He sips it, and the hint of a smile forms on his face, though it's moreso a slight lifting of the lips. And so the night passes further, digging into the hours of the morning, as Oren slowly unwinds that protective stance of his and entrusts them with a couple jokes. She laughs with their full chest, mirthful at being able to know a person this closely for just an instant.

He also asks them about themself, and she presents their life story with perhaps more embellishments than it deserves, but what's the point of a story if it isn't good? And a lonely orphan doesn't do much except tug at heartstrings. He downs the glass she'd poured for them, and she finds themself thirsty as well. Next thing she knows, she's bringing back two glasses - one for them and one for them, and watches his eyes light up more as she talks to them. He tells them stories about having to take care of his brothers from an early age, dragging them from town to town and trying to keep them out of trouble. He listens, attentive, when she recounts their night meeting Riley, and how she'd ended up without them.

It's a feeling she never knew she could have, bursting in-between their ribs, something she'd written about to please an audience but never to express themself.

Something like love, she thinks, as he tells them a story of his misadventures traveling around Nine. Something like love, the way his eyes shine when he really lets them and the way he flushes red when she calls them pretty and the way he listens to their tales of prank wars at the orphanage, captivated.

She's hardly noticed the time passing, and was about to beg them for the full melody he'd been humming, when Cora barges down the stairs, startling them both out of their shared trance. "Hey lovebirds!" they exclaim. "This is cute and all, but it's nearly three in the morn' and Eve's got an actual job tomorrow, so you'd better be off."

Eve mouths an apology to them, and Oren nods. "You're right, I'm sorry," he says.

Eve feels a flutter of anxiety watching them leave - not right now, he can't, he hadn't even taught them that melody - but Oren smiles, warm and reassuring. "It's alright, I'll come back tomorrow," he promises.

As she watches them leave, she can only hope he speaks the truth.

(And Evelyn Vasseur's never had much else but hope.)

–

Snaedis Lukic

District Eight Female

she/her

–

The clock reads 10:39 pm when the warm scent of chocolate chip cookies reaches Snaedis's nose, indicating that they've done cooking.

Donning her mother's heat gloves (complete with little red hearts embroidered on the sleeve), she opens up her stove and is greeted by the familiar sight of perfectly golden-brown treats. Though she values being humble, Snaedis will admit that she has a knack for making sweet things.

Her stomach grumbles, but she knows that they're not for her. They never are - Snaedis takes great pride and responsibility in giving back to those in need. And as it turns out, this evening, the whole neighborhood is in need of some comfort.

Placing the cookies in a box, she forgoes the usual gift wrapping. This delivery needs to be quick, and she won't waste time on making it look too pretty. Two grown ups arewaiting for her, worried sick on their couches, hoping for a little something to cheer them up.

Which Snaedis Lukic is more than grateful to offer.

She slips out the front door of her house, box close to her chest, and ventures into the night. Her parents are already at the van de Meers' home, most likely offering their own comfort to the terrified family. The rest of the street is fairly quiet, nothing like the gang-ridden and downtrodden center of the city, and Snaedis trusts her neighbors enough to not be worried about being alone this late.

(No one's had anything to fear around these parts.)

(Not anymore.)

She's been lucky enough to be born well-off, her parents prominent in the textile trade. All the more reasons for her to give as much as she can.

Snaedis turns the corner and spots her destination - a medium house, all its lights still on but the curtains pulled, blocking view into the living room. The van de Meers have been at about the same level of wealth as her family, allowing her to attend the same school as their son.

But it seems that being well-off doesn't save you from disaster in Eight, and this night is its very proof.

Stepping onto the front porch, she rings the doorbell, not wanting to come across as brusque or impolite. The very last thing she needs to do to this poor family is scare them by walking in unprompted, isn't it?

Snaedis's mother answers the door, smiles in relief when she sees her daughter, and invites her in. Turning back to the couple curled up on their living room couch, she announces, "Snaedis is back with some warm cookies for you both!"

Snaedis offers a timid smile to them, bowing her head just a little as a sign of condolences. She walks over to the couple and gets the first good look at their face. Loomer's mother has dark circles dug deep below her eyes, lip quivering at every breath she takes. Her husband is no better, though he makes a better effort at smiling at her when she deposits the box in front of them.

She smiles a little brighter, hoping it will make them feel somewhat better. "For you!"

Ms. van de Meer nods weakly as a way to thank her, but doesn't touch a single cookie. Snaedis can't blame them, she can hardly imagine the horror of a relative going missing, much less your teenage son. She perfectly understands why they don't have the strength to be grateful, or even to acknowledge her presence.

She perfectly understands. Loomer van de Meer is someone the whole community will miss. Children will weep in the streets at the news of his disappearance, and a vigil will be held for weeks.

She perfectly understands.

It's strange how someone can simply disappear like that, isn't it? One minute you know them, alive and permanent, a presence in your life you cannot escape.

(A stain you can't get rid of.)

And the next, they've vanished into the night, leaving no trace or note of their fate. One could almost believe that Loomer had never existed, that he had just been some concept that had now been erased. One could almost convince themselves that, were it not for the mark he left on the world. Were it not for the bodies he had left in his wake, victims of his cruelty and sadism.

(Were it not for the string of suicides he'd caused last year, shoving kids into lockers and ostracizing them from their peers. Towering over them with his muscular build, a bully, a coward, a vile thing.)

It's funny how those things work out, don't they?

Loomer's mother bursts into sobs, the ugly noise dragging her out of her thoughts. Her husband reaches out to hold her hand, wordlessly, while Snaedis's mother hands her a tissue, making cooing, reassuring noises.

"He can't have gone far," her mother promises. "Teenagers like to rebel, like to have a little adventure. Chances are, one of his friends convinced him to stay up a little too late and that's all it is."

That's funny, Snaedis thinks. I don't recall Loomer having any friends.

Ms. van de Meer shakes her head vehemently. "No, no, my Loomer wouldn't ever do that. Plus, it's been over 48 hours? Do kids do that? Just for fun? No, I don't think so." Her voice trails off into something weak, all fire drained out of her.

"Well, a lot of kids do silly things," Snaedis's mother insists, but it doesn't have as much conviction behind it. "Not everyone grows up as reasonable as our little Snae."

Snaedis blushes and bows her head at that. "Mom, you're doing too much," she says sheepishly.

(Is she really?)

(Everybody knows Snaedis for her kindness, offering treats to the younger children at school, making warm meals for the homeless downtown, baking cakes for neighbors' birthdays.)

(Everybody knows Snaedis for her kindness. Everybody.)

Though they do not know her for much else. Everybody knows the Snaedis that's nicknamed the local fairy, everybody knows the Snaedis that's known to be a little saint, and everybody knows the Snaedis that would flush red at the prospect of hurting even a fly.

Lately, however, Snaedis isn't sure she quite knows herself.

It'd started when the rumors of Loomer's actions had reached her. Twelve suicides in one year, an older kid picking on the smaller ones, the sort of monsters you hear about in books. Something shameful, and something that didn't belong in the cooperative community that she belonged to.

But what could she do? She was only little Snaedis, only the giver of charity. She reads with a warm cup of tea during the afternoon, does all her homework, calls her teachers sir and ma'am. She's never been one for drastic measures, never has been. Everything about her is muted, soft, approachable. She's not meant for anything as neon and violent as anger.

(What could she do?)

(When she'd woken up in the middle of the night, heart racing and practically in her throat, to a crash in her kitchen?)

(When she stepped, carefully, as to not creak the wooden planks of her floor, around the corner of the hallway. Peeked her head like a mouse hiding from a cat, holding her breath.)

(When she spotted a figure heading downstairs, looming and menacing, a shambling monster straight out of a fairytale. When the moonlight hit his face and she recognized him as the beast that hunted little kids on the playground. When she realized where he was heading. Oh God, he was heading downstairs. He was heading downstairs where Snaedis kept her most precious spell charms. He was heading downstairs and he was going to taint it with his presence and what was kept down there was not meant for anybody except her and much less a brutish boy with no sense of remorse she would not let him-)

(What could she do? Why, hardly anything, of course.)

(Hardly anything.)

Snaedis had hardly done anything, when she really thought about it. It's the conclusion she reached for the thousandth time, after tossing and turning in her sheets, after biting her nails until they bled, after repeating every scene from that night in her mind like some horror movie, when the guilt started creeping up her stomach and into her heart, an emotion unlike anything she'd ever touched.

She'd hardly done anything, in fact, really, she was practically innocent.

(All she'd done was rush down the stairs after him, all caution thrown to the wind, something pumping in her veins that must be fear, it must be, or else it'd be hatred, and Snaedis has never hated.)

(All she'd done was yell at him, something she hardly ever did, stood up as tall as she could in her little body, held her head up high and brave. All she'd done was be brave, really. Stood up against a bully, a noble thing to do, it's what the books she read to children all taught.)

(And all he'd done was flee the scene at the sound of her voice, completely unscathed and untouched by her.)

So Snaedis has nothing to do with his disappearance, and has never harmed him. Not one bit. That's how it works, isn't it? There's no real way you can hurt someone without attacking them, there's no way to make someone fade away from reality, no way to erase someone's very being, no way to make someone vanish into the night, without actively harming them.

There was no way.

Snaedis's mother stands up from the chair she was sitting in, clasping her hands together remorsefully. "Well, I'm afraid we really must go Loretta, but I'm still absolutely sure he'll turn up."

Her father nods in agreement, taking his wife by the hand and leading them out of the van de Meers' house. Snaedis follows without a word, offering another merciful smile to the terrified parents, before following her parents back home.

"What a shame," her father comments once back at their place. "I'm sure he was a kind boy."

Chantilly Lukic snorts. "Oh please, you really don't know anything about what goes on around here, Threader. Everyone knows he was a bully. But the van de Meers are our friends, and it's only right to show up for them."

Snaedis listens with one ear to her parents' conversation, but her mind still won't rest, still won't abandon that crushing feeling in her chest.

(Because there was a way.)

(There was a way to make someone disappear into thin air, and Snaedis had found it.)

(What else could she do? He'd tainted her workshop with himself, and had made the entire place feel not right. And Snaedis needed to fix that, needed to cleanse her environment.)

(It only made sense that her tome started giving her ideas of dark magic, of curses and omens that shouldn't be uttered. It wasn't her fault, it was simply because it had come into contact with Loomer, a being filled with darkness and impurity.)

(It only made sense that she'd deterge someone so not right with something just as corrupt.)

(It only made sense that she opened her tome, placed her ritual candles in their rightful places, and muttered a spell meant to make him never come back, never harm someone ever again, never ruin the balance of her blissful community.)

And, really, Loomer van de Meer is someone the whole community won't miss. Children will cheer in the streets at the news of his disappearance, and not a single vigil will be held for him.

So does it truly matter?

Snaedis isn't sure.

Rill Hozuki

District Eleven Tribute

they/them

Maybe it was because Rill hadn't seen much of the world in their ten years of life, but they swear Dr. Hozuki's greenhouse is the coolest place there's ever been.

There's green stretching as far as their eyes can see, flowers and cacti and plants reaching up into the glass-paneled sky, curling around each other and neatly labeled in cursive handwriting. There's some stuff that they're pretty sure they recognize - roses so huge they're falling over their stems, sunflowers turning their heads to the sun, while some stuff they didn't even know could exist in Panem grew around them.

If this is what regular life is like, they wanna hang onto it with all their might.

Dr. Hozuki smiles down at them, his smile warmer than the other kids at the orphanage. "Well, do you like it?" he asks, which is freaking ridiculous, because of course Rill likes it!

"I love it!" they giggle. "I didn't know plants could look so cool."

"You'll learn pretty soon that there aren't many things cooler than a plant, I promise you that." Dr. Hozuki claps his hands together, seemingly satisfied, before continuing. "Well, I won't keep you here much longer, I'm sure you've been wondering where you'll be staying?"

Oh yeah. Rill remembers. I'm gonna be living somewhere now.

The idea's more unfamiliar to them than District One - living in a room just for them? In a house that's sorta theirs? It's hardly even believable! As far as Rill can recall, they've been living in the old orphanage down the street, all run down and badly managed, where the other kids weren't very nice and they'd have to share a room with some stinky twelve-year-old.

But now that the town's apothecary had chosen them as an apprentice, even though up 'till now they didn't really think they were smart or good at nothing, they're gonna get to stay somewhere! All by themself!

When they really think about it, it's kinda scary, sleepin' all alone, but it also sounds free. It also sounds like what other kids their age should be doing, and Rill could use feeling normal for once in their life.

So they nod enthusiastically. "Oh, yes, thank you! I'd love to know."

As it turns out, the Hozukis have made them a little guest room in-between the main house and the greenhouse, perfect for studying with the Dr., but also making sure they don't intrude too much on the actual family. Or so Rill guesses, though all of them welcome them with open arms and bright smiles, they're still pretty sure that they're not meant to be a real part of them. Just adjacent.

That was okay. They could do adjacent, when they've been doing isolation their whole life. This was already a pretty big step up.

(And God, Rill can't wait to start their life. Maybe they'll finally be able to be of some use.)

–

It was an accident.

Rill swears.

And they'd swear it again and again and again until their stupid fucking breath runs out and until their tears stop streaming down their face and until their hands stop shaking.

It was an accident.

They'd only wanted to give their mentor a surprise for his birthday, only wanted to give a shred back to the only man who'd trusted them to do anything right.

(And look how he ended up, you freak.)

They'd only wanted to give him something to show that they were grateful, God, so grateful, for everything he'd done. For giving them a life and giving them a purpose and giving them a passion. For helping the whispers in their head die down when they couldn't focus, for making them good at something, for making them useful.

(What a fucking fool they'd been to hope that it could stay that way.)

(What a fucking fool they'd been to hope that they could ever amount to anything.)

Rill had noticed the beautiful gold of azalea's nectar, had decided to try the smallest sip of it and noticed it tasted like honey, pure and sweet. They'd thought they'd cook a nice meal for Dr. Hozuki with the honey, to give something back to him with the skills he'd taught her. They'd thought it'd make the day one to remember.

Well, goal fucking accomplished.

Before their very eyes, the only good person in their life started throwing up the entire contents of his stomach, bile and green and sticky all over the floor, saliva dripping from his lips. Rill had stood there, frozen in terror for the first few seconds, useless as always, before they'd finally managed to rush to help him.

They remembered a couple things from medical treatment, fuck - what had he taught them again? What were they supposed to do when they'd accidentally poisoned their only parental figure? What were they supposed to do?

Rill tried rolling him to his side to help him get the poison out, but he crashed onto his back, eyes rolling into the back of his head. Rill tried to push him back, quick, into the right position, but fuck, they were only thirteen and their malnourished arms were nothing against the weight of a dying man.

(Against the weight of a corpse.)

Soon enough, Dr. Hozuki's spasms turned into twitches turned into immobility, and Rill could only stare at his lifeless body, drained of that warm vitality they'd come to adore.

And now what?

The question was so ridiculous, so finite in the wake of what had just happened. In the wake of what they had done.

If they went to Hozuki's daughter, if they'd explained what happened, no matter the amount of hiccups and words drowned in tears would make her pity them. Rill had become a murder today, and no amount of apologies could fix it. They'd be kicked out of the only home they'd ever known, thrown into the loveless streets of Eleven, with no one to care for them or the whispers in their head.

If they went to Hozuki's grandsons, it'd be even worse - Aspen was the only one in the family to give them the cold shoulder, jealous of the new place they'd taken in Dr. Hozuki's heart, jealous that Rill would be a new favorite.

(Maybe this is just what he expected of them. Maybe he'd known how it'd end all along, saw the irresponsible fool in them. Saw the murderer in them.)

Then their life would be completely over, shamed in the streets and maybe even arrested by the Peacekeepers, who would lock them in a cell and then when they felt like it would line them against the wall and place a bullet between their eyes -

Focus.

They need to fucking focus.

Looking around frantically for a solution, Rill found a plot of soil that Dr. Hozuki had planned to plant new flowers in. If they could stomach it, they could bury him there. The Hozukis would never know, and Rill could continue living, leaching off their love, but loved nonetheless.

It's with that thought, repeated over and over in their mind like a broken record, that they dragged a corpse into the ground. Covered him with dirt, planted seeds to make it look like a newly made patch of flowers. Left him to rot in the earth.

A warm tear escapes their eyes and slips down their cheek.

At least they won't have to fake the grief when they'll go to his daughters, sobbing because he'd simply disappeared.

At least not every part of Rill's soul will be a liar, an imposter.

–

The days pass unremarkably now, some strange blur of sunrises and sunsets, a cacophony without a metronome. Rill's not quite sure what week it is, thoughts growing more disorganized and scattered as time bleeds around them. They remember their brain being fuzzier before the apprenticeship, they remember being in a daze back at the orphanage, but nothing quite like this.

Whatever was wrong in Rill's brain, it had only gotten worse since the incident, and without Dr. Hozuki, they have no way of fixing them. Any cure had died with him, and Rill had no one else to blame but themself.

So they don't complain, or at least try not to, when the voices come back and they aren't really sure what a customer just told them. They keep quiet when they swear they can hear someone talking to them at night, when their eyes are squeezed shut, trying to get the image of a rotting corpse out of their head.

They don't complain.

Instead, they make their best effort to take over the apothecary business in his absence, tries to manage it at least half as well as he did, though they're just some sixteen year old kid and he was a master at his art. Instead, they make their best effort to smile at his family over breakfast, repeat their disappearance story with the conviction of a movie star. Instead, they make their best effort to grieve in silence, when nobody is expecting them to sell remedies or tell them about their day or digging deep into their alibi to find something that doesn't stick.

The least Rill can do is not burden anyone with their miserable guilt, with a grief they're not allowed to bear, with a weight they're not allowed to carry.

The door of the greenhouse shop opens, the bell jingling to snap Rill out of their misery. They look up, expecting another customer, but is quite relieved to see their new adoptive mother, Mavis Hozuki, daughter of the Dr.

(Daughter of the man they killed. Are they really relieved to be their latest child, to be showered by her love?)

(Wouldn't she hate them if she knew the truth? Wouldn't she be right to, this imposter in the family portrait, hiding bloodied hands behind their back?)

"Rill! I've been looking for you," Mavis says brightly.

Despite it all, Mavis had never once doubted them, believing their recount of the story every single time, telling the authorities they were with the Hozukis at dinner when the disappearance happened to clear any suspicions, adopting them before the orphanage could snatch them back.

(Rill doesn't know if that's better than her throwing them to the streets.)

(Rill doesn't want to know.)

Rill swallows, carefully, trying to calm the tremors in their hands. "Y-yeah? What's up?"

"Jesus, nothing bad," Mavis laughs with an ease Rill wishes they could have. "I just wanted to let you know that I bought you an outfit for the Reapings next week, and I was wondering if you'd like to try it on? It's not super feminine, like you like it."

Rill offers her a weak smile. They'd never quite expressed their gender to their new mothers, and though they can't find any reason for Mavis to reject them, the feeling of offering someone with such a fragile part of themself feels like a trust fall. One they aren't ready to make yet.

Still, Mavis has been catching onto things, and making efforts.

(Efforts that Rill doesn't deserve.)

"Thank you," they say, not wanting to come across as rude, or worse, ungrateful. "I'd love to try it on."

Truth be told, the last thing they want to think about is the upcoming Reapings. They never were one for the Games, those senseless showings of brutality and violence, but now, the very sight of death makes them want to throw up, makes their limbs go numb. The idea of being up on that stage, of having their name called, carted away into an untimely death at the hands of some monster, to be buried six feet under alongside Dr. Hozuki…

At least Mavis is willing to make the event something joyous, always ready to brighten her childrens' day. Hazel and Aspen are both eighteen, and almost free of that sword of Damocles, and the Hozukis had planned a quick excursion to get ice cream afterwards.

Rill's found that focusing on the smaller things make the looming terrors feel easier, but something in their heart has been screaming at them that their latest scrap of peace will be torn away from them. And what other opportunity than the Hunger Games to finally finish them?

Still, they follow Mavis out of the greenhouse and into the main house, tries to focus on how bright the sun is out today.

There's really only one way of knowing if in a week, they'll disappear too.

(So Rill will wait.)

Before yall blame me this is all ren's fault ! n e ways i hope u enjoyed our first glimpse at this cast 333 theyre definitely all (jeremy fragrance voice) super normal. Super normal. And they will get even more normal as we continue !

Q: give me highschool au headcanons of ur sub