III. Hedonism
Malachy Tamaro, 18.
District Seven.
July 3rd, 162 A.D.D.
Down by the river, in a clearing in the thick forests of Seven, the vibrantly coloured silks of the Moondrop Carnival tent stand out like a sore thumb. It's dusk; the path up towards the tent is lined with torches aflame, a crowd already forming outside the main entrance, waiting eagerly to be allowed in. They chitter amongst themselves, excited for even a glance at the Carnival's star-turned-tribute.
Mal's been in the city today, so there's haste in their footsteps as they arrive late to get ready for the show. They would've been here earlier if Yvonne weren't so insistent. He steps in through the back, to the changing rooms where the other performers are already caking their faces in makeup at their vanities. A couple of them turn to see him enter—"Hey, Mal, congrats!" and "One big last show before the main event, eh?"—and he smiles warmly, thanking them each in turn before sitting down at their own dresser. Their drawer is filled with pallets of eyeshadow and cakes of foundation, the routine of applying the signature purple glitter around their eyes second-nature by now. Training at the Whitethorn Guild has eaten up most of Mal's free time for the last four years, but they've always managed to find the time to continue working at the carnival. He doesn't remember the last time he had some time off, but he doesn't mind it in the slightest. There's nothing more important than this, than the chance to truly elevate himself, and all they've worked for these past eight years is finally coming to fruition. Tonight's set to be their biggest show yet—they've advertised all over street-windows and on the tinny radio station that Seven's male tribute for this year is the star of the show, and this is one last opportunity to see him shine before the Games.
(Before Mal returns home either as a supernova or a pile of ashes. On second thought, he's not too sure what the difference is.)
As he's finishing up his makeup he jumps at the sudden sensation of a hand on his shoulder, relaxing as he turns to see it's just Yelena, cloaked in her red ringmaster's suit. She smiles at them, gives them a soft pat. "Sorry for giving you the jump. Ready for tonight, kid?"
Mal smirks in response. "Of course," he says, voice airy as he reaches into an elaborately carved wooden jewellery box to get out their earrings. "You didn't give me the jump."
Yelena crouches beside them, her dark eyes glinting in the warm light of the filament bulbs lining their vanity mirror. "Sure thing. You'll shine bright out there, Mal. Don't let anyone do anything to dim that light."
"Save the sap for the Justice Building, ma," they laugh, clicking all their jewellery in place. (He ignores the slight tremble of his fingers.) Six in each ear and one through his septum, each shining gold and inlet with tiny purple gems. A luxury, for sure, when a jeweller from One moved to town, he couldn't help himself from commissioning the pieces. After all, it's all the more fitting for the carnival's—and Seven's—boy wonder to look the part. They're a career, to be sent off to the Capitol and partake in their morbid spectacle, so it's best they're suitably adorned for the job.
Yelena clicks her tongue. "Yeah, yeah, I know. Still, it's just—ya' last show and all. I—we'll miss you."
He shifts backwards to get to their feet, chair catching a little on one of the many patterned rugs that line the floor. He tightens the silks around his waist as they move towards the passage leading from the changing rooms to the stage—they hear the crowd beginning to file into their seats.
"You shouldn't. You've watched me perform for my whole life, and I haven't faltered yet, have I? Have faith this'll be just the same."
Faith is what's gotten Mal this far. First it was Yelena taking interest in him at the community home, pulling him out of misery and putting the fire in their soul to good use; then it was Yvonne, that one fateful show where she'd seen him perform and requested an audience with him backstage. Of course, that'd been the most nervous Mal's ever been—the tall, sharply dressed woman's known the whole district over for founding the Guild and almost single-handedly raising them to the reputation of career. It's all thanks to her that they've had five victors over just about twenty years, skyrocketing the district out of poverty and into newfound riches. The riches aren't what Mal's interested in, but they'd be lying if they said they weren't a bonus. And maybe it's painfully hubristic of him, but they think their chances are pretty damn good that they'll be coming back here once the Games conclude. Too many people have invested too much in them for him to let them down now. They can't fumble on the biggest stage they'll ever perform on—it wouldn't just reflect poorly on the Guild, but on the whole Carnival, too, the people who took him in when he was nothing and gave them opportunities they couldn't otherwise dream of.
As they make their way down the mazes of silk-lined passages, Yelena follows, as do other performers who aren't already congregated backstage. Their rag-tag band ruffle his hair and pat him on the back as they make themself apparent, making idle chatter about their excitement to see him perform. Sure, Mal's been practising for tonight's show for weeks, but they've also been exceedingly busy with training since their selection, and they haven't seen most of the Carnival members since their last show over a month ago. It's nice to be in their company again, one last time before they truly make it big. Hopefully with their victory they'll skyrocket the Moondrop Carnival to national levels of fame, not just known throughout District Seven but all of Panem…
It's a dream. One that, with all hope, Mal will grasp with all their might and pull into reality. He owes them that much.
(He's desperate for it. He can't keep putting on shows in the middle of nowhere forever.)
Yelena smirks, taking her cane and waltzing through the curtains to a cheering crowd. Mal sneaks a peek, seeing hundreds of bodies crammed into the tent, not a single empty seat to be seen. "Welcome, District Seven, to the grand and spectacular Moondrop Carnival! Let me hear some noise!"
Mal hears the crowd roar as he takes his scimitars and waits for his cue. Main event that he is, he's last up to the stage; they watch as each performer enters the ring. Their acts wow the crowd—trapeze, tightrope, contortion and fire breathing, each eliciting more gasps of awe and amazement. They follow Pyre, one of Moondrop's star acrobats, up the ladder to the rafters, knowing they'll make their entrance from above; he wishes them best of luck (—not that they need it—) as he enters the ring, leaving them to sit and fiddle with the silks of their lavish outfit in anticipation.
"And now, it's time for the man you've all been waiting for—" booms Yelena, her arm outstretched. Knowing it's their cue, he secures the length of silk that hangs from the centre of the ceiling around their middle, scimitars in each hand. "—Malachy Tamaro, tribute of the 162nd Hunger Games!"
Without waiting another beat, Mal makes an elegant drop from the rafters. The crowd gasps as they seemingly materialise from thin air, swinging in a circle over their heads with a grin on his face. Letting momentum carry them seamlessly through the air, they lean backwards and begin juggling their swords—one fumble and they'll fall into the crowd beneath them, surely giving an innocent spectator a horrific injury—but they don't fumble, keeping it up, only stopping as the radius of their arc around the tent begins dwindling. Before they can come to a stop, they throw one scimitar high into the air, the other used to slice the silk they hang by; they twist their body as to do a backflip before they hit the ground, just in time to catch the falling scimitar in their free hand.
The crowd is awed by their entrance. Malachy revels in it, letting their love wash over him like rain. He's right where he's meant to be.
(It's still not enough.)
The troupe bows, showered in flowers and dollar bills, as they conclude their performance. Yelena thanks the crowd for their generosity before the entire troupe circles Mal and hoists him into the air to more raucous applause.
"Everyone, make sure to support your volunteers this year! This has been Malachy Tamaro — don't forget the name!"
(Don't forget. Please don't forget me.)
As the crowd files out of the tent and the troupe make their way backstage, Mal stops in his tracks as he sees the two people he almost forgot would be here. Yvonne stands tall and proud, a soft but knowing smile painted on her lips. At her side, Mal's district partner for the upcoming Games, Eunbyeol, maintains her usual subdued expression, but she still looks impressed. It's an expression she hasn't regarded him with before now, and he flushes discretely.
"Fabulous display, Malachy," his mentor utters. "An excellent glimpse at your showmanship. I convinced a number of wealthy benefactors with ties to the Capitol to come tonight, and they're ready to throw their cash our way to help Seven emerge victorious this year."
"Second year in a row," Eunbyeol adds, tucking a strand of her light brown hair behind her ear. "It's only a shame the attention's mostly on you, Mal."
Her tone is playful, a smirk planted on her painted lips. They know she used to do something similar, dance or some sort, but she no longer finds interest in it. If she'd asked to join the troupe, he's sure they'd have obliged. "Capitol's an equal playing field, Byeol. I'm sure you can show 'em what's what when we're there together."
"In fact, I'm sure of it," Yvonne interrupts. She pats Mal on the cheek twice, an almost motherly gesture, then returns her attention to Eunbyeol. "Well, we'll let you get back to it. Just wanted to say hi before tomorrow. Ten sharp, you know where your seats are."
Mal nods sharply. He and Eunbyeol are to sit at the front of the crowd of Seven's teenagers, ready to volunteer and make their way to the stage within only a few seconds. Seven's not got as many hopeful rogues as the other career districts, but it's a precaution, and another way to integrate. By this point, they're true careers—Yvonne's made sure of that. The only thing they have to worry about now is recency bias thanks to Beauden's win last year.
There are a few tearful goodbyes with other members of the troupe—too many of them to fit them all in tomorrow morning—but Mal remains in high spirits. Whatever affections they hold for him are nice and all, but expected. He won't lose sleep over them.
What Mal doesn't expect, however, is the boy who stands waiting outside the tent's back entrance, brows furrowed in distaste and arms crossed tightly against his chest.
"Shavon," they laugh nervously. His brother's face is one they haven't seen in years, but they know it's him. They'd always know it was him. "Hey, kiddo. Long time, no see?"
"Cool show, Mal," he says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "I bet throwing swords and balancing on tight-ropes is really gonna help you win the Games."
The smile that previously adorned Mal's face drops.
"Is there something wrong?" Yelena asks, materialising from the tent's exit behind Mal. Her face is etched with surprise as she sees the two boys, looking at Mal quizzically.
"Go on, ma. I'll follow you home."
Shavon barks a laugh, incredulous. "Ma? Mal, that's not your fucking ma! Our ma's dead, and you really don't give a shit! When are you gonna stop running away, Mal? That's all you're doing by volunteering—running away, because nothing's ever enough—"
"Shut up," Mal seethes, trying not to raise his voice. "Shut up and just go home, Shav. I don't want to hear it."
The younger boy sighs loudly, raising up his hands in annoyance. "Fine. Fine. I thought maybe, just maybe you'd reconsider, before you go and throw your life away—leaving me for good! Did you ever think of that, Mal? Ever think of me, at all, since you left? Of fuckin' course you didn't. And I bet when you win you'll spend all your time whoring yourself to the Capitol, like you never gave a shit about me or mom or home. That's fucked, Mal."
Mal feels their hands uncharacteristically ball into fists. What the fuck does he know? Shavon was the one who'd decided to stay in the past, shackled to the circumstances of their birth, unable to move onwards and forge his own path. Mal did all he could, and it'd never been enough for his brother. Even now, he thinks he can drag Mal back into the past, keep him here, where he's constantly reminded that he's not enough—
Yelena takes his hand and leads him away before the gasket bursts.
(Malachy won't give up his dreams for anything, for anyone. They're the only one that matters in their own life—nobody can take that away from them. Not even family.)
Falkner Kang, 18.
District Four.
July 3rd, 162 A.D.D.
There's nothing more beautiful than watching the sun dip below the water's edge on a warm summer's night. Pinks and oranges wash the sky, reflecting a glimmering white beam on the waves' surface; a few moments of otherworldly bliss before the deep blue tinge of night finally sets in.
It'll likely be Falkner's last like this. Better make it count.
"Hey, Falk! Get your ass over here!"
Falkner turns to see the large group of trainees who've set up on the beach for the night. There must be twenty or so in all, without a care in the world as they throw driftwood on the bonfire that burns brightly, laughing and drinking. He's not sure which one yelled at him, but it doesn't matter. Falkner isn't the sort of person who remembers names.
"Just a minute," Falkner shouts back, ignoring the sounds of dissent twenty feet behind him. They've been partying all day; he drank four beers earlier, but the tipsy haze has begun to wear off already. By design, though—it's his favourite time of day, and he'll be damned if he doesn't get to experience it fully for the final time before the reaping.
Everything's been a mess lately, which is why his whole cohort is here together. Four's training centre, Tethys, has basically abandoned them to the wayside. Things have been going downhill for years, a deep rot at the core of the district's system exposed by their last victor only festering over the last few chaotic years. Falkner's not sure if Tethys will survive the year—they weren't even able to pull their shit together enough to go through with volunteer selection rites. Part of the reason why they're all here tonight, really. They're picking themselves.
As the final vestiges of light are buried beneath the waves, Falkner heaves himself up onto his feet with a sigh. He stares out again at the sea, just for a moment—the waters are calm and empty, a far cry from how they are most days, busy with fishing trawlers and the occasional Capitolite cruise.
(If he looks hard enough, he can almost see the bolts of lightning from that fateful storm strike the sea, churning and violent, his family still out there. They're always still out there.)
Falkner shakes himself off, turning back to rejoin the group. They're in a better place. I will be soon, too.
"About time you stopped brooding, Falkner!" One girl drunkenly laughs. "C'mon, you're usually the liiife of the party!"
He barks out a laugh of his own, accepting a drink someone hands to him, a brown bottle with a wedge of lime poking out from the top. "Yeah, yeah, I'll go back to normal now," he says, pushing the lime down and taking a swig. Beer and tequila, he thinks, licking his lips. Interesting—not bad, though. Will definitely get him fucked up just the way he likes it.
He sits on a log of driftwood, not caring for the slightly uncomfortable poking of dry bark, and the trainee next to him slings his arm around Falkner's shoulders, the smell of rum thick on his breath. "Drink up; you've got a lot to catch up on."
Falkner turns to face the boy, raising a coy eyebrow. "I was gone for ten minutes."
"Ten too many!"
He playfully shoves the other boy away, laughing as he does. When there are so many people gathered together, it's easy for Falkner to forget his worries and live solely in the moment. Decent company, alcohol in his veins, laughter and noise from every direction—it does wonders for tuning out the noise rattling around in his head.
Falkner, you should be thinking about your future. You have people who rely on you! Don't just go throwing your life away!
Falkner, it's pathetic how the only thing that gets you up in the morning is the promise of cheap thrills. Shouldn't you focus on what's important?
Falkner, nobody gives a fuck about you, most of all yourself. And that's the worst thing about it! How can you expect to be loved when all you do is wallow in your own misery and shove people away when they try to help you?
He takes another swig of his drink. Enough with that. He's meant to be having a good time.
Opposite him, a tall girl—Cordelia, maybe…? He thinks he's seen her a couple times before—stands up, wobbles slightly, and clears her throat loudly. "We're all here, right?"
It looks like a few more people have showed up since Falkner came back from the shoreline. The girl doesn't wait for anyone to answer before she continues. "We're all here for one thing tonight! Picking out who the fuck is gonna throw their life away tomorrow!"
Hollers and cheers sound out through the gaggle of teenagers, Falkner joining in with the ruckus.
"I'd like to hear from everyone who wants to go into the Games! If nobody fuckin' does, we'll just spin the bottle and if it lands on you, tough shit!"
Everyone laughs, but Falkner's is more subdued. He wants the Games—needs them. Sure, it's largely because he's an impulsive son of a bitch and the Hunger Games and the wildest thrill he can think of, but still!
(There are more reasons, too, more important reasons, but they're not ones he'll entertain right now. He can't go spiralling out of control when he has to try to prove himself to his peers.)
Falkner's beaten to the punch by a boy about five people to his right. He stands, steadying himself by gripping someone's shoulder, and declares: "I'll show everyone what's what! Those fuckin' outer vols, ruining everything… and tell Four too that we're worth investing in! They can't let our traditions die like this!"
Falkner sits idly by as a few people jeer, though Cordelia(?) simply calls out "What the fuck's your name?"
That would have been a good start, he thinks as the boy slurs something nigh-incomprehensible. He's botched his attempt, that's for sure, because everyone laughs at him, a girl to his side pulling him back down to sit on the sand beside her, hissing something into his ear.
He waits for another person to stand and make their points, but they're sort of pathetic, something about having to impress his parents. Nobody seems to give a shit. As another guy begins to make his case, someone comes up behind Falkner and shakes him with a start—he turns to see one of his frequent partners, Beckett, a grin on his face.
"Hey, handsome. Not putting yourself forward?"
"It's fun to watch everyone fight among themselves for the moment," he replies, scooching over to allow the other boy to sit at his side. "But I'm considering just letting things play out."
"What?" Beckett says, disbelieving. "But I thought…"
Falkner puts up a hand defensively. "Oh, no, you thought right. I just don't wanna explain why I wanna volunteer to all these people. It'll keep them all on their toes when I'm the first up to the stand in the morning."
Beckett's mouth opens in a wide 'oh' shape, nodding slowly. "I see, I see. That's a fun idea."
Falkner may love external validation, but he loves the adrenaline rush of doing something entirely unexpected even more. It's not abnormal for him to keep his reasonings for his actions to himself—Falkner, why the fuck would you jump off a cliff? For fun? Do you have a death wish? Why don't you care about anyone's feelings but your own?—God, shut up—and this is no different.
(Maybe he does have a death wish. But he knows for a fact that if he doesn't volunteer in twelve hours time, he'll have truly lost all hope. There's no future for Falkner Kang unless he wins the Games, so he might as well take that chance, however slim it may be.)
"Yeah," Falkner laughs, taking another swig of his drink. "Nobody will see it coming. Well, apart from you, that is."
"Oh, I'm great at keeping secrets. My lips are zipped, don't worry." Beckett whispers, leaning closer. He plants a teasing kiss on Falkner's jaw, and he playfully shoves Beckett away. The boy pouts and rolls his eyes. Falkner may have slept with him on numerous occasions, but he's not especially up to it tonight, not when much more pressing things are on his mind. Ahead of them, Cordelia(?) calls them all to attention—apparently two of the boys want to fight it out for the spot. Oh, watching this'll be fun, knowing neither of them will really have a chance. The crowd parts as the trainees stumble away from the fire, everyone turning to watch them square up on the now-cold sand.
Falkner doesn't recognise either of them. Why would he? It might be the alcohol and the darkness obscuring his vision, but when everything's temporary, why care for the details? Beckett and Falkner's other two main lovers are lucky he remembers their names, but only because if he didn't it'd make things unnecessarily complicated. He doesn't have fun when everything's a walk in the park, but he knows when it'd be stupid to sabotage himself.
Falkner, that's a fucking lie. You love sabotaging yourself. Look at you, not stepping forward to make your claim in front of the people you've trained alongside for years. What'll all of them think when you act under their noses and take the spot someone else will have rightfully earned? God, you're so selfish.
A few minutes pass and one of the boys is sprawled out on the sand, clutching at his face, hand coming away bloody in the warm light of the bonfire. Cordelia(?) rushes over to announce the victor of their scrap as her champion. "And I'll ask everyone to respect this! We've respected the Board's elections each year, and this is no different!"
You're gonna take it from someone who's actually earned it. How shitty can you get?
He shakes his head, shaggy hair flopping in front of his eyes. No matter how he wills the thoughts to leave, they never do. Why is it worse now than it's been in years?
Because whatever happens now will be your fault.
"It won't," Falkner mutters to himself.
"Huh?"
"Oh,"—did he just say that out loud?—"sorry, it's nothing."
Beckett rolls his eyes with a light-hearted scoff. "You're so fucking weird."
"Weirdly fuckable, right?"
Soon enough, Cordelia(?)'s clapping her hands to attention. Whoever steps forward to represent the girls' slot doesn't matter to Falkner, though he'd like a district partner who at least knows how to live it up a little. Tributes from Four are rarely snoozefests, and if they're here, they certainly aren't, but he can't be sure if someone just like him'll take the opportunity to snipe a place.
A couple of familiar faces (unfamiliar names) step forward, talking about the Capitol and the outers and fucking Four and whatever else that Falkner tunes out. It's more of the same. Trainees nod and drink more—Falkner's now moved on to a half-full bottle of wine, and he bores so much of the drivel that he begins reading the label—from some fancy vineyard in One with an unpronounceable name, something about plums and cinnamon, but he can't actually read very well when the light's dim and his vision's starting to blur. He only really snaps out of it when a figure jumps down from the pier onto the beach, making themself apparent by parting the sea of people and standing before the bonfire with their hands on their hips. The arguments and speeches stop.
"Is this where yer sorting out volunteers?" She says, voice seeming to carry over the crowd. The stranger holds herself with a remarkable posture, commanding attention with her bright eyes and imposing frame. Her defined arms are on full display, and Falkner can only wonder how they got so built without ever seeing them at Tethys.
"Y-yeah!" Cordelia(?) responds, off to the newcomer's left.
"Oh, good. Was worried I was in the wrong place."
"No, no, you're good," someone else says, words slurring together. "You wanna drink?"
"'Course," she says, taking the first bottle handed to her. She carries herself with such an air of owning the place that it makes Falkner grimace a little. She doesn't even flinch as she makes direct eye contact with him.
Why can't you do that?
"Who are you?" Someone asks.
"Micaiah," the girl grunts, "and I'm volunteering tomorrow. So nobody even try it. Capiche?"
Falkner guesses that the group of trainees are too confused by her sudden apparition to fight back. Questions are flung her way—you never trained, did you? Why would you want to volunteer if you're not a career? Who the fuck are you?
Whoever she is, she's got more guts than you do, Falkner.
He'll fall back into the comfort of the bottle, of the arm snaked around his waist and the chaos of the evening. If she does take the stand with him come morning, he'll have plenty of time to figure her out whilst sober. It isn't worth wasting his energy on trying to work her out right now when he wants to enjoy his final night of normalcy, if he could even call it that, before everything changes forever.
(Better hope the Capitol provides him with good company and a fun time, because if it doesn't, Falkner fears the cracks in his mind will widen and shatter open, leaving him more exposed than he could ever be tangled in someone else's sheets or drowning in the open ocean.)
Nerium Katsura, 18.
District Eleven.
July 3rd, 162 A.D.D.
It isn't like Nerium expected to feel good waking up in a stranger's bed, but there's always some hope that the next day will be better than the last.
(It never is.)
Light streams in through the thin curtains off to his side and Nerium rolls over to shield his face. Lately the headaches have been getting worse, and he knows it's not just because of the hangover, though that probably isn't helping much. He definitely doesn't remember much of last night, which he takes as a sign that he probably had a good time—off to his left, he sees two bodies still sleeping, limbs tangled together, and he sighs.
(He should probably get his shit together.)
Trying not to move too fast as he sits up—he always feels woozy after making sudden movements—he scooches off the side of the bed, pulling on last night's dirtied clothes and leaving the room. This is a common occurrence: find a warm body or two to spend the night with, and leave without another word as soon as it's bright outside. There are never any strings attached, which is just the way he likes it.
(It isn't like he can afford to make any real connections when he can feel his body shutting down more and more each day. It wouldn't be fair, now he's painfully aware of how fleeting his life is.)
The apartment's a mess, liquor bottles and half-full glasses littering most surfaces, teenagers Nerium vaguely recognises still asleep on couches in the living room. The front door is slightly ajar when he reaches it—has it been open all night? Eh, who cares—and he has to cling to the railing of the stairwell to make it down to the ground floor in one piece. Damn this block not having an elevator, how did he even get up there?
The sun is already beating down outside—he has to reach a hand up to shade his eyes when he steps out onto the street, trying to orient himself and figure out where the fuck he is in the sprawl of Eleven's biggest city. He knows he'll have to catch a bus to make it back home to the orchard—he hopes he has the change for it, it isn't like he checked before he went out last night. If he had the choice, he wouldn't go home at all today—he's spent his fair share of nights at Ignea's dorm when their parents were too much to handle, but his semester ended a week ago, and he needs to see his siblings before the reaping. It isn't as if he's close enough with any of his hookups to stay at their places for very long, too.
(If he did, they'd notice more was off about him, and he'd rather hold them all at arm's length, force them to see Nerium only at his best. He's fine, totally! Nothing is wrong with Nerium Katsura. Why would anyone think otherwise when he acts so carefree?)
Everything feels like it takes a lot longer nowadays. It's annoying more than anything else—he has his good days and his bad days, the latter of which have been more frequent as of late. Nothing they've tried has helped—his father's herbal remedies or Ignea's insistence on taking him to a big-city doctor have both done nothing to make him feel better or even give him the faintest idea of what's going on with his body. Nerium's not sure how much more of the powerlessness he can take. He makes it to the bus stop, trying not to drag his feet too much on the way. Sitting with slumped shoulders as he waits for it to arrive, he finds himself staring absent-mindedly at the tattoos that line his hands. Since he started really getting sick, he's done anything he can to distract from the fact. Knowing the source of the pain helps. It feels like autonomy.
(He's really only got one more chance to maybe, maybe fix himself—he's eighteen, after all. With nothing in Eleven to help with his plight, he only really sees one more path to having control over his fate.)
The bus out of town goes on a circuit around the nearby farmsteads, a couple of hours that Nerium almost dozes off during. There isn't much to see out the window of the rickety tin death-machine other than endless fields of crops, produce ripening in the July sun ready to be picked once Games season's over. Everyone else on the bus seems to be in similar moods to him—staring off into nowhere, or napping with a hat pulled down to shield their eyes from the sun, or reading the paper. A radio hooked up to a staticy speaker system above their heads runs a feed from the Capitol—hustle and bustle, a new Master of Ceremonies gushing about the upcoming Games and what they can expect from the reapings tomorrow. Nerium sinks further in his seat, watching as a woman near the front of the bus tightly grasps her daughter's hand as the topic begins broadcasting. He should probably be listening in—after all, he'll be in the Capitol before long.
"Last year we had ten volunteers! It was one hell of a Games, seeing a narrow career victory from District Seven yet again. I've heard Beauden has been involved in coaching his tributes since they were selected, even if he isn't strictly mentoring them—he's been working hard to give his district the best shot at bringing home two victors in a row, it seems! Head Gamemaker, should we expect more outer districts to follow District Seven's example this year, too?"
"I believe that'll be likely, yes… the government has really been putting their all into the campaign. We may have some future volunteers listening in now, who have been waiting to show the tenacity of their districts. We may even reach the President's target of twelve—that's where we want it to be, as we work towards transitioning the Games to an entirely voluntary event."
Nerium isn't volunteering for the reasons the government seems to be pushing. He's done no training, isn't doing it to make Eleven a career district. In fact, it's likely he'll fall short of their every expectation and die early. And he isn't doing it for selfless reasons, either; it just so happens that when he raises his arm tomorrow he'll be saving some kid. More a bonus than anything.
(But that small chance that he's going to make it keeps him moving forward. That the Capitol's medicine would be able to cure whatever's killing him. That glimmer of hope, however small. He has so much to lose that he can't afford waiting for things to just get better here.)
̶(̶A̶n̶d̶ ̶i̶f̶ ̶h̶e̶ ̶d̶i̶e̶s̶…̶ ̶w̶e̶l̶l̶,̶ ̶h̶e̶ ̶w̶a̶s̶ ̶g̶o̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶a̶n̶y̶w̶a̶y̶.̶)̶
He's lucky he doesn't miss his stop. He says a quick thanks to the driver as he stumbles off the bus and down the dusty packed-in road to the Katsura family orchard, their large house one of a handful along this strip that lease a few hectares of fruit-bearing trees that stretches towards the horizon. It's almost picking season, so within a few weeks his siblings will be out in the fields, doing the hard manual labour their parents had them for. The last two years it's been nearly impossible for Nerium to sustain it, but he knows they'll be expecting him to be out there regardless.
(If he makes it out, somehow, he'll have to take his siblings with him. Once upon a time life with his parents was bearable, but now, all there is between them is bitter resentment, the refusal to believe that their son could be sick, their refusal to help him. He's dead weight, not doing enough work to earn his keep under their roof. They tell him that he's the reason Vi and Zinnia have to take out more tesserae, that it's his fault if any of them get reaped.
He doesn't want to think about what'll happen to his siblings if he doesn't come home, so he simply pushes the possibility to the back of his mind.)
The door's unlocked when he turns the handle, and he immediately hears Zinnia rushing towards the foyer from the kitchen. She's still got her flour-covered apron on as she tackles him around his middle. Though she's almost fourteen—she's basically half his height—it doesn't stop the hug from taking some of the wind out of him. Still, he grins and hugs her back.
"Neri, you got home just in time! I picked some of the more ripe peaches early and decided to bake a pie for before the reaping tomorrow."
There's a glint in her eye that warms his heart, and he pulls away to squat to her level. "That sounds delicious," he says, ruffling her hair before taking an exaggerated whiff of the air. "Smells delicious too!"
"There should be enough for everyone—I'll let you take a nibble before dinner tonight, but don't tell mom."
"My lips are sealed, prommy."
"Pinky prommy?"
Nerium locks pinkies with his little sister, and she shakes them once before letting go. "Vi's in the living room if you wanna say hi."
Like Nerium himself, Vi's hardly home nowadays. Even with school out for the next few weeks, they're usually in town with friends, wanting to be away from their parents for similar reasons to himself. When he sees them lounging on the couch with their sketchbook resting on their knees, he decides to sneak up on them and shake their shoulders from behind, earning a squeak and a quick slap with their free hand.
"Ow, fuckin' hell, Vi, that's gonna bruise!"
"Maybe you shouldn't sneak up on me then, idiot!" Their expression softens quickly enough. "C'mere, ya big doof. You went out again last night?"
Nerium would hop over the back of the couch if he had the stamina, but he simply does not, so instead he ambles around the side and flops down next to them. "How could you tell?"
(They don't even know he's sick. Well, maybe they do—they're smart, like Ignea is. But he hasn't told them anything. He's their cool older brother, and the last thing he wants is their pity.)
"Just a hunch," they shrug, turning their attention back to the sketchbook on their lap. "Did you get any new tattoos?"
He cracks up a little. "I don't get a new tattoo every time I leave the house."
"That's a shock to me."
"Hey. I'm not even sure what I'd get next, honestly."
(Last time he went under the needle, his skin turned a deep shade of purple, blood dribbling from the fresh black lines on his throat. "Is this normal?" he'd asked his artist, who'd replied, "most people bleed at least a little, but never this much." The bruise didn't go away for weeks. It's like his body was telling him please, stop hurting me. I'm already decaying. He hadn't planned on listening to it.)
Vi taps their chin with their pencil. "I could draw a design up for you. You could go get it done after the reaping, as a little present to yourself for making it all the way through."
A nervous laugh escapes his lips. "I'd love that," he forces himself to say.
(He would. He really would. They just don't know that he's running out of time.)
Vi opens their mouth, but cuts themself off as they notice their mother standing in the doorway. Lycia Katsura's brows are furrowed, her mouth a thin line as she makes eye contact with her second-eldest child. Nerium blinks a couple times, looking between her and Vi.
"Nerium. Nice of you to come home."
Vi looks cautiously between Nerium and their mother before sighing and rolling their eyes. Nerium doesn't have time to respond before his mom starts up the staircase, and he heaves himself off the couch, following anxiously.
His mom's office is small, but it's enough for her to be able to do all the paperwork for the produce they sell to Eleven's distributors and it's where she takes the kids when she needs to privately scold them. Nerium sits awkwardly across from her cluttered desk, and when she sits opposite him, she sighs in exasperation.
"Nerium," she begins, rubbing her right temple, "we need to discuss some things."
"I know."
"After tomorrow, we're losing out on your tesserae, and we simply can't afford to… manage… your condition. Either you get over it and pull your weight, stop messing around in the city all the time drinking and inking your money away, or you move out. I don't have the capacity to support you anymore."
He knew something like this was gonna happen. Not that it matters, anyway.
"I understand, mom."
"Do you, though?"
(He won't be a problem for them after tomorrow; that, he knows.)
"Yeah. I'll pull my weight."
"You've said this before, Nerium. Multiple times, actually. I don't have the patience for it anymore."
(He could argue with her. He could spit in her face that she's the one who hasn't been pulling her weight, not taking him seriously, not believing that he's sick when the proof is right there in his ashen cheeks and thinning skin and jutting bones.
He thinks he'll save his breath.)
"I don't really have any option but to, now do I?"
"No," his mother sighs. "You don't."
(He does. It isn't one he'll tell her, though.)
He leaves his mother in the office, not another word spoken. His headache's only gotten worse with that conversation, and he doubts it'll get any better. He rubs at the base of his neck, leaning up against the doorframe, when he sees the door to Aster and Cordata's room ajar—he might as well see them, too.
(They might have the rest of today, and their goodbyes in the Justice Building come morning, but he'll be damned if he doesn't spend as much time in this moment as he can before it dissipates into thin air.)
When he looks into the room, Aster's the only one there, playing with little wooden blocks as any five year old is to do. "Hey, little buddy."
"Hi," he responds, giving Nerium a little wave. Nerium purses his lips together and sits himself down on the warped planks. He hopes he doesn't regret what he's about to say. He won't—Aster's only a kid, and he doesn't talk all that much. It isn't like he'll go blabbering to mom.
"I just wanted to tell you before morning," he starts with a sigh, keeping his voice as low as possible so that the rest of their family won't hear through the thin walls, "that tomorrow might be the last time you see me."
Aster cocks his head to the side, raising his little eyebrows. "Why's that?"
"Well, your big brother's going to the Capitol to be on TV."
The little guy nods, but it's clear he doesn't really understand.
(It's why he's telling Aster and not his other siblings. Everyone else understands what the Hunger Games are, and they'd try to talk him out of this. He doesn't need anyone trying to save him at this point.)
"And I might have to stay there. So you need to be really brave. It's going to be a little confusing at first, but I know you can handle it."
(Aster might not even remember he had another brother when he's older.)
"Okay," he says, continuing to play with his toys. "I hope you have fun."
"Yeah," Nerium says, a wobble to his voice that he can't really help. "I hope so too."
(His choice is made. He will have fun—he'll have the best time of his life. One last hurrah, even if his brain simply refuses to compute the fact that such a thing implies he'll be dead soon.
Nerium isn't ready to die. There's so much to live for. Even so, he'd rather risk a violent and early end in the Games than experience a slow, inevitable death in Eleven. It's not like he has anything to lose.)
Bet you thought you'd seen the last of me.
so my channel in verses was on the block. i had to resort to drastic measures. and so, welcome to tgts intros 2! its about fucking time, right! i'm actually getting over myself for real now, so expect semi-regular updates from now on for real okay! ive got my wonderful friends to hold me accountable to that. and talking of friends, i hope you enjoyed finally meeting my cringefail sons, submitted by phobie timesphobic, paradigm paradigm of writing, and laney mykindleisawesome respectively. theyre my princesses.
love you for sticking around if youre reading this. thanks for putting up with my neurotic ass. please hold me to posting intros 3 within the next month.
LOL (lots of love)
erik xoxo