CHAPTER XVI: GOODBYES
Jillion Morgan • District Eleven Female
Justice Building / July 4th, 11:55 AM
Jillion's never been away from her father for this long before.
At least, not since his accident. Before that, she'd been able to go about her day-to-day life: running errands, working in the fields, going to school, the works. But after the accident, every attempt to leave the house was met with her own excruciating psychological resistance. Just the thought of leaving her father's side even for a second made her agitated and anxious. So, after the first couple weeks, Jillion gave up on leaving her home entirely.
From that point on, her routine shifted drastically. But constantly being at home didn't make her productivity fall to the wayside. She found things to fix up at home, learned how to cook. Without Pa to lean back on, her family had to take more shifts, and so Jillion made sure to pick up the slack for her mother and sister. It was a fine arrangement, as long as Jillion could ignore the fact that with each passing day, her father would only get further and further away from waking up.
The waiting room inside the Justice Building feels like a luxurious, plush prison. She sits gingerly on the too-comfortable chair, gnawing at her fingers anxiously. It's a bad habit that she makes sure not to do in front of Ma or Janna, lest they tell her to get her fingers out her mouth and stop acting a fool. But there's no one in here now who can see her, who can tell her what to do. She's far, far away from any person she cares about — from her father.
Jillion's never had a reason to fret about her old man before, since she never leaves her home, but when she's miles away from her sanctuary it's what she finds herself doing. Who's going to stay at home with him when she's gone? she thinks to herself.Who's going to feed Pa, going to bathe him? Who's going to make sure his drip is set up correctly? What if it stops working? What if he stops breathing? These questions whirl around violently in her head, threatening to halt her beating heart.
Keep it together, Jill, she thinks to herself through gritted teeth, the tension temporarily grounding her. Her family will be here soon, and then they'll figure it out from there. They'll figure out a plan. There is absolutely no reason for her to be worried.
(She worries anyway.)
When Jillion hears the door click open, she schools her face into a stony expression, taking care not to let any of her agitation from earlier translate onto her face. Janna is the one who stomps in first, looking positively furious, a visual Jillion is incredibly familiar with. Her older sister wears anger like a well-loved jacket.
"God," Janna chokes out, jaw clenched, "this is so fucked."
You think? Jillion thinks bitterly to herself, but she doesn't say it aloud. She never says any of it aloud. Instigating is Ma and Janna's job — keeping the peace, however fragile, is hers.
Ma comes in right after and smacks the back of Janna's head. Too soft for it to actually hurt, too hard for it to not piss her off. "You don't think she knows that, dumb girl?" she shouts, but Ma is just as irate as Janna, if not moreso.
Janna rises to the bait too easily, like she always does. "What, I can't make an observation without you harping on my ass? What can I say without pissing you off, huh Ma?"
"Guys," Jillion says, voice compressed.
Ma doesn't let Janna get away with her jab, because of course she doesn't. It's as if Jillion isn't in front of them at all, as if she's not about to be carted off to guaranteed slaughter when their time together runs out. "Maybe I wouldn't harp on your ass if you actually had worthwhile things to say," Ma bites back, eyes glinting venomously. "You just run your mouth for the sake of running your mouth. How about—"
Jillion hates raising her voice, but she can't stand it any longer. She's already panicking despite her best attempts to keep her cool, and listening to her mother and sister argue only spikes her nerves past a point she can't suppress.
"Stop!" she shrieks, the sound of it frantic and shrill. Jillion doesn't think she's gotten that loud in a long, long time. Her voice pierces straight through Ma and Janna's bickering, making both of them to turn away from the other to look at Jillion instead. They blink, stupefied, as if they just remembered she was there, the reason they were there to begin with.
"Just stop," Jillion repeats, desperately trying to regain composure even as her words fall out of her mouth brokenly. "Don't fight anymore. We have to figure out what to do about Pa."
Jillion fights the strange urge to say please. She's never done that, and she can't do that — they would never take her seriously.
She's shocked when Ma's the one to back down first. Ma sets her mouth in a grim line and looks down at her, in an expression that looks almost… ashamed. It's the closest thing to sorry that could ever be exchanged in their household, and suddenly the fact that Jillion might not ever see them again becomes very real. She doesn't want this to be her last memory of her mother.
"You're right, Jill," Ma says, somber. "Truce, Janna."
Janna juts her chin out stubbornly, but after a beat, she manages to give Ma a firm nod. A conflict between her mother and sister has never been resolved so quickly, but Jillion will have all the time to dwell on that on the train to the Capitol. But right now, there's a far more urgent matter to be addressed, so she forcibly clears the tightness in her throat and turns on the planning switch in her brain. "Who's going to take care of Pa?" she asks.
Ma and Janna look at each other. "We both will," Janna says, but Jillion can detect the slight waver of hesitation in her voice.
"No, I mean," Jillion clarifies, "which of you are going to stay at home from now on? Ma or you?"
"We can't do that, Jill," Janna says. "You know neither of us can afford to not work."
Jill whips her head towards Ma in alarm. Ma hangs her head, face unreadable. "Janna's right."
"So no one's going to stay at home," Jillion says hollowly. "How are you guys going to make sure he's okay? What if something happens while you're gone?"
Janna's never been good at keeping a secret. The way her older sister chews on the inside of her cheek tips Jillion off immediately, sending a flurry of danger signals off in her head.
"There's something you're not telling me," says Jillion, but it's spoken more as a resigned statement than an accusation. She knows she's right when neither her mother nor her sister respond.
"We have to tell her, Ma," Janna whispers.
Ma doesn't even blink before firing back a response. "Don't you fucking dare."
"It's not right to keep it from her, when you know she's—"
"Don't finish that sentence, Janna, or so help me."
"I'm what, Janna?" Jillion whispers, voice hard. "Going to die? Is that what you were going to say?"
Her older sister has never been one to mince her words. "Yes," Janna says, unbearably honest.
Jillion feels something waver slightly in her throat. "Okay," she forces out. "So, you don't think I'm coming back. Okay. But that doesn't tell me what you're keeping from me."
"Just focus on making it home, girl," Ma says harshly. "Don't listen to Janna. You need to see this one through, and then we won't have to worry about this mess at all."
"How am I supposed to ignore what she said, if it's something about Pa?" Jillion near seethes. She feels her eyes flash dangerously, with anger, with fear. "Ma, tell me. I need to know. I have to know. You can't let me die without knowing."
It's as if she can see the fight seep from her mother's eyes as they turn dull and dark. There's a heavy blanket of silence that drapes over the three of them as Jillion waits for Ma to say something, say anything at all.
"We're letting him go," Ma says at last, strained. "If you don't come back from this, we're letting your father go."
It's as if she can feel her bloodstream ice over as soon as Ma's words reach her ears. The world grows blurry around her. "You," she starts, voice hitched, "how can you… you know he—"
"Jillion," her mother says. "It's not up for discussion. He's not waking up, and I know you know it, too. We can't afford the equipment, and it'll only get harder if we lose you. The only thing you can do to stop this is if you figure out a way to live, girl. But we're not in a position to hold on for any longer than that." Jillion watches as Ma's steely gaze slackens, almost imperceptibly, but she notices and it hits harder than any hammer ever could. The lump in her throat grows harder. "It's the only right decision."
Her mother's words cycle over and over again in her head. He's not waking up, and I know you know it, too. It's true. Jillion has long been aware of the very-real possibility that she'd never have her father back the way she wants him, the way she needs him. But the blunt truth still stings like a whip across the cheek. It takes everything in her not to go catatonic right there and then.
At that moment, a peacekeeper opens the door with a firm sound. "Time's up for visitation," they say sternly, leaving no room for argument.
Janna, who's been silent until now, whirls around with a jerky motion. "Can't you see we're not done yet?" she exclaims, glaring straight at the peacekeeper with an unchecked ferocity. "Get out!"
"Janna," Ma grits through her teeth, livid.
Jillion scrambles to her feet and ushers Janna towards the door, praying that if she can make them leave fast enough, the peacekeeper won't take it as a slight and hurt Ma or Janna. "Go," she chokes out. "Don't fight about this. Don't fight while I'm gone."
Janna stares at her, eyebrows knit in an incomprehensible mix of concern, fury, irritation, pity. "Jill—"
"Wait for me," Jillion whispers, not forceful enough to be a demand, but not quiet enough to be a plea. "I'll be home soon. You have to take care of Pa until then. You have to."
Her words linger on the tip of her tongue, acerbic and artificial, when the door shuts and Jillion is once again all alone in the visitation room. But the solace feels more like a crutch than a freedom when she doesn't know what will await her the next time the door opens.
Jillion doesn't know if she'll ever make her way back to District Eleven. She doesn't know whether she'll ever get to see her father again, but she has to believe she will. She will.
Emilio Carver • District Nine Male
Justice Building / July 4th, 10:23 AM
Nobody visits Emilio, but he expects as much. With no friends, a bedridden grandfather, and a brother who thinks he's even more worthless than the scum under his shoe, Emilio can't be surprised when the stretch of time in between the Reaping and boarding the train is spent in a lonely blanket of silence.
The walls here aren't thin like the ones in his home, but still he can hear the voices on the other side of the wall where his district partner is, layering and overlapping one another as her loved ones try in earnest to exchange words with her for the last time. The faded floral wallpaper inside the visitation room seems to isolate him from the rest of the world, a world that he can't seem to access no matter how hard he tries. In his pathetic sixteen years of life, not once has Emilio managed to make even a single meaningful connection with another person.
Well — no one except his own grandfather. As a child, Emilio had never been allowed to interact with the other kids in the neighborhood. He grew up with his grandfather being his only company, his only friend. When Emilio had been younger, on days the shop was closed, they'd enjoy a peaceful time together on the outskirts of town, where barren fields met verdant forest. Emilio takes a deep, long breath, greedily soaking up his last minutes as a free man to reminisce on the happier memories of his childhood, all memories without Corvus.
Sunlight seeps through the trees like molten amber, painting the loose topsoil and the leaves on the ground in a gold wash. The air is heady and sweet with the scent of a barely-lingering summer and an autumn that attempts to creep in, unnoticed. Emilio, only five years old, gazes up in wonder at the sycamores that practically scrape the sky above him, majestic in all their lush glory.
He holds tightly onto the hand of his grandfather, who is beaming down at him with a face as fresh as water. "What do you want to do this time, Emilio?"
"Climb the t-tree!" Emilio says enthusiastically, letting go of his grandfather's hand to gesture to the low-set sycamore closest to where they stand. "That one, let's d-do that one!"
"That's the one you always climb."
Emilio nods. "I know h-how. I-it's, easy."
His grandfather smiles at him, easily swayed by his sound reasoning. "Then we'll do that one," he says. "If that's what you know you want. But tell me if you want to try a different one, all right? Don't let a tree being different be a reason to stop you from climbing it."
Back then, Emilio hadn't given his grandfather's words a second thought — after all, he had been incredibly young, and had been more focused on playing than listening to metaphors about life. But as he recalls this memory in his visitation alone, Emilio wonders whether it was his own fear of climbing a new tree that prevented him from being able to make connections with other people.
It's not, though. He knows it's not, because he remembers the aftermath of his very first day of school, the tears that streamed down his face in unrelenting cascades. He remembers the taunts, the jeers. It had been the first time Emilio had ever interacted with children his age, but they seemed to weed him out as an outcast the second he walked into the classroom.
"Emilio? What's wrong, my boy?" His grandfather says as soon as Emilio walks into the house from school, nose red and eyes wet.
He doesn't answer the question – at least, not the way his grandfather had intended him to. "Tomorrow, d-don't w-w-want to go, back," Emilio whispers, the lump in his throat threatening to capsize once more.
Emilio hadn't expected the other kids to be so callous, so cruel. He's not like them, and he's reminded of this fact every day when he stares longingly out the window at the kids playing toss in the streets. The same fun isn't in the cards for him — his father forbids him from leaving the house because the shop needs to be manned at all times, even though Emilio is only six years old and far, far away from a becoming a man.
His grandfather gazes at him with a somber expression, squeezing both of his slight, boyish shoulders gently. "Do you want to talk about what happened?"
Emilio sniffles loudly. "N-nobody played with me. Didn't, want t-to t-talk… not t-to me."
"How does that make you feel?"
The boy shuffles his feet, pondering the question. "Sad. S-scared. What if I n-never make a, a f-friend?"
There's a sad smile on Gramps's face. "It's not your fault if they're not giving you a chance, Em," he says. "If they don't want to be your friend, that's their loss."
Emilio knows his grandfather's words were true, still are true, but it still doesn't help the fact that he seems to have been blacklisted from his peers without knowing what he's done wrong. He would give anything to fix whatever it is, just to have even a single person want to spend time in his company, choose him for him.
There's one more memory that rings bittersweet in the back of his mind, something cherished, yet at the same time, unbearably melancholy. This had been weeks after his father had passed, and he and his grandfather were sitting by the other in silence they would break every-so-often, each tending to their respective tasks.
There's a shawl draped over his grandfather's lap as he continues clicking his needles in a repetitive fashion, somehow even sharper and steadier than the tick of a clock. "Are you nervous?" he asks, a soft expression strewn across his aging features. "For your first puppet show?"
Emilio shrugs, his lanky frame awkward in adolescence. He slowly eases the hand that holds his wood-carving knife, taking a few seconds to put into the words the flighty sensation in his chest. "G-guess so," he says, glum. "D-don't know why I th-thought this would be a g-g-good idea."
"I still think it's a wonderful idea," is his grandfather's easy response. "It's okay to be nervous. But you've got a good thing going, and a boy your age deserves to have a little bit of fun, especially with everything that's happened." Gramps offers him a reassuring smile, eyes twinkling kindly. It's his own son that died, a fate no parent should have to know, but even in this elderly man there still remains the strength to keep moving. To keep living.
He points to the wooden puppet that Emilio holds loosely in his left hand, the puppet he's fashioned to look a little like himself. "That one's coming along nicely," his grandfather says. "He'll be the star of the show, I can already tell."
Emilio laughs, a bashful sound. "Y-you're, just s-s-saying that because you, h-have to."
"Of course that's not the case. That's never been the case," Gramps says. "Say, Emilio, do you feel nervous around me?"
The boy blinks. His reply comes out without having to even think about it. "No."
"That's good. It's hard to overcome fear, but it helps to think of something that can calm you." His grandfather, at last, looks up from his knit and gazes at Emilio with so much gentleness that it physically aches. "So when you get in a bad way, just think of me and breathe. Think you can try that?"
"C-can try," Emilio manages to whisper.
Something sad flits across his grandfather's face, but it's gone before Emilio can really understand what it means. "You mean the world to me, boy, do you know that? You'll always have this moment. I won't always be right beside you, but I'll always be with you, no matter what."
That was the last time Emilio had ever seen his grandfather look so healthy.
Emilio knows his grandfather's words had not meant to be ironic, but he can't help but find it cruel in this moment. After all, Gramps couldn't help the illness that would eventually addle all functioning in his limbs, confining the man to a prison of sickly-yellow sheets and blankets. He realizes with a sharp pang that he won't even be able to take care of his grandfather in his final days.
He wishes his grandfather could be here to give him a couple last words of advice, advice he's been taking for granted for years. He knows his grandfather would be here if he could, and he knows it's selfish of him to ask for the impossible. Still, knowing doesn't make him feel any less lonely.
Emilio wonders if Corvus will even tell their grandfather where Emilio has gone.
Likely not. What's most vivid from the Reaping is the way his brother had laughed, high and vicious, as Emilio dragged his feet up to the stage. He felt as if every emotion was being wrenched from his body — the hurt, sadness, resentment, all of it. He couldn't fathom what he had ever done to his brother to warrant such cruel treatment, but as he settled next to his District partner, his jaw set ever-so-slightly.
It had been at that moment Emilio realized he had wasted the last couple years praying his brother would leave him alone, or, better yet, finally respect him. All of his efforts had been fruitless, but now, as he faces the looming threat of his own death, he finally understands something. The memories from earlier begin to piece themselves together into a coherent picture in his mind.
Even if these two weeks are his last, he'll be free from the brother that torments him and makes his life a living hell every day. He'll carry his grandfather's wisdom into the Arena with him, his one last fighting chance for life, for friendship.
It's all up to him to decide where to go from here — and Emilio decides he wants to be free.
Asahel Cervantes • District Ten Male
Justice Building / July 4th, 10:18 AM
"Asahel," Ainara says, actually sober for once. "That was fucking idiotic."
Asahel has his head in his hands. His heart is still racing from the events of the last half hour. "I know what you think. You already said it when you first walked in. I don't need to keep being reminded."
The air is thick with unease, the familiar trickle of dread that comes with every Reaping. It's too hot, and Asahel can't escape it. The sun scorches savagely against his back, and the swarm of eighteen year-olds in his section don't make it any more bearable. He can see some of their hands clasped together, praying that they'll make it through this year the same way they had the last six — safe.
Asahel prays the same way, prays he'll finally escape the ever-looming threat of the Reaping and go home to Rezo and Ainara, Mamá and Papá, all safe and sound. But his own family leaves his mind entirely when Falo's name is pulled from the bowl and read aloud for the entire Square. It's as if all sensation ghosts his body in that instant, leaving only a distant, tinny sound in the back of his mind that only grows closer and louder with each passing second.
He can't breathe. There's only one thing he can think of.
Falo.
Asahel himself can't explain what possesses him, what drives him to utter the damning words, "I volunteer!" He doesn't think before it all comes rushing out of him, and his feet follow suit, bringing him to the empty space between Falo and the escort. In front of the Square of District Ten, he suddenly feels naked. He clenches his fist until the tips of his fingers turn white, and takes in what might be one of his last breaths of the sweltering, summer air of home.
Asahel has never before done something so rash, so unplanned, but he wouldn't take it back even if he could. Everything he does, he has a reason for. And in this case, it's damningly simple.
He's in love with Falo Tarandrus.
Despite the way every bone in his body resists such an impractical, irrational decision, he knows he doesn't regret a thing. The moment he had heard her play the piano, he had known that was that for him. He wants Falo to survive. He's very intent on making it happen, but his family has other things to say about it.
"Still shouldn't have done something so stupid, mijo," His mother says, trying to keep her voice gentle. Asahel's no good at reading people, but it's clear even to him that above the fear, above the concern, she doesn't understand. "She's your employer's daughter, not your friend."
"I know, mamá," he says again, more emphatically.
But his father insists on getting his piece in, as well. "You're contracted to work for her only so long as you're on the farm, but not here. It never should've gotten this far." His father's eyes flash, much more sternly than Asahel's ever seen him be. "During the week, the Tarandruses are your priority. But on rest, your priority should be us. Your family."
"Papá, you guys are always my priority," Asahel whispers back, earnest. "Still are."
His younger brother, Rezo, blinks up at him through unshed tears and furrowed eyebrows. "Then why, 'sahel?" he says, almost angrily, "why would you choose her over us? Why are you leaving us?"
"Rezo, I—"
"I need my brother. I need you. And you're leaving."
Asahel suddenly feels very tired, slinking down into the plush seat behind him. His brain racks with a million different ways he can put this into words, but all of them sound cliché, overused, emotional, or a strange mix of all three that doesn't sound right coming from his mouth. There's also something else, something deeper — a small sand of resentment that has grown like a cyst in an oyster, a sand that has pearlized unchecked.
Asahel sighs, at last settling on cliché. "I didn't think — I just acted. And I know it's not like me, and I know y'all won't understand, but it's true and I would do it again."
Ainara furiously clicks her tongue, exasperated. "This pendejo, at it again. You—"
His father swiftly cuts off Ainara, staring straight at him. "Asahel," he says, quiet but firm, "You say we won't understand. Then make us understand, mijo."
Right there and then, it's as if something snaps. It's a rope that has long-been fraying, rotting in between the threads, but he can do nothing in that moment other than feel it break inside of him.
Make us understand, mijo. Like it's easy. Like he's ever given himself the chance to do that, like they've ever given him the chance to say. He wants to make them understand so badly that it physically wrenches something inside him, that it threatens to compress his heart until it stops beating entirely. It very well might be the last time he'll get the opportunity to do so.
But the harsh truth is that he doesn't think he can make them understand. Mama, Papa, Rezo and Ainara — Asahel loves them more than life itself, but deep down he knows that he's never been able to be truly honest with them, never will. And it's much too late to start in this pristine visitation room, where the fake flowers stowed away in vases somehow feel more authentic than the years he's spent working unnoticed, pretending to be content, complacent.
White-hot tears begin to well up in the corner of his eyes. But he holds his head up high and stares unblinkingly at his family, resolute.
Before him are the people who know him best in the world. The people who don't know him at all. But Asahel owes it to them to explain, doesn't he?
So, he does, in the simplest way he can. "I love her," is all he says, the words quiet and stiff.
He does. He loves Falo, and it doesn't matter whether or not she does back. Asahel won't let it stop him. Volunteering to save her is the first time he's made a decision of his own accord, devoid of obligation. It's the first time he's chosen something for himself, really felt like his life was his own. He may only have it a short while longer, but it's a price he's willing to pay if it means getting Falo home safe.
"Asahel," his mother starts, but Asahel doesn't give her a chance to get another word in. "I love her," he says again, more firmly this time.
Ainara throws her hand up. "You don't even know that bitch! You just work for her dad!"
"Ainara, you never know any of the people you go home with!" Asahel shouts back, desperately trying to ignore the seed of regret that blooms instantly in his stomach the moment the words leave his mouth.
Something livid flashes in Ainara's eyes. "Why the hell is it a problem who I sleep with, 'sahel? I'm not signing my life away to any of them! I'm not dying for any of them, like you will for some niña rica that'll never look your way!"
"You don't think I know that?" Asahel can hardly control what spills out of his mouth now. He's never felt so unstable, so volatile in his life. It's a feeling he doesn't want and can't get used to, but he can't stop it. "You guys don't think I know I'm going to die? That she'll never love me back?"
"I just don't get it," Rezo says, crying at this point, "you don't actually love her, right? You've never said anything about her."
"Maybe I would've if anyone asked about me," Asahel says, voice thick. "All of you depend on me. You tell me about your problems, how your day has been, and I listen. But I've never been asked, so I've never said."
"Mijito," his mother says, too softly, too gently, as if Asahel is a small, unruly child she needs to console. "I don't think you know what you understand what you've gotten yourself into."
"None of you are listening to me," Asahel says, voice taut. He should've known. He should've known better than to try this when it was already far, far too late. The pearl in his chest has disappeared, but he only feels hollower for it. "Do any of you hear me at all?"
His father hangs his head, rigid as he stands in front of Asahel. "You work for Falo. And maybe, just maybe you love her, but to give your life for her?" His father finally looks up at him, his face contorted in pain. "You should've let her die."
Static envelopes his ears once again, the same way it had when Falo's name was pulled. The sound drowns everything out and folds back in until there's just one dull, piercing sound in the back of his skull. It's as if Asahel's watching himself from a distance. He can't even recognize the sound of his own voice when he opens his mouth to speak next.
"Out," he says softly. He's given up, but not on himself. "I love you. Believe me when I say it. You love me too, but you don't understand me, and that's okay. I'll take care of myself." Like I always have.
Asahel swallows, hard. The words feel as heavy as soil as he spits them out. "Don't turn on the program. Just go — don't worry about me anymore." It's a little too late.
From there, everything moves like stock-still shots on a film reel. The peacekeeper's voice as they escort his family out of the room. Rezo's slight frame shaking as he takes one last look back toward him. The ticking of the clock that grounds him, that slowly counts down the seconds to his doom. The way his feet shuffle down the hall as he's being relocated from one cage to the next. The closing of the train doors, snapping shut with finality. And the crudely-carved ridges of his little wooden piano as he fiddles with it, the only thing he has to remind himself of home.
That, and the girl that sits daintily across from him, eyes fixed out the window as the train car comes to life with a gentle hum. Falo Tarandrus is a piece of District Ten, a piece of home, and Asahel is determined to shelter this with everything he's got.
back here again in less than two months. that's fucking nuts. anyway pregames is finally actually starting or whatever
beta for this chapter is actually laney who has a monopoly on my free time. free time i spend writing something but not d&d LMFAO. this is an incredibly recent development but tbf it helped to make the words come easier for this. uhh yeah i ain't got nothin' else to say on that one. sanh kiuu delanal prolapse! :heart:
squints Umm expect the next update … or don't? don't trust anything i say.
q: come up with the funniest/worst crackship possible from this cast, go!
$wag im out this bitch,
BORUTO: NARUTO NEXT GENERATIONS