Avalanche

by HumanWiki

"In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan…" Fete Farbegé had lost everything, and everyone who he ever loved. His family, his friends, his business- he had nothing left. What then, is there left to take from him? What is there left to lose? As he would find, there was much farther down he could go. (VE24, for Ren/Little Knight Mik) (ily Ren!) (sequel to Thunderclap, kinda)

1. Chapter 1

Avalanche

Chapter One

Noise

Fete Fabergé hated the wintertime.

So. Much.

There was this bitter feeling of discontent that bubbled within him whenever the thought of it approached him, this malice, this… no that wasn't right.

His parents had a… thing for eloquence, for words and precision with them, so there were definitely better words to be used about his feelings on the wintertime. He crossed his brow, thinking for a few moments. He… held contempt for it, he abhorred it, an iron had entered his soul, an iron brought on by the force of winter's chill… Well, one of those should work.

…he sighed.

The room remained empty, as he observed, as everyone else went to go play in the streets and in their tiny playground instead. All of them seemed to harbor the exact opposite sentiment as him. He didn't really care, though. And he knew why he felt this way, of course, but he would never ever say it out loud, and any attempts to justify his distaste for it wouldn't exactly work, so whenever prompted about it, he rejected the question. There just wasn't anything particular about it that would work for an excuse, at least, none that he could find, as he watched said classmates frolic in the freshly fallen snow from his desk, through the fogged windows. They didn't mind the cold, or the dark, or the whiteout storms, or the scarcity… after all, besides being below freezing much of the time, that was just how it was in District Eight. He didn't even mind the freezing temperatures biting through his coat and seeping into his bones all that much, if he was being honest…

He just… he just didn't like it, all that much. That's all.

(…)

Thus, instead of going outside to play for recess with his classmates, then, the ten-year-old just watched them, eyes blinking slowly as he lazily observed. Did he have better things to do with his time? Well… no. He finished his homework early, as his father told him to do (he used to, at least— but Fete knew he had bigger problems nowadays…), and he didn't particularly have any ideas as of right then and there for designs to give to him, so… that was that. Playing didn't even seem all that fun. Not that he ever played in the wintertime anyways, but it was the principle of the matter. Snowballs just made him uncomfortable even just witnessing a fight with them happen made him shiver.

There was Seide, throwing a large one at Mode… and Mode throwing one at Ny, and Ny throwing one at someone in the bushes… and everyone getting all cold and wet. That wasn't something he particularly enjoyed. Was it because of the wintertime, or because it just looked very "unfun?" …no, that wasn't a good word. Dull. That was better…

Perhaps synonyms actually were a more fun activity than all of that. It wasn't like he had anything better to do, as he sat by his desk, fiddling with his pencils. Fete found himself mindlessly jotting down words… He hated winter, despised it, it made iron enter his soul, iron of the earth…

Iron…

…

(…the word struck him, a sense of deja vu entering his consciousness as for a few moments, he sat motionless, holding it.)

(Iron…)

(…where had he heard that before?)

"…earth stood still as iron…"

"...water as a stone…"

…

"…what'cha singing?"

Fete blinked, his thoughts jumbling as the moments passed, the recollection becoming suddenly undone as it escaped him once more.

He glanced to his side to see a girl sitting on top of a table, staring at him expectantly. Ah. He hadn't realized that there were others in the class that hadn't gone out, but perhaps he had just been… more out of it, as it started to snow, with how bleak it was.

(Oh, no.)

(He didn't like that word.)

Coming to attention, Fete quickly searched his mind for any recollection of her, which wasn't difficult, given the small size of the class. The whole yearbook could fit on a single page, he'd imagine.

That wasn't an especially common occurrence, he didn't think.

Circling back around to the question at hand, Fete cleared his throat, folding his hands neatly on the desk, as his father taught him to do. Neat. Prim. As expected of a Capitolite, even if he wasn't one (on a technicality), but more importantly, of this school he had been sent to. The Great Eight Academy of Nepo-Babies, or whatever it was actually called; he didn't know, Fete didn't think he had ever been told. He just heard that from his father's musings.

But he was getting ahead of himself. The girl was still swinging her legs expectantly, cocking her head with a bored expression. After a while, he managed to remember the name under her face in the yearbook.

"What song, Melanie?"

Melanie, Melanie Pimm, twelve years old, who sat two desks away from him, got detention twice this semester for insubordination, and according to the rumors he heard, looking to become a painter (good luck with that…), merely squinted at him, throwing her hands up in confusion.

"You were just… the one you were just singing. About water and stone and stuff."

…

(…he didn't like that song very much.)

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"I—" she struggled to come up with anything to say, and just deflated with a sigh, "Yeah, alright then, keep your secrets, feet."

At that, he rolled his eyes as Melanie got off the desk, fiddling around with some useless paperwork that the professor had given them that morning. Fete, however, just groaned. He was told that joke about five times a week, usually by a different person each time, and at this point, it was beyond stale for his taste. "It's pronounced fate."

"It is?!"

There was a third person in the classroom?!

Melanie was much more nonchalant in her reaction than Fete was, as while she just cocked her head to the back row, where the newcomer was fiddling with some paper, Fete whipped his head to look at whoever just spoke. It was a young boy, the same age as him, he thought, pencil stopped mid-stroke as he joined the conversation, mouth agape with genuine confusion. Genuine, actual surprise—

"Did you…" he blinked, letting the exasperation wash over him, and speaking with a more level tone, "did you actually think my parents named me feet?"

"Yeah!"

…he didn't even know how to respond to that.

Melanie, however, clearly did, chuckling a little. Fete didn't give her the honor of seeing how flabbergasted he was, sealing himself within a clear expression of distaste, frowning.

"It's not that funny."

"It is that funny."

She rested her head on her palm, staring, while still laughing at the boy in the back and grinning her cheekiest grin, which did not help said boy's embarrassment as he glanced downwards at his page.

Fete faintly clocked the boy's identity in the back of his mind.

"It's fine, Gil," Fete sighed, looking away and biting his cheek, "My parents really ought to have spelled it with an 'a,' anyways…"

Gil Meshke. Also ten, and not usually all that shy and embarrassed as he was now— or that blushy, now that he noticed it, goodness. Was it that cold in there?

Regardless, Fete racked his mind for what he could remember about Gil. He was hoping to be a… model, Fete thought? …the past year's been a blur, and he only recently started attending this place since his father stopped homeschooling him… so he couldn't remember anybody all that well. But, unlike Melanie, Gil at least selected a career in high demand in District Eight, so sure, Fete understood..

Would Gil make a good model, though? He squinted at the boy. Hm… in this lighting, Gil definitely had a good shine. Smooth face, symmetrical features, nice hair… and all of the other terms his father would use when looking at a client for their next dress. The whole package. Gil could definitely work as a model, perhaps as an advertiser? He resembled the flower boys they used in advertisements, anyways.

Indeed, if all of those features worked, he could be excellent…

…

"…so are you two gonna need a room?"

He flicked his gaze over to Melanie, leaning back in her chair, head so far back her tangled hair cascaded nearly to the floor in knots.

"What?"

"Oh, nothing…"

Behind him, as neither of them were looking, Gil began blushing a bit more, trying to refocus on his paper. Meanwhile, Melanie snapped back up in her chair, sitting crisscrossed in it and staring at Fete once again through half-lidded eyes. She was so, so sudden…

"So, uh…" she said, putting her head on her fist, "Why aren't you outside playing, kiddo?"

He blinked, completely unamused, and not taken aback by the question, "You're also here, and you're also a child."

"What's your point?"

"Why are you here?"

"Ah," she chuckled dryly, pulling up her homework sheet from her desk. Fete quirked a brow as she gestured to it,a drawing of a dress on the page, "well I'm glad you asked, feet."

He squinted, and eventually got up to take a look at her doodles on her desk. Various designs of dresses and shirts and other assorted clothing were outlining the page, dancing around the math homework. Oh, interesting!

But, they were… Well, they were alright. He'd seen better. The hem was off on the one on the right, the top dress's proportions were way off, and veils don't work like that…

"Yea," she smirked, watching Fete observe her art, "I came here to be a designer, and it's too cold out for me so…"

She yawned, leaning back in her chair, "I'm designin'. Woo."

He blinked, turning away from the page. And there she sat, still watching him, still smiling. Why did she smile so much? What was there to smile about?

"Whaddya think?"

Oh. OK.

…

(…don't be rude, it's her first try, don't be rude, it's her first try, not everyone just knows how to draw dresses, don't be rude, don't be rude—)

(Wait, she was a designer?)

He sat the paper back on her desk, shooting her a pointed look, "I thought you were the girl who dreamed of being a painter?"

Melanie frowned, unamused, "Is it bad enough for a subject change?"

"Well, I wouldn't say so," he said (he wouldn't be his father's son if he wasn't quick with words…), "but—"

She, yet again, chuckled, shaking her head as she cut him off, "No, 's fine, don't worry about it if it's bad. That's why I came to the creative school anyway…"

Clearing her throat, she leaned forward, and pointed a finger past Fete, over to the windows, "But no, the painter's my sister."

Fete glanced in the direction she was pointing, and out there, there was a little girl playing in the snow, with a similar mess of tangled hair. She threw a snowball at Ny, giggling as she did so, before seeming to notice Melanie through the window. With a very similar, but much more sincere grin, the girl waved at her, causing Melanie to wave back.

"Hi Mourna~" Melanie said, despite the fact that the girl— Mourna, apparently, could not hear her. The girl continued to wave, until she eventually was smacked in the face with a stray snowball due to her lack of attention. After that, she just went back to ignoring them, going after the child who threw it.

With that done, Melanie turned back to Fete, who looked back at him.

"Ah, Mourna's great, but she's not going anywhere with painting…" Melanie mused, frowning, but then, in a snap (she needed to stop that), directed her gaze back at Fete, "...anyway, you still haven't told me why you're in here too."

Oh, yes.

(…)

…

(…he really didn't want to explain that.)

(The gears in his mind buzzed for a moment, Fete staring with a blank poker face. What exactly could he say here? He hadn't prepared a generic response for this one. But, wait, Melanie said it was too cold out for her… perhaps he could just say he also didn't like the wintertime? That might work—)

He opened his mouth to respond, but, from the back, Gil's voice shone through unexpectedly, causing both of them to turn back to look.

"It's because your parents own that big wedding shop, yeah?" Gil spoke, pencil down, staring Fete right in the eyes. Fete was taken aback, mouth agape unable to respond. How did Gil know that? "You're doing stuff to help them right now?"

He blinked. Fete didn't think he had mentioned that factoid to anybody there… but… did Gil just know that? Why did he know that?

As if he read his mind, Gil glanced away, a bit of a nervous smile on his face, "I'm… uh… a huge fan. Of the shop. I take a lot of inspiration from all of their works…"

…uh… OK then.

He quickly composed himself, blinking and snapping out of his stupor. Melanie watched with a quirked brow.

Fete swallowed, looking at Gil, and speaking slowly… cautiously.

"My father owns the Fabergé Wedding Company, yes…" he glanced away, "That's why I'm here."

(Well, it was why he was at this school, but not why he wasn't outside…)

Behind him, Melanie's expression dropped, and she huffed, mumbling.

"Well I guess that explains why he wasn't impressed by me…"

Fete looked to respond to her, but she quickly sat back up before he could, smiling again, but this time, over towards the back.

"What about you, sunshine?" she beamed, and Gil glanced up once more, distracted from his paper, "why aren't you outside today?"

Gil blinked, pausing to think of something to say. Then, setting down his pencil onto the desk, he lifted the paper up for them to see.

Fete cocked his head.

That… he had assumed Gil was just behind on the math homework, like with Melanie and her doodles, but from what he could see, Gil's paper wasn't anything associated with the school at all. What was all that? It looked like… some sort of form?

…oh, oh!

"I'm a—" Gil started, but Fete managed to piece it out first, and interjected.

"You're filling out a modeling audition form, aren't you?"

Gil was agape, jaw hanging in surprise, but as he sheepishly put down the page, he found himself smiling— looking away. Melanie whistled in amusement, something Fete idly ignored.

"Well, yeah, I am…" GIl said, rubbing his neck, "my audition's soon… so… well, I'm really hoping this takes off…!"

"I'm sure it will." The response came sooner than Fete thought it would, as did the smile. He caught himself after slipping that out, biting his cheek. Oh, he… he had to be careful with words. Words were important, he learned, after all.

(Fete turned away, looking out the window, so he couldn't see that Gil was blushing back.)

Melanie turned to Fete. Then to Gil. Then back to Fete, sighing. Oh, ten-year-olds… what did they know about crushes? She (a twelve-year-old) watched as they averted gazes for a few seconds, thinking of something to say. Oh, what to say…—

BRRRING!

Through the windows, the children outside looked over to the schoolhouse, and hurriedly rushed for the door, the teachers escorting them back. The three inside, however, just shared a glance between themselves.

…

…

…

"Meh," Melanie sighed, and she leaned back in her chair, stretching with a yawn, "I guess we'll continue this later, eh?"

"Uh…" Gil said, glancing about. He wasn't quite sure where, "OK?"

Fete blinked, and raised his finger, as if to say something, but Melanie cut him off.

"You don't get a say in that, kiddo," she said, and then, for the last time that interaction, shot him a smirk, "I need your input."

And indeed, he didn't.

---

"Why don't we ever stop by your house, anyways?"

Fete stopped in his tracks.

Wintertime had come and gone, by this point, the snow melting to dew melting to nothing. Across the sidewalk, between the sky high buildings and the cracked roads, lined with rickety cars that would billow pillars of smoke that ascended to heights past the rooftops, Fete stood in a stray patch of grass, staring up at the clouds. He had heard the names of them, once upon a time, in a short science class at the schoolhouse. Did he remember them…?

Regardless, at the sound of the voice, one rather unfamiliar to him, he found himself turning around to see his… Well, could he call them friends, now? He and Gil and Melanie had been spending time after school together quite frequently, so he thought it might work out. However, while the two of them were there, Melanie with her hands on her hips, sporting a bored expression, and Gil, hands behind his back, the question hadn't come from either of them.

Instead, Fete found himself looking at a small little girl, one younger than him, even, albeit, still awfully familiar, with her arms crossed, staring him directly in the eyes with a sort of… almost intimidating intensity.

"I… beg your pardon?" Fete found himself saying, after a short pause, squinting at her. Melanie stopped at that point as well, looking at her, with Gil quickly following. The girl merely huffed, rolling her eyes.

"We allllllways go to our apartment!" she bemoaned, cocking her head, "and you're like… super made, right? With the wedding thingie? Why don't we ever go there?"

…what?

…oh. Oh, he got it.

It took him a second, but, as he looked to Melanie and Gil, the first of which just shrugged nonchalantly, the latter shaking his head in confusion, he saw the resemblance between her and the girl, quickly piecing together when he had seen the face before, outside the window in wintertime, and across the classroom at various other points.

Mourna. Mourna Pimm. Melanie's little sister. Fete almost didn't notice that she had come along with them, this time, although he probably ought to have expected it. He… didn't know her. At all, really.

But she still snooted at him. He blinked.

"I…" he cleared his throat, "suppose, it's because my father's busy. It's a very popular wedding shop."

It… well, it wasn't a lie. Usually, Fete's father was busy. Sometimes, it was with customers. Sizing, sewing, planning elaborate and downright absurd venues… Well, it was their signature, after all. The Fabergé Wedding Company, and their crazy locations. People came from far and wide in order to get a peak at them— and it certainly took a lot to put it all together… so, yes, he was a busy man.

Other times, Fete's father was busy with… other stuff.

(It wouldn't be a good idea to show them that side of things.)

"So?" Mourna crossed her arms, again, something she seemed incredibly fond of doing. Fete, once more, glanced at his other two… he could call them friends now, right? …he looked to them for help. But they were just not helpful. He almost wanted to glare at them for that. But, he wouldn't.

…OK, thankfully, before he had to prepare an explanation for himself, someone stepped in.

"Mourna?" Melanie said, in a voice of perfectly patronizing clarity that signaled to Fete that this was a type of conversation the two often had. To further prove that, the girl made a pouty face at this, glaring daggers as Melanie went on.

"What do we do when people tell us no, Mourna?" she was even bending down to be right above the girl, goodness, could she be any more rude? From what he could see, even Gil cringed a bit. Well, not that Fete was going to argue, not even as Mourna rolled her eyes.

"I'm not a little kid, Mels!" she threw her hands in the air, "and I wanna see the cool wedding shop!"

Melanie crossed her arms, deadpanning. "You're eight."

"Yeah, so?!"

Before anybody could say anything more, surprisingly, it was Gil who interjected, walking past Melanie with a sheepish smile on her face. His best one, as Fete had said (not to his face, he wouldn't ever say that to Gil's face).

(Even if it was the one he thought worked the best on him.)

"Big kids know when to respect boundaries, Mourna," he said, still smiling, "And, as nice as it would be to see the Fabergé Wedding Company, if Fete says no, it means no."

…they all blinked.

(What sort of children's book did he pull that from?)

"I—!" Mourna tried to protest, but ended up just frustratingly sighing, looking away while biting her cheek, "alright, I guess we'll go back to our apartment, Gil…"

She began to stomp away, passing the three, even, on her way to the apartment building. They all stood in place, mouths agape as she went down the sidewalk— save for Gil, who was still smiling. And as soon as Mourna was out of earshot, Melanie groaned.

"Yeah, sure, she listens to you, not her older sister. Not like I take her out for ice cream on weekends or anything, but yeah, sure…"

Gil just chuckled. "Oh, I'm sure that she still loves you…" he told her, a bit of a teasing ebb to his voice as he too began to walk away.

She threw her hands in the air, but began to follow.

…Fete lagged behind, but came as well.

---

The fact that District Eight wasn't considered an "inner" district always had struck Fete as a bit… odd. Strange? Weird? No, odd worked best.

"Inner" districts… the Capitol's favorites. One, with its jewels… Two, with its stones and its military… Four, with its fish (although he had heard that Four had been falling out…). What quantified that, and why wasn't Eight included? Geographically, if he recalled correctly, Eight did lie the closest to the Capitol, after all. And it was large enough, certainly, as he noticed, watching the view pass him by. The city streets of Eight's Central Hub remained perpetually loud, and crowded, and the air quality was even worse off than back home on the Outer section… he held his breath on the rickety trolley, attempting not to cough as he watched many others recklessly do. Fete heard how fast diseases spread in the Hub— he didn't want a part of that.

So, what was it that made Eight so unappealing?

He pondered this, and as he did, the twelve-year-old looked forward, while still clutching onto the man next to him. And he watched, and he witnessed.

A woman in front of the two of them, leaning out the other window of their car, made an awful noise, hurling her guts out onto the road.

A scruffy man plucked a small wallet off a passerby, to which no one said a thing about.

He heard a profanity to his right, and when he turned to look, there was a lanky stranger shouting at a crying child, one about his age, about something he couldn't decipher. His father?

…

He huddled tighter to the man whose hand he held, and felt the man squeeze it back as he buried his face in the man's jacket.

Fete wasn't used to this.

SCREECH!

The sound of the stopping trolley caused Fete to instinctively cover his ears, squatting down to the floor and gritting his teeth and shutting his eyes. The noise— what a horrible noise it was! Make it stop— make it stop—!

"Fete."

(So much. So, so much. So many sensations; he hated it. Was this why Eight wasn't considered "inner?" Loud noises, bad air, bad people? Was this why the Capitol despised them so? He would understand, this time he'd understand, just this once, but never again, he couldn't forgive them, he wouldn't no, no no no no no no no—)

"Fete."

(stop)

A hand on his shoulder, and he glanced back up to the man. His pensive frown, yet his warm eyes, stared down from above, and he held out his other hand for Fete to take. He didn't say a word. He didn't need to say a word, because Fete, overwhelmed, sitting on the floor as people shuffled out to the exit behind him, just breathed for a few moments.

(…)

And took the hand, quickly burying himself in his side.

He let the man lead him out, not looking as they got off the trolley into the streets. Fete had never been here before. He hadn't ever wanted to be here, either. The Hub— the largest and most urbanized place in Eight. When he peaked out to look from the man's black coat, he saw pillars of smoke from every factory. When daylight found his eyes, he saw crowds of people with frowning and exhausted faces. When he stole a glance at the outside world, he saw dirty streets and people lying on the curb. Were they sleeping? Drunk? Dead?

Fete didn't want to know.

(It was drunk.)

(It was easy to recognize drunk…)

…

…

…he felt the man letting go.

(No!)

He hugged the man tighter, and heard a sigh, felt it, really, as it reverberated through him. The man, while he couldn't see it, looked down at him.

"It's time to go, Fete. It will be over soon."

Through the muffled fabric of the man's nice black coat, a word could barely be made out. "No."

"Fete, it's necessary."

"You can't make me, Papa!"

Exhaling through his nose, the man stared at the boy, who clung so tightly to him. People funneled around them on all sides, the children condensing into a line leading to the Town Square, the adults being directed to the stands, to watch.

And he had to let him go, now.

…

…but he co—

"MOVE IT!"

A lean man, one with an angry face and a scrappy jacket, slammed right into the two, knocking Fete into the ground as the man stumbled backwards.

"PAPA!"

Fete's father reached out to grab him, but in doing so, the man who had so callously separated them got in the way, and Fete ended up blocking him, causing him to stumble back as well as he leaned down to pick up Fete.

Fete reached for him, still on the ground, squinting up at the sun through the sea of people. He stumbled back up to his feet.

(He didn't want to be alone. Not here, not now, not ever. He didn't want to be alone…)

His father reached back.

"Just who do you think you are?!"

But before Fete could reach his father, the lean man had roughly taken the collar of his nice black jacket, yanking his father out of reach. Fete stumbled, watching the man's rabid look as he glared daggers at his father. His pupils were unfocused, his posture was off… was he drunk too?

(So, so easy to recognize…)

He watched his father scowl at him.

"You…" the man sneered, speech a little… slurred, "and your… your fancy dancy coat, and your nice haiiiiiiir… just stadin' in the walkway to the Reapin's? You little rich boyyyyyyyy?"

Fete watched the exchange, panic flowing through him. He couldn't focus, focus on any of his thoughts. Rich? Well, he supposed his father was better dressed… but that was just because he was employed by—

A girl knocked into him.

Fete stumbled back, falling to the ground. The people… he had never seen so many in his life, all of them flowing into the same place. He tried to get up again, to walk back towards his father…

Another boy knocked into him, and he stumbled back once more. He reached back to where his father stood, arguing with the man.

"It's none of your concern," he said, and he took his gaze off of Fete, for just a few moments more, "I'm only dressed this way for my employment today, sir."

"Oh yeaaaaaaah?" a hiccup, and he jeered, "and who em… en… emenployers you, buckeroo? The Capitol?"

But there was another, and another, and another… the tide of children, all forming into a conglomerate horde, heading towards the wall built around the Town Square… Fete didn't have the time at all to even shout out again. He reached but only in vain.

"Papa…!"

But Papa couldn't hear him. Papa was turned away.

And Fete was slowly dragged into the Square…

---

"Gil?"

Fete cocked his head in confusion upon seeing the boy standing near to him in the pen.

He was a few feet away, and other twelve-year-old boys stood between the two of them, blocking each other's paths, but upon hearing his voice above all the chatter and buzz from everyone, Gil looked, and a small smile came over the boy's face.

"Oh, Fete! Hi!"

It may have been frowned upon, and met with a lot of scorn and groaning from the boys in between them, but Gil pushed his way through the crowd until he found himself right next to Fete. When he did, he grinned extra big…

But Fete was not smiling. Instead, he had quirked a brow in confusion.

Gil frowned.

"It's…" he cocked his head, "nice to see you?"

Fete decided to cut the middle man right then and there, "What are you doing in the twelve-year-old section?"

…Gil was taken aback by that, it seemed. He balked, then shrugged, in genuine confusion.

"Because I'm… twelve?"

(No, no he wasn't! He wasn't… was he? Gil was thirteen, Fete knew that. And he knew he knew that. That was why he quadruple-checked to make sure he had the date right, and he still had it in his vest pocket, so he could give it to him today!)

(Was he wrong?!)

(…)

(…oh, screw dodging the question! Just ask him!)

"Isn't today your birthday?"

At this, Gil seemed to deflate, but more with understanding than disappointment, even chuckling a bit in response. He rubbed his neck, looking away.

"Uh… yeah!" Gil said (good, good), still laughing nervously, just a tad, "but… not until one o'clock… 'cause I was an afternoon baby… yeah, they're that stingy on it, I guess…"

"Oh…!" (OK, so he was thirteen, fantastic, wonderful…)

(Fete liked Gil.)

(He thought Gil was fun and great. So fun and great that he rushed through thinking of proper synonyms to use for him. He liked Gil so much that he'd rather just think about how wonderful that was than to actually think of the words to describe the sensation.)

(And, after all, the Fabergé Wedding Company had its popularity… and with popularity came strings to be pulled, and… well, his father wasn't very observant, to say the least. He was always half-asleep on the couch when he wasn't working, anyway. So if Fete scoured through his contacts, and found a few opportunities for young modeling careers…?)

(Well…)

(He'd just cut to the chase with that.)

Out of his vest pocket, Fete quickly whipped out a folded piece of paper, and then did his best to unravel it without ripping it, to reveal…

He shoved it into Gil's chest, a bit panicked. The boy stumbled back, grabbing it with an "oomph!"

"Fete!" he said, wide-eyed, Fete covering his mouth a bit, attempting to look calm, which he most certainly was not.

And Gil looked down at it, as he noticed Fete looking away…

A gasp.

"Is this—?"

The words, they slipped out so easily in Gil's presence, so much so that Fete was surprised that they managed to stay in at all. They came out with reckless abandon, lips so loose they might as well fall off his face.

"It's an audition form—!" Fete stammered, breathless as he saw Gil look up, amazement in his eyes, "I… I know you've been trying to get into bigger modeling gigs, so, I thought… well, I know a few places… so…"

"FETE!"

He tackled the boy in a hug, something Fete reciprocated, something he found that he was much too eager to reciprocate, a red tint overtaking him as the air left his lungs— both from Gil's squeezing and his own unwillingness to breathe in this situation.

He only managed to say one thing.

"Happy birthda—!"

"Ladies, gentlemen, and other esteemed guests!"

A gasp, but this time, in shock.

They stopped hugging at that, the booming voice forcing Fete to take his arms off of Gil and cover his ears, even as the crowd of proportions he had never dreamed of came to a complete standstill at the noise.

He glanced up.

On the stage stood quite possibly one of the most atrocious crimes against fashion he had ever witnessed with his own two eyes. A woman, skin dyed green— and not a nice shade of green, he noted, but instead a gaudy neon, wearing a dress made with so many conflicting fabrics and colors and designs he refused to look at it any longer than he had to. The woman, eyes wide in what he could only describe as utter mania, had her arms raised in such a way that it appeared as if she was granting them words of greatness from her lips. To her, at least. Fete thought she was like a clown.

Or, at least, that's what he thought clowns looked like.

(He had never seen a clown.)

"I welcome you!" she shouted, and the echo was palpable enough to be cut with a knife, "to the Reapings of the next, annual HUNGER GAMES!"

…

… …

… … … …

Only a few spattered claps came from somewhere far away in the audience.

(And they all knew why, of course.)

(Who wouldn't know what they were?)

(It was something everyone in Panem knew, an omnipresent force that had been so diluted over the thousands in each District that it was nothing more than the monster under the bed. They all knew the rules of the Reaping, and whenever a name came up, they would mourn for the week, as the television broadcast their death, then forget. Whoever's name came out of those bowls, that bowl for girls, and that bowl for boys, would be gone. Even if they came back, even if they survived against everyone else, they still would be gone, in some way. Who would clap for that?)

(Fete was surprised that anybody clapped at all.)

The woman remained unperturbed, still smiling, still projecting her film about the origin to the crowd, still shouting…

(He realized, faintly, in the back of his mind: it could be him that year. That was possible now, wasn't it? He could be selected, he could be the next victim… Since he was in the age range, and all…)

(…)

(…no. No, it would all be fine.)

(He glanced to his left, down to the hand next to his.)

(Subtly, he brushed his own against it…)

((…))

((don't leave him alone))

((not like his father would, don't leave him))

((don't…))

"…and our new Head Gamemaker, Sudba Sodaniya, has taken over this year, is that not exciting?!" Was she still talking?! Fete did his best not to groan, he was growing tired of her, and these antics. Just… just cut to the chase! Get on with it!

"For the boys…" she managed to say, and…

(It could be him, couldn't it?)

(Don't do it.)

(Don't do it, don't say anybody he knows…)

(…)

(He gripped Gil's hand.)

((not alone))

"Perin Drake!"

…

… …

… … … …

There was a scream.

He heard there were always screams at these, when the names came. Someone would cry out, and as they were dragged onto the stage, they would beg, and plead, and some tried to impress, for the cameras, at least… but always, there was screaming.

(And maybe, he felt like he shouldn't be so relieved by the fact that he didn't know who Perin was, as the young, scrappy boy in the newsboy cap was dragged onto the stage by the armored men.)

(But maybe those were just his nerves.)

Regardless, the green woman didn't care as the boy struggled, and cried and buried his face in his palms. No, she just moved on to the next bowl, the girl's bowl, that was.

(But he was safe, wasn't he?)

(Maybe that was a bad thing to think…)

(But he was safe, for now. That was just where his thoughts were at, regardless of how selfish. The name wasn't his, or anybody's that he knew.)

(For another year, Fete was OK. And Gil was OK.)

(…and Gil gripped his hand back.)

((…))

(He breathed out, finally, when that happened.)

(And everything, everything was fine.)

(It was all going to be fine.)

(For once…)

Maybe, maybe it wasn't going to end in disaster.

The green woman raised her arms to the sky, throwing the envelope up into the air. Did it require that much fanfare, to announce that someone was going to be killed? Fete thought he was going to be sick…

And, unfortunately for him, he absolutely was.

"Melanie Pimm!"

(…oh.)

---

A dark room, a confidential room. No windows, no light, and only one door, one, singular door, holding no significance, no specialty or decoration whatsoever. Just a table and two chairs, with a bulb hanging overhead he wasn't allowed to touch, in the back of a nondescript building on a street no one remembered the name of.

When Sodaniya pictured where he would be at this point in time, visions of grandeur came to mind. Stained-glass windows shining down onto marble floors, plush seats of gold, and mahogany doors. Perhaps even an executioner standing by a crowd waiting to see him visit the gallows. (He may have had high hopes, but they weren't that high…)

He didn't expect such… nothingness.

(Maybe he should've. After all, he couldn't remember what exactly happened to the predecessors in his position. Why would they make his own death a public event if they didn't get the same treatment?)

(It was clear; this was not an event the good citizens of the Capitol were meant to witness.)

Sodaniya had been sitting there for thirty minutes by that point. He had forgotten to wear his watch on his way to the room— and he couldn't even see it if he hadn't, given he couldn't flip on the light switch— but he had still kept counting. He was told to come at five sharp, and he did. Was this part of the meeting, to see what he did?

Sodaniya wasn't certain, but he would absolutely not check. No. No, no. He would remain sitting here, in the dark, perfectly still, with his hands folded on the table. Because, if this was a test of some sort, he would have to pass. He must. He had to! There was no other way. 100/100 was what he required at all times from now on. (He had made too many mistakes to make another at this point. Too many, over and over again…)

(His first year, and this was already where he was?)

(What a disappointment he ended up being…)

(Was it possible that he did deserve what he was about to get? That he deserved to die for his colossal failure? Sodaniya felt himself think, in a dark, hollow part of his mind, that yes, he did. He was the director for the first time in his life, after spending ten years as an underling, and yet the first crack he had at the reins was a three day mess of television, a mess where the ratings were a wild roller-coaster of acceptable highs but unacceptable lows.)

(Why would they keep him alive after ruining the crown of Panem?)

(He didn't want to die. But should he?)

(…)

…

…when light struck his eyes, dull as it was, he still found himself wincing at it as the door finally opened up.

(Oh. OK. It was time then. It was starting, the end of him.)

(Don't panic. Don't panic. Don't…)

Yet, still, he caught himself halfway through it, and threw up a salute to the silhouette in the doorway. He caught his own breathing where it stood, locking his heartbeat into a steady rhythmic pulse by willpower alone. No sweat would reach his brow, it couldn't, not now. No mistakes. No mistakes. No, mistakes, no…

(Now was the time to face the music.)

"Mister President," he said, the response automatic and unwavering, despite the absolute torment of a wild storm making its way through all of his thoughts, jumbling everything around in such a panic that Sodaniya couldn't process anything, much less be fully aware of everything going on right then.

The surreality of the situation; a meeting with the man himself? The man whose face was hidden away from all of Panem, even now, in this dark room, with the light framing him in such a way that his features were impossible to make out? The almighty ruler, the great and terrible? Was it a dream? Perhaps a nightmare instead? He knew it was coming, ever since he received the notice to be in this room, in this building, on this day, just two days before, just three days after the Games for that year had ended and the newest Victor received her crown. And even with forty-eight hours to process it, he still felt his stomach churning as the door was shut behind him, enclosing the two in complete and total darkness once more.

…click.

The switch, the switch he was told not to touch flickered on, as the chief commander stood there. He faced the wall, and Sodaniya, secretly, in a part of him so repressed that he wouldn't acknowledge it, was almost disappointed that he couldn't see the man's face. But he wouldn't dare look to see it from any other angle, so he just kept on staring ahead at him. He wore a white suit, arms crossed behind his back. But there wasn't any tension there, just the sound of gruff breathing.

…

(The President didn't speak. Was this part of the test? Would he be executed for going first?)

(And, and, and… oh, he was a broken record— was he angry? He had to be, Sodaniya had no doubt. Was the man still going to kill him? That had to be why he was here, wasn't it? Or…)

…

(…)

…

(…please, respond.)

And he did.

"Sudba, I trust you know why I called you in here today?"

"Yes."

The man didn't seem to expect that.

He glanced behind his shoulder at Sodaniya, in a way in which his face was still obscured in complete darkness, but Sodaniya knew his wasn't. He kept himself in a poker face, as if he was made from stone. He did not flinch. He did not show a hint of emotion. He stared ever forward, hands folded on the table.

(Nothing. Nothing nothing.)

"Hmph," the President's voice had a certain solidness to it, an unshakable quality that shook Sodaniya to his core, but that he couldn't quite put his finger on. He couldn't let it show. He wouldn't— that was weakness, and weakness would kill him.

"You're different, Sudba," he looked away again, "Quite different…"

…

…

(…was he waiting for Sodaniya to say something?)

(Did he expect him to respond?)

(He'd only respond when spoken to.)

(Otherwise…)

…

"Most Head Gamemakers I bring in here deny the allegations," he finally said, after an eternity. Sondaniya couldn't understand why he did that, why he took so long to speak. Perhaps it was to see if he'd interrupt? He wouldn't do that. He would never.

"But," he rolled his wrist, staring at him through the dark, the uncuttable darkness, the inescapable dark that would not reveal anything about the man to Sodaniya.

"I suppose you're no ordinary Head Gamemaker, now are you?"

The man sat down across from Sodaniya. But the light bulb only shone over Sodaniya's head. The only part of him that Sodaniya could see were his hands, folded on the table.

(He was asked a question. Should he respond?)

(This was a queue.)

…

(…say something.)

(SAY SOMETHING!)

"I suppose not."

…

…

(…oh, how he hoped that response was adequate…)

…

"I'm not going to execute you."

(He couldn't help himself. What? Then why was he here, what was the point of this meeting if not to kill him?! What was the catch, what was the purpose? What would happen to him now?! What, why… how?)

"Why?"

(No. No, Sodaniya, don't talk, he couldn't let his poker face leak, he couldn't say that, he shouldn't, what was he doing?!)

The President only chuckled, and he hoped he didn't see the bead of sweat forming on Sodaniya's brow. Sodaniya could make out a bit of the man's jawline…

"So eager to die, then, are we?" the President spoke, voice low, and the amusement clearly fake. Sodaniya sat perfectly still while the President continued on, "But I suppose that's a weakness of mine, my… sentimentality…"

And that's when he stood up.

Sondaniya did not flinch, he did not even turn his head to barely see him encircling the table, staring forward, forward into the darkness as the President's shoes clicked against the stone floor. His breathing wasn't steady, but he tried his best to control it, breathing in as he heard the clicking from in front of him… and out as it came from the left… and…

He felt a hand on his shoulder.

(!)

With every ounce of willpower left in his systems, Sodaniya's eyes widened, but he forced himself to breathe in steadily as the President leaned to whisper in his ear, to stare completely forwards and not look at all as he felt him squeeze him threateningly, face just out of view as he delivered a message.

(His heart was beating, beating so fast, and he couldn't stop it. Sweat rolled from his brow, but he didn't even dare to blink…)

"I'm a big believer in second chances, Sudba Sodaniya…" he practically hissed into Sodaniya's ear, a drop of spit landing on his cheek from the harshness of his words, "But no more than that. You will see my mercy just this once. Do you understand what I am saying to you?"

…

"ANSWER ME!"

He couldn't help but flinch at that, the words striking his brain to the very core of his soul as he snapped his eyes shut and leaned away from the President's head, turning away as he hastily put his racing, jumbled thoughts into words.

"Yes, yes I do!"

(His heart was beating, beating so fast his breaths felt like falling and the world spun. He didn't know what he was doing, he couldn't, what was he… he…)

…

…

…

The President removed his hand from his shoulder, and, as though he was a puppet without strings, Sodaniya fell limp, breathing as if he had never breathed in his life as he slammed his head onto the table.

(…he was dead. He was dead, he was going to die, he was not going to survive he was utterly screwed he—)

Sodaniya's ears rang as blood pumped through him— pumping and rushing so fast that when he brought his head up, dizziness and disorientation took over him, his breath falling short of satisfaction each time.

But still, he paid heed to the President's words.

"Oda Townsend should not have won these Games in the manner you allowed her to," he stood behind Sodaniya, who felt his energy so drained that all he could do was nod, "But you have still transformed her into a sort of icon for the Capitol citizens— so much so that she may be the most popular Victor in recent history. The talent required for that is… worth preserving."

…

…he blinked.

(…she was?)

All he could do was look forward in stark disbelief, something he hoped the President could not see from his position behind him.

Oda Townsend… that… that girl, from his colossal failure of a Games… had saved him? She was… popular, beloved?

(That just couldn't be true. She was good television, but a bad Victor. That's why he was there. He had created chaos and disarray in the Hunger Games, crowned a rebellious child with a bejeweled crown of honor. How could he have made her so adored that it made the President think twice about his life?)

"I… see."

"So then, Sudba," he wasted no time this time, "I have a bargain with you."

…Sodaniya could only nod, again.

He walked back to the left, just out of reach of the light once more, although this time, Sodaniya had been stripped of any pretenses of neutrality. And he spoke.

"When the girl becomes nineteen, in seven years' time," he went on, circling his way back to be opposite Sodaniya, "she will be a mentor. You have every Games before she does this to impress me."

(His brain was so fried, so broken. He couldn't work up the courage to fully respond to the man, in anything other than broken segments.)

"I understand."

"If you succeed, I will let you live. If you don't…"

…

… …

… … … …

…click.

He flipped off the light, unceremoniously, and all Sodaniya could hear from that point on was the clicking of the President's shoes against the stone, until he was once again blinded by the sterile hallway fluorescents when the President opened the door.

He could not see his face, as hard as Sodaniya tried, as the President spoke, one. Last. Time.

"You will wish I hadn't let you."

The door slammed shut.

---

"…"

"…"

"…"

It was unusual for them not to say anything.

Usually, someone had a comment to say. Someone would lighten the mood. Someone would have a wisecrack. Someone would do something silly, or complain about the melancholy, or play with their hair, or tease lightheartedly, or give a pep talk.

But someone wouldn't.

Someone wouldn't ever again.

…

…

The three of them sat awkwardly in the crowded apartment. Gil, crisscrossed on the old armchair. Fete on a kitchen stool, glancing down. Mourna, with glossy vision, staring out the window at the gray skies, not seeing a thing her eyes took in. The Pimm parents were gone for the evening, none of the friends could tell where. They weren't paying attention when they said that. They were all distracted.

It had been… about a week since the incident.

"And the winner of this year's Hunger Games— Oda Townsend!"

…

Those last two words… They bounced in her head, up, and down, and up, and down… Incessantly, unendingly. It filled her skull with thoughts, terrible thoughts, ones that made her want to do terrible things. Those two words, the ones the tiny, government given television, kept repeating over and over…

Oda Townsend.

That… that wasn't… that wasn't the name she heard in her dreams. That wasn't the name… the name it was supposed to be.

That wasn't the name she heard at the Reapings.

Oda… Oda…

She couldn't watch, but she heard it. On radios, in newspapers. Over, and over, and over. The Victor. The grand twelve-year-old, the greatest upset in history. How amazing! How wonderful, how… how…

In the early days, after the Reaping, Mourna had been glued to the television. And she watched, she watched the Capitolite's obsession with that girl grew, and grew. They didn't care for fourteen-year-olds, ones without alliances, ones with sisters to get home to, ones with big dreams and big hopes… No, just her.

They panned the cameras to follow her in those pivotal first few minutes of the Games.

Because they did, Mourna didn't even know her older sister had been decapitated until hours later, when her corpse was shown on the deck of the arena ship.

No one cared.

…

She couldn't watch after that. And now she stared blankly, out the window. Where she had been for the past two days.

And no one, no one, knew what to say…

(…)

(Fete always knew what to say. It was just how he was raised.)

(He should've now, too.)

(The pain, the feeling… the hysteria, the blaming… he felt it.)

(It burned like a fire in him, once, incinerating him, scorching him to his very core with every thought, every fleck of memories that signed his consciousness. He remembered, oh how he remembered it, the fire, the burning passions, the grief, and the rage, and the denial and the madness and the sadness and the need to move on, move on, drop it, drop it because, because, because…)

(And it did now, too, but not as bright as hers.)

(He remembered when it did.)

(All too well.)

…

… …

… … … …

He could see Gil hugging her now. Offering her comfort. Without looking, almost unconsciously, she took his hand, squeezing it tight. The ten-year-old leaned into him like a lifeline, and through her stoic expression, he could see a tear rolling down her eye.

He should go to her too.

He should go too…

…

…

…but he found, he found himself immobile…

…

"…snow had fallen, snow on snow. Snow… on… snow…"

"…in the bleak midwinter, long ago…"

---

Time passed.

Time always passed.

Time passing, in fact, is an inevitability, and regardless of how hard any of them tried, ignoring it and denying it couldn't stop a thing. Mourna had to go back to school one day. Gil couldn't stay with her all the time, not with his modeling career taking off. He had taken the job, despite what had happened that day. AndFete had to continue on as well. Keep up with his studies, his hopes of learning his father's trade in the wedding industry. Learning to sew, selling flowers, learning what colors matched what complexions… They had to go their own ways. They couldn't stay there, stagnant in time, in Mourna's apartment.

Time passed on, indeed.

A year passed, July the first came and went, and the Reapings ended in a thankfully quiet manner for the three. Not for Eight, Fete heard. Eight's girl tribute, an eighteen-year-old named Lane Folie, had apparently won that year. Not that he paid attention to it, it was just knowledge that came and went. He didn't like the Hunger Games that much; there wasn't a point in keeping track.

(Mourna did.)

(Mourna was screaming about it. He heard her shouting the steps of the schoolhouse, about how it happened a year too late.)

(She didn't make it to class that day.)

And another year.

His father always left on Reaping Day, as Fete went to the Hub's Town Square. The Fabergé name… it held prestige, as he would come to learn. The fact came less as a surprise the more he grew up. He had seen the clientele his father worked with, the ones in elaborate outfits weaved from silk in the finest sections of the District. Couples demanding destinations that he could somehow provide. There was food always on the table, jewels cut from One resting next to it before his father weaved it into gowns of white in the parlor.

As a young child, he had taken it at face value.

As he grew older, he realized how silly it was to ignore the inconsistencies. How did he have access to all of that? To plan wedding destinations outside of Eight, to enroll him in the schoolhouse for young entrepreneurs, to use such pure materials in his works?

He just had trouble putting it together. It had always been like this, after all. He didn't notice how big of a difference all of this made between him and his friends until he grew older.

Fete knew why the Fabergé Wedding Company was like this, after all, why it could do all of this despite being a District company. It was the same reason his father was allowed on the train to the Capitol (but never allowed to leave said train) for a few days every Hunger Games, to style the tributes.

The answer lied in…

…in…

(…wintertime.)

…in…

(…the picture his father kept in the pocket of his nice black coat, close to his heart.)

…in…

(…the reason why there were always empty liquor bottles on the floor of the shop, past where customers were allowed to see. In the empty chair in the living room that he was never allowed to move.)

In Delevingne.

…that was a name he wasn't allowed to say.

…but regardless, when the Reapings passed, his father wasn't there, and he was alone, every time. Well, not completely, he supposed. Gil would visit, when he wasn't busy at his new job. Sometimes, Mourna, even.

But he was alone, he was alone.

(He always felt alone, really.)

(Even when the man was there, he felt alone. He was sleeping. Or working. Or drinking. Or working. Only when he was leaving did it seem like he cared at all that Fete was there. Like a ghost, repeating his same actions over and over again, passed out on the couch, creating new dresses, planning a destination honeymoon to a mountainside Fete would never get to see.)

(It had been like that ever since his father sent him away to the schoolhouse.)

(Since that winter's night.)

Another year.

Another Reaping.

Another week with him gone.

(He remembered it wasn't like this. He knew of the man underneath all of that. And the fifteen-year-old craved it more than anything.)

(The coming and going, but seemingly never staying, despite always being there. He remembered the warmth. The love. And it was still there, he knew it, he just knew it…)

There was a man on his doorstep.

(But it felt like it would slip away, any second now.)

(Any second…)

---

The stages of grief are often discussed in a peculiar order. Linear. Denila came first. Then anger, then bargaining, depression… acceptance. Always in that way. Eventually, someone could get through it. As if they were steps to be taken, nothing more.

What stage, then, was he feeling now?

REST IN PEACE

DESMOND FARBIGÉ

FATHER, HUSBAND, WIDOWER

He felt like he had been here for hours. Maybe that was true. He didn't care to check.

He felt…

(nothing)

…

(everything)

…

(remorse hate pain sadness fire disbelief empty tired)

(bleak)

…

…

"…hey."

(…what can I give Him, poor as I am?)

"…Fete."

(If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb…)

"Fete."

And at that, Fete breathed sharply in, and shortly afterwards, he felt a hand touch his shoulder. He turned his head, to see…

"Gil."

He was doing well as a model, now, he had seen. There were ads lining pamphlets he saw on the streets, the occasional newspaper, as well— even a billboard, once. Living the dream, already, at age fifteen… impressive, wasn't it? Fete thought so, at least… and Gil certainly looked the part. In fact, with how his hair was slicked back, and the outfit he wore so tightly hugging his body, Fete wouldn't be surprised if he came straight from work.

He turned back, glancing down to the tombstone, which had sat there untouched, for… well, however long Fete had been standing there.

He lost track.

…

"How was the photoshoot?" After a while, the words found themselves coming out of Fete's mouth. The silence… Well, it was more bearable now, he supposed, than earlier. But that didn't mean Fete was that fond of it. He just… didn't know what to say.

Neither of them did. Maybe that was natural.

More of the silence would pass between them, of course, passing by and making itself known. Gil blinked, thinking to himself before speaking.

"…it was alright," Gil managed to say. He stared downward to the stone, reading it, as if for the first time. …it was, wasn't it? Right…

Gil bit his cheek. "Sorry for being late, it dragged on for a bit long, at the end. My boss isn't ever satisfied…"

Fete, eyes still half-lidded, found himself looking to GIl at that. He would've quirked a brow, but somehow, that felt hollow, "I thought this was your dream job?"

Gil shrugged, "Still a job, y'know? Always something that goes wrong…"

Fete opened his mouth to respond, but closed it, humming in agreement. That was… fair, yeah. To be expected.

…

…

(…he huddled closer to GIl.)

(Don't leave him alone.)

(Don't leave him alone…)

(Gil huddled closer as well.)

(…)

…

"…how did it happen?"

Fete bit his lip, looking downward at the tombstone.

He had heard what happened. He remembered finding out, just a few days prior down to the smallest of details. Every year, the house was empty the week after Reaping Day. He waited, waited for him to come home. He cleaned out the apartment. Swept out the cobwebs, got rid of the old bottles littering the floor. Doing everything he could so that when he came back, it would be to open arms.

Someone knocked on the door, and he thought it was him.

It wasn't.

…

…the words, they spilled out. With Gil, they always did.

"…he's the stylist for Eight," Fete said.

Gil took a step back at this. Fete glanced, about to reach out, but no, Gil still was there, just… taken a bit by surprise, it seemed, by the looks of confusion covering his features. Fete didn't blame him. He supposed, after all these years, he still never was generous with the details.

Even now, he wondered, should he even be saying all this? He didn't want to cause that much of a fuss…

But it was Gil.

If he could trust anybody, he would trust GIl.

"I…" Gil swallowed. Fete sighed, looking away.

"Maybe I should've said all this sooner…"

He expected a bit of backlash, perhaps a fight. It was a secret— a big secret. Why would he hide such a thing from Gil? But, much to his surprise, while Gil still seemed a bit shaken up, but, realizing it just wasn't worth it, he shook his head, motioning to continue, "No no, 's fine, it's fine. Not exactly a thing I'd want to tell everyone either…"

Fete blinked, mouth agape in slight surprise. But be swallowed, closing it.

…OK, good. Good…

He was glad. Or, as glad as he could be, right about now.

Fete looked away again.

Just a few days ago, he saw them there, standing on his front porch, dressed in black suits and Capitol insignias. His father wasn't anywhere to be found, and he'd never be, ever, ever again.

"The Eight boy," Fete said, and he bit his inner cheek, looking at his feet as he said the words, "he was… he was violent, this year. Managed to slip a knife into his shoe, sneak it through to the train after he was Reaped."

"…that's all it took?"

A beat.

"That's all it ever takes."

…

… …

… … … …

(Gil wasn't a boy of words.)

(Fete's parents were. They adored their words, what little they spoke of it. Words were important. Words were what others thought of you, what you made them think of you. The very root of thought and affection and law and perception, words, words, words…)

(Words…)

(Gil, however, was no boy of words. Actions spoke louder, as some might say.)

(And Fete wouldn't ever deny his hug. Never. Not as he stood, immobile, watching for hours more. Not as he found himself crying, again, for the third time that day. Not even when his legs gave out, hours later, and he fell to his knees, did he let go. Either of them.)

(And there was silence.)

(Maybe that was OK, this time.)

---

"It smells like shit in here."

From his spot face down on the couch, Fete barely registered it as Mourna's voice as she entered the living room of his apartment. He only gave a muffled "mmhmm" in response.

He managed to turn his head, just a little, seeing her. It was bleary… everything was bleary.

She had gotten taller, he noted. …about the only thing he could note, right about now. The rest of her features swam in his fuzzy vision, with his head pounding, and the blood rushing through his ears…

(…he had given in, recently.)

(The hidden stash that his father put in his old bedroom… he had been clearing it out, when he saw it. And he told himself to leave it alone.)

(But he couldn't stay away from it forever.)

She didn't say much, not as Fete slowly sat up, rubbing his head on the couch, just slowly trudging through the room and plopping the large brown sack she held in her hands down onto the floor by the far wall. She huffed as she did, and then began to stretch, rubbing her back in exhaustion.

"Don't even know what that was…" she moaned, "…it's like some weird pellet thing. I just know that Gil wanted me to drop that off… whatever it is."

…

…

(…Fete wasn't dumb.)

(His vision was clearing, head stopping its pounding— and he could see it in her eyes.)

(What was that look she was giving him…?)

…

…before Fete could even comment, it transitioned to something else. She quirked her brow, pointing behind him, all of a sudden, cocking her head, even.

"The hell is that, feet?"

What?

…

…oh, yes, yes, of course.

Behind him, on the windowsill, was a… bit of a new addition to the household. A hairless cat— what were those called, sphinxes, he thought…? A bit of a lazy thing, that creature. But Fete found it, fed it, went to Gil's house and nursed it back to wellness, and, well, finders keepers, he supposed. Someone to add to the group, he decided. To his party of one.

…

((alone…))

((all alone, he's all alone…))

((Fete was all alone now…))

"I named him Bobby," Fete managed to say, after a short while. His voice was hoarse… how much had he had?

Bobby just slept in the windowsill's sunbeam. He didn't care. He never cared. He just kinda sat there.

And Fete was fine with that.

((it didn't matter what Bobby did, to Fete))

((he just…))

((it was too quiet))

((silent, forever, and ever…))

Mourna, however, did not seem fine with that. Instead, she made yet another face. Idly, Feter thought that maybe she should be an impressionist. She could do all sorts of faces…

"…Bobby's naked."

Fete blinked. His thoughts still felt rather sluggish, but he leveled his best half-lidded stare at her regardless, "Well, that's not very nice of you."

"I—" she tried to think of something to say, but, as it seemed, she came up flat, just throwing her hands up in the air. Fete almost chuckled at that, but he was too tired, "I… sure."

She sighed. She turned to leave at that. Fete didn't even know what to say as she did.

She muttered over her shoulder, "You're welcome, I guess…"

And she was almost at the door, almost out of the dank apartment, the one that smelled terrible, as if it hadn't been cleaned in weeks (something she doubted Fete would ever do, given his… him) when…

*clink!*

…

… …

… … … …

Her foot had caught on something; it sounded like glass. At this, she stopped, and Fete stopped whatever he was doing, in turn, to look over.

…Mourna glanced downwards to see the object. Crouched. Picked it up with two hands, turning around to look at him.

And, when at last she had turned around, and Fete saw just what it was that she was holding, he managed to do everything in his power not to grimace at what she had found.

Because in Mounra's hands, she held up a green glass bottle.

…

… …

… … … …

"…why am I not surprised you started drinking?"

He couldn't think of a response to that. Instead, he just stared the fourteen-year-old in the eye as she sighed, setting the bottle down.

And she put her head in her palms.

"Nothing to say, then?"

…

…

(…Fete was a person of words.)

(He always had something to say, always. It was what he was born to do. He was born to say, to have the perfect words for every situation.)

(Somehow, it was Mourna who disarmed that. Somehow, Mounra was the one that made him unable to respond.)

(The words came so much harder with her…)

She huffed, blowing a strand of her tangled hair out of her eyes, crossing her arms.

"Well, whatever then, feet," she said, and once again, slowly turned for the door, "enjoy your cat… try not to kill him when you're drunk, or something."

(…)

(He should say… something. Even if she's sassing him, even if she's calling him feet… it didn't matter. She was… well trying to be nice, maybe? He… didn't know. But)

(What could he even say to her?)

(Something, right?)

(…anything?)

(Maybe just a thank you.)

(Yeah, that would do.)

"Thanks for the cat food, Melanie."

(…)

(…wait, that… that wasn't right.)

She turned around, again, but this time, the look in her eyes had returned.

It was… so intense. They were huge. They were full of scorn, full of hate… no, that wasn't right. Abhorrence. Such pure and distilled abhorrence… He almost wanted to turn away, just looking at them, just looking as her mouth went from a frown to a frown.

But her voice…

So…

Quiet.

"You…"

She took a step forward. He almost flinched at the suddenness of it.

"You keep her name out of your mouth, Fete."

…

…

…he stared. He didn't know what he could possibly say.

And that's when she boiled over.

"You keep her name…" shakily, she bawled her hand into a fist, gritting her teeth, "…out of your MOUTH!"

She STOMPED on the floor, and Fete finally did jump at this.

(What was she doing? What did he say, what did he say—?)

She pointed at him, arm shaking, breathing heavy, eyes full of wild, completely untamed mania. She was seething, she was completely mad. She looked as if she was about to tear him limb from limb, piece by piece, until he was nothing, nothing at all.

"You…" she stuttered, and he saw tears prick at her vision, "…you are a sad, pathetic, lazy man… and I don't know what Gil saw in you— I don't know why someone like him wastes his time trying to fix you… I don't know why she did…I don't know, I don't know, I don't know!"

She was clawing at her face, almost screaming, stumbling towards the door, when she pounded her fist at the wall.

"You keep her name out… you don't say it, you don't get to say it…!"

(…)

(…)

(…)

(…was she even wrong?)

He didn't know.

He didn't even know what to say.

And he'd never get the chance, not as she slammed the door behind her.

…

… …

… … … …

"Mrow?"

…she woke up Bobby.

---

Six years ago, in this room, in this building, on a forgotten backstreet of the Capitol, Sodaniya sat here.

He couldn't forget. He wouldn't forget.

(It was not his place to stop remembering.)

Six years ago, he was given a proposal.

(And no feedback on whether or not he was doing well, according to the terms and conditions attached.)

A proposal, based on time.

(So much time.)

And now…

(It was up.)

It was the last go.

The last Games of his Head Gamemaking career.

…maybe.

There was a spark, some hope to it all. Did Sodaniya really do well enough to make it? To survive the gambit? He… couldn't be sure. There was no way. The President wanted to be "wowed," but… what did that mean?

Sodaniya certainly thought he had done some incredible things in his Career.

But was it big… enough?

(No.)

No, and that's why he was back here, back in this room.

Changes had to be made. And so, he would get the man himself to change them. He had scheduled this meeting.

If this was the last Games of his life, then why not make it go off with a bang?

Why not…?

---

It was snowing again.

That was the first thing he noticed, looking to the window from his spot on the hardwood floor. Through the haze of his stupor, Fete felt a headache coming on, pounding on the edge of his skull; a hangover, as he had come to recognize. Blearily, he turned his head to his right hand, seeing another empty glass bottle. Just how much had he had last night…?

…

…oh, right.

It didn't matter.

Nothing mattered, not now.

Usually, when he drank, which, regrettably, was most of the time at this point, night in and night out, he drank to forget something. He drank to stop thinking about it, whatever "it," was… like father like son, he guessed.

But he always remembered, in the morning.

He would remember, every time, without fail. Remember his father. Melanie. That winter's night, when he was a child. It came back, every time, every damn time…

This time, it was a letter, dropped on the doorstep of the Fabergé Wedding Company downstairs.

There was a Capitol seal on it.

And he was so, so tired of that…

Maybe the eighteen-year-old ought to have seen it coming, he told himself. He was barely an adult. He still sold gowns, corsets, and suits, and sometimes flowers, as they always had… but a Wedding Company, run by basically a child? What was he, to match up to the legacy of his parents, who did venues and contracts and amazing deeds?

Not much. Not much, indeed.

It was done.

The business was dead.

…

"Mrow?"

Fete signed, stroking the cat to his side. It leaned into his touch

The cats… he had been collecting them at this point. Bobby just wasn't… enough, for him. It was never… enough…

((you can't replace a person with a cat…))

And so, he got Coco. And also Finch.

…and also Norman.

…

…and… also Pierre.

…

… …

…and Klein.

But that was it this time! It was just those… six… oh, he did have a lot of them. Was there such a thing as a cat addiction? Because he certainly had that…

(It helped distract him from the fact that he also had an alcohol addiction.)

(Which helped distract him from… well…)

(Everything.)

(…)

(…that's why he went through a whole case last night.)

…

Knock Knock!

…

…he glanced around. He still had that bad hangover, and… there were a few bottles on the floor. That wouldn't do, not with company. Not that Fete actually desired any right about now, but… hm. Maybe it was… someone important? Clients? That could— wait, no… If he remembered correctly… he was closed today.

He was always closed today.

So, he took the empty bottles of liquor, all… eight of them… wow… and quickly threw all of them into the trash, with a CLANG! so loud that he heard several noise complaints at that from his, er, roommates.

He hissed.

"…sorry, fellas."

But the cats just kept on ignoring him. They wouldn't stop doing that, no.

Did they even love him?

Did his cats love him back?

Please tell him they loved him back, he really needed someone to love him back, please, please, please please— he had to have that right about now, he—

"Fete?"

He froze in his tracks.

…oh.

Yea, of course it was him.

He made eye-contact, but swiftly, Fete turned away, grabbing a tissue from the box and dabbing at his watering eyes. He… this wasn't… this wasn't how he should look to him, it…

"I…" he gulped, "I hadn't realized I left the door unlocked."

But, regardless, Gil stepped into the room, slowly, methodically. Fete heard every footstep, the creaking of the hardwood floors as Gil stepped right behind him. Discreetly, he threw the tissues into the bin. Glancing over nervously at him.

"…it wasn't unlocked."

And, Fete did his best to turn around, without revealing how puffy his eyes were.

(He was so much better at this, usually…)

(But, of course… it had to be Gil.)

…

"How did you get in then?"

Gil's face was… hard to read. They weren't smiling— but they weren't frowning. He wasn't sure what their eyes were shining with, not even as they held up a key.

"You gave me this the other night, remember?" Gil said. He was soft-spoken. Not a single edge to his voice…

(…did he?)

(No, Fete didn't remember.)

Fete… nodded.

But Gil's sigh at this, as he pocketed the key, told Fete all he needed to know, and he began shaking his head. Gil pursed his lip.

"…I know you've been drinking."

"…yeah."

"But… Why were you crying?"

(…)

(…)

(…the question didn't really knock him off guard… it just politely blew him off it. He knew it was coming, yet, he still wasn't prepared to answer it.)

(Because, Fete didn't know why.)

(There were so many reasons…)

((he was so, so alone…))

…

…he looked away. But Gil cupped his head, and made him look forwards. Right into his eyes.

(It was December 25th, wasn't it? He was closed on December 25th. …Christmas. His mom called it that, once, he remembered that much. He didn't know what that meant.)

(She said it was a day of hope, and giving.)

(Why was it always taking from him, then?)

…

… …

… … … …

Silently, Fete handed him the letter, stacked atop the dresser to his right. Gil took it, eyeing him strangely.

He looked up, and that unreadable look had returned.

Was it… concern?

"They're closing the Fabergé Wedding Company?"

"…they are."

And at this, Fete turned away.

(This was all he had left of them.)

(This was their everything.)

(This was why he was born. They came together to create this company, then him. Their lives revolved around the wedding business. Around dresses, and corsets, and flowers, and exotic venues. His mother lived by it. His father died by it.)

(But with one depressed teenager, barely eighteen, and still of reaping age at the wheel?)

(Well, the shop had seen better days, he could say.)

(So, by the summertime, they were… shutting it down.)

(And there was nothing he could do to turn it around.)

"I can't turn a profit as I am," Fete said. He wouldn't look Gil in the eye. He couldn't, not now. He… he failed them. He failed them all. He brought shame to the Fabergé name.

(Maybe Mourna was right. Was this what she meant? Did she know that he would so fantastically fall apart— was that why she said everything she said? Was that why she was avoiding him?)

(…)

(…so pathetic…)

(…)

(…)

(…)

…and yet, Gil still took his hand.

Fete froze in place as he did this, and the two stared, for a few moments. There was… a nervous tension, as Gil ran his hand over Fete's palm. As he stared him in the eyes, he tried to read Gil's expression. What was he doing? What was he feeling?

Despite everything, Fete could never read GIl. He never could. He was full of surprises— maybe it was part of being a model. Maybe it was part of being him. Fete couldn't tell. That was the point, he never could tell, with Gil.

But the one constant, the one thing he could rely on, the one thing he knew for certain, is that Gil would always say the last thing, the very last thing, in all of Fete's imagination, the last thing he thought they would say.

And he stared him down in his own apartment, now was no exception.

"Then we'll fix it together."

(…)

(…)

(…)

(…he couldn't let him do that.)

(He couldn't let him waste his time on someone like him— like Mourna said, right? He was going to waste his time, fixing the unfixable.)

(…)

(…)

((but he wouldn't be alone, not anymore))

((he wouldn't be alone…))

(…)

Fete merely took Gil's other hand.

And no words had to be said.

---

SCREECH!

The trolley located in Eight's Hub chugged along, leaving its spot near the large wall they always set up around the Town Square on this day, July the first, year after year after year.

And this wasn't any different. It shouldn't have been, after all.

Reaping Day…

(Words, regardless of how far he searched for them in his head, were something that Fete consistently found lacking, when it came to Reaping Day.)

(But he digressed. He supposed, at some point, he had given up on trying to be "eloquent," or whatever.)

(He fucking hated Reaping Day.)

But that wasn't what he was going to say.

No, no. He had a plan. He knew what he had to do this time.

He walked towards the funnel, towards the conglomeration of all of the teenagers lining up for this event, going to enter the Games of death and despair and whatnot. He was eighteen now, so this was the last damn time he would have to do this… and then after today, after this whole, stupid event was over, Fete had a plan. For once, for the first time since he was like nine, Fete had an idea, and the drive to carry it out.

Please tell him… please tell him he could do it.

It was his last hope.

It was the pen closest to the back where the eighteen-year-olds stood. He didn't bother looking for a good place to stand, or a comfortable one, even, he didn't even bother looking through the… hundreds? Thousands? He couldn't tell… instead of looking for his friends. Instead, he just stood back up against the wall, near the exit. Because, as soon as the exhausting speech, delivered by that hideous green woman at the front was over, and all of the names were drawn, and the unlucky pair of children were shipped off to die… he was done. He wouldn't be coming back here. He'd never come back to the Hub, ever again.

He hated this Day.

And this Reaping.

And the whole idea of the Games at all.

(Hadn't it taken enough from him already?)

But that wasn't important. He didn't clap as the escort, that Capitolite with skin a tasteless shade of chartreuse he had never bothered to learn the name of, came on stage. He didn't pay attention to her speech, or the video they displayed every year about how these accursed Games came to be in the first place. He was too busy thinking. Too busy wondering how he was going to pull it off.

He was eighteen. An adult. And he was… he was brilliant. He was creative, and smart… maybe. Look, he was trying his best to be confident… he had to be, if he was going to pull this off.

The Fabergé Wedding Company… was going to be taken back. It would be revived. He would revive it.

He knew he could.

He had to.

And as soon as he was out of contention for these horrible Games once and for all, as soon as he was able to, he'd pay a visit to the bank. Pull out a loan.

Fix himself anew.

(And also feed his cats…)

All he had to do now was wait. Wait for this day to be over, for this event to be stopped. For the green woman to pull out two names, from two bowls, like she always d…

There was… only one bowl?

…why?

"Ladies…" the woman said. For once, he was paying attention to her warbling voice, and that fake, too large smile, full of poisonous saccharine, "…gentlemen, and other esteemed guests… There has been a Change to the Rules!"

OK?

He found it hard to care, not even as everyone surrounding him murmured and whispered and murmured and whispered… he just stared forward, eyes half shut. Was he squinting, glaring, or falling asleep? Who knew!

"From this day on, as mandated by the Head Gamemaker, Sudba Sodaniya himself!" she proclaimed, voice rising higher and more boisterous in a dynamic crescendo, lifting her arms in rejoicement as she practically screamed, "the limit of one boy and one girl… has been broken!"

(what)

The murmurs grew louder and louder, into some panicked screaming, even from the other side, as the chartreuse woman just continued to raise her hands up in utter triumph, as if she had just delivered wonderful tidings over her microphone.

"Yes!" she proclaimed, and Fete just blankly stared, confused, "From this day forth, two contestants shall be drawn from the same bowl, with no regards to gender! Is this not splendid?!"

The crowd roared. Fete couldn't tell from rage or confusion. Perhaps both.

But the chartreuse woman merely plucked an envelope, as she always did, regardless, from her bowl of pain. She didn't care. She would never care, Fete thought, watching her open it. Someone would be shipped to die, right then and there. And she'd never ever care.

And Fete—

"Fete Fabergé!"

(…)

(…what did she just say?)

"Fete Fabergé?"

(…)

(…)

(…the crowd's noise thinned as she said those words. Somberness fell like a blanket.)

(…no.)

(No…!)

(Why?)

"Fete."

(!…)

…he found himself barely walking, just hardly stumbling past the people standing next to him, into the center aisle. It felt like he wasn't awake. Like he wasn't there. He couldn't have been. Not now. This was a… nightmare. It must be. He had too much to drink, yeah? He always had the weirdest dreams after a night like that…

(It wasn't a nightmare. He knew that.)

(He wished he didn't.)

His eyes were wide.

They did not. Blink.

He…

He…

(Of course this happened.)

(Not once, in the history of the world, would anything ever go right for Fete Fabergé of District Eight. The Games… they took. And they took. And they took. This world. It took. It took. And it took. That winter's night. The broadcast of Melanie Pimm. The day the men in suits came to the shop. When the letter appeared on the doorstep. Taking. Stealing. Destroying. Every day, Without. Fail…)

(He was so, so tired… he was exhausted.)

(The day he finally tried had to be this one, then, didn't it?)

(Because everything forbids Fete ever, ever got what he wanted.)

He stepped onto the stage. And the woman smiled. It was a terrible smile.

(That was all he could think about it. He could barely think. Usually he'd think of something more specific, wouldn't he? As she reached into the bowl again, he could think of something to say, to do, to think. The sea of people, watching him. The pit he felt in his brain, the… the… he couldn't even describe it, even now. Because nothing, nothing, nothing could make this worse.)

She pulled out the envelope, and shouted out to the world. Shouted something so loud, so joyous, so horrifyingly happily, it was as if she tried to kill him, right then and there.

"Gil Meshke!"

(…)

(...)

(...)

And, at that moment, Fete Fabergé of District Eight passed out cold on live television.