Jem Piper, 17

He/Him

He awoke to radio static blasting through the living room.

Jem grumbled, rubbing his eyes. "Wha…?"

Across the room, a figure hunched over the radio, fiddling with the knobs. They wore a loose short-sleeved button-up, bandages wreathed along their exposed arms and neck. Their hair, like his, had been shaved off to even out the burned sections. The static turned choppy as they flicked rapidly through stations.

Jem frowned. "The fuck are you doing?"

Vince didn't bother looking up. "Listening to music."

"Here? Now?"

"You're the one who decided to sleep in the living room," they deadpanned. They paused on a station, considering, before moving on to the next. Static replaced the strumming of a guitar. "I've been so patient. I woke up hours and hours ago and you're still sleeping. Go sleep in your bed."

The couch creaked beneath him as he sat up, still mildly disoriented. He glanced out the window: the sun was up, yes, but it was still morning.

"God," Vince muttered, "they only get the shit stations out here."

Jem stared at them.

Vince finally looked up. "Stop doing that."

"Doin' what?"

"Staring at me." Vince held his gaze. A small smirk played on their lips. "Though you always were obsessed with me, I guess…"

Jem scowled. "Turn it off."

"Um, no. I need it."

"I need sleep."

"You just slept for ages!" Vince threw their hands in the air. "Let me have something!"

"You've had enough," Jem snapped.

"What are you, my dad?"

Dimitri finally appeared, yanking open a window from outside and sticking his head through it.

"I can hear you from the yard," he told them. "The hell's going on?"

"They won't let me sleep," Jem said, at the same time Vince said, "I'm just minding my business!"

Jem scoffed. "You can't be serious-"

"What's wrong with listening to music? Do you hate the arts or something?"

"Shut up," Dimitri commanded. "Vince, turn it down and take it upstairs."

"It's a bad radio," Vince argued. "It has to be plugged in down here."

"Jem, sleep upstairs then," Dimitri said.

"But-"

"Oh my god, I almost remember hearing someone say that earlier…" Vince trailed.

Jem shot them a withering look. Vince ignored him.

"The couch isn't good for your back anyway," Dimitri told him. "Need help with the stairs?"

"No," Jem lied. As if even hearing the word stairs didn't make his foot start throbbing.

Dimitri nodded, apparently satisfied with his conflict resolution skills. "Alright. Stop yelling, then."

Before Jem could get another word in, Dimitri stepped back, removing his head from the window and pushing it shut again.

Vince smirked. "Like I said…"

"Fuck off," Jem grumbled.

"You are really not a morning person." They went back to hunching over the radio, their head bowed. Jem couldn't make out their expression, but he was sure they were grinning at his expense.

"I didn't sleep well."

"Sleep's for the weak," Vince said airily. Somehow, they still hadn't found a station they liked.

"I hate you," Jem said. He meant it.

"No shit," Vince answered.

"Being with you here is hell," Jem went on. "I've never hated someone so bad in my life. You're a fucking monster. My friends deserved better than what you gave them and I hate you for it."

(Jem deserved hell, though, didn't he? After what he'd done? After all the lives he'd sacrificed that he had no right to give away?)

Vince was still incredibly focused on the radio.

"Nothing to say?" Jem dared them.

He was ready for another fight, his shoulders curled and fists tight. Instead, Vince's voice was maddeningly soft. "There it is."

"I-"

Vince raised a hand, cutting him off. "This is a good one."

Jem stared at them again, dumbfounded, as the radio speakers began to plink out a tune on a piano. Vince lifted their head, eyes closed. They were fully engrossed by the music. They hadn't listened to a goddamn word he'd said.

"Fuck you," Jem muttered, for good measure. He should've known better than to expect anything else.

Then he pushed himself up onto shaky legs, his foot already protesting. Leaning heavily on the furniture, he maneuvered himself to the stairs.

Stairs had never been daunting to him, before all this. They still shouldn't have been daunting now. He'd been through so much that it shouldn't have bothered him. Somehow, he found room for a little more hate in his heart.

By the time he made it to the top, his neck was plastered with sweat, and his arms shook from the effort. He stumbled forward, leaning against the walls for support. He all but dragged himself into the room he and Vince were supposed to be sharing, then collapsed onto his bed.

It was more comfortable than the couch. The room was also, however, covered in signs of Vince. An unmade bed with a head-sized dent in the pillow. A half-empty bottle of burn ointment with the cap off. The bonnet Vince had asked Mallory for even though they had no hair to put in it. Curtains left wide open, letting morning light spill across the floor.

(Not for the first time, he wondered what his friends would think. The person who'd killed two of his friends and helped torture a third was now his roommate. Would True be disappointed that Jem hadn't tried to kill them again? Would Chevre get on his case for wearing his anger on his sleeve, instead of keeping his plans to himself? Would Jest look at the burns that had settled into his skin like ink and shake his head knowingly?)

(There was part of him that still did want to kill Vince. Sometimes he still jumped when they walked into a room. His fingers itched every time they opened their mouth. But then something would- would happen, and his head would go backwards-)

(-smoke thick choking pain blooming fire lungs blind trapped falling-)

(-hand on his mouth foot dragging along floor dark dark lantern light rumbling knife arm blood stale air dark dark dark-)

(-chevre glass dagger flesh rip blood not his hot sticky chevre arm dead girl bastet scream dead eyes following him watching every step-)

(-and he couldn't do it.)

(It only made him angrier.)

Let me have something. Anything.

(It was all so fucking wrong. His friends lost and the enemy won. His friends were dead and Vince was still alive. He was in District Ten and Sparrow was alone in Nine.)

(And yes, he knew it was stupid. He knew kids died in the Games, that he'd taken risks and deaths were inevitable, but it was all still so fucking unfair. Why couldn't anyone agree with him? Why couldn't Vince even pretend to be sorry?)

Jem's throat clenched, and he wiped stubbornly at his eyes. He was sick of mourning. He'd only known these people for what, two, three weeks? They took up a disproportionate amount of space in his heart, for how long it was. Some of them had already been dead now for longer than he'd known them.

They deserved better than me, he thought, once again not for the first time. And then the tears were leaving his eyes faster than he could wipe them away. This he hated even more than the anger, which made it all the more overwhelming.

In response, the piano music from downstairs became louder, leeching through the floorboards. His tears went hot, and he had the stupid, overwhelming urge to punch the wall. If his body wasn't hurting so badly already, he might've even done it.

Instead he cried himself hoarse, which didn't take long. His throat was still scratchy and raw from smoke. His foot and calf and thigh, too, seemed to throb in time with his pulse. He cradled his head in his arms and fell back, the only one left to hold himself.

Finally, piano ringing in his ears, he fell into a fitful sleep once more.

Tisiphone Fotis, 18

Victor of the 97th Hunger Games

It had taken half the day, but she'd gotten herself together enough to leave her room. She'd woken up, brushed her teeth, showered, changed into clean clothes, and put her leg on, which took most of her energy, but it was done.

She was just about to leave when the sound of voices in the hall, on the other side of her door, stopped her.

"Shut up, Ally."

It was muffled, but unmistakably Meg. Tisiphone paused, her fingers grazing the doorknob, and waited for Ally's response.

"You're being such a bitch about this."

Tisiphone winced, knowing things could only go downhill from here. Somehow, she still couldn't get herself to turn the knob.

"No I'm not," Meg insisted, her voice shrill.

"Then stop siding with her!" came Ally's reply. "She makes her big sad eyes and you and Ari go running like the world's gonna end or something-"

"It's Tiss," Meg interrupted. "It- it's like- I don't like seeing it, I didn't even know she could until-"

"She likes the pity, you know."

"-she did it on TV, she didn't even cry when Mom died-"

"-which was fucked up-"

"-so things are really wrong!" Meg said.

She withdrew her hand from the knob, her fingers closing in a trembling fist.

Tisiphone could almost hear Ally glowering. "You'd be agreeing with me if she didn't win."

"But she did! That's the whole point!" Meg answered.

"She didn't deserve to."

"Ally."

"Once you've left you can't come back," Ally said, her voice whip-sharp.

She heard a sob escape Meg's mouth. "She's our sister too."

Heat blossomed on Tisiphone's palms. She looked down- she had been squeezing her hands so hard that her nails had cut into her skin. She stared at the bloody half-moons, knowing the pain was fainter than it should've been.

(The instinct to slip away was always so strong.)

"Don't you get sick of this?" Meg shouted, breaking her reverie. She wondered how much of the conversation she'd missed. "Hating everyone all the time?"

"Never," Ally retorted.

"I'm so tired of it-"

"I hate her. I hate Ari. I hate you!"

There was a strangled sound- Tisiphone didn't know who from- and then Meg spoke. "You don't mean-"

"I do," Ally interrupted. "You love her more than me. I hate you."

"That's not true," Meg said, her voice barely audible through the door.

Ally said something else, but Tisiphone couldn't make it out. Either way, she was done listening. She forced her fingers to unfurl and close around the cold knob, wrenching it open stiffly. As soon as it opened, her sisters' voices stopped. She made her way down the hall as quickly as she could, ignoring the discomfort in her leg, and went to the kitchen.

Ari was there, doing dishes. "Hey. You look nice," he said. "Hope they didn't wake you. I told them to keep it down, but…"

Her voice came out rough. "They didn't wake me up."

"Oh, good." Ari hummed, wiping a plate dry and stacking it in the cupboard. Then he frowned. "Wait… did you hear…?"

Tisiphone laughed without mirth. "Don't think it's anything new."

"I was trying not to listen," Ari said slowly. "Tisiphone-"

"I don't want to talk about it," she interrupted. She could already feel her throat clenching, trying to shut her down.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," Tisiphone said, more fiercely than she meant to.

Ari caught sight of her hands. "Are you bleeding?"

"It's nothing," Tisiphone insisted, because she'd truly forgotten about it.

"I thought I saw blood-"

"Ari," she said.

"Okay," he conceded, obviously reluctant. "But if someone hit you-"

"No one," Tisiphone said.

"Okay." Ari turned back to his stack of wet dishes, reaching for a bowl. "I got a call today, by the way. It was from Six, I think?"

"Hope he didn't yell at you," she said, her voice flat.

"No, no," Ari answered. "He was very nice. Town was his name, I think?"

"Oh. The other one."

"He wanted me to let you know that you should expect another call," Ari said. He gave her a sideways glance. "Something about an apology."

"I don't need one."

"I think you deserve one," Ari said. "From several people, actually, but one's a good start."

"Ari-"

"Another thing I wanted to ask you," Ari said. "Does the dog have a name…?"

Tisiphone was caught off guard. "What?"

"Well, it doesn't have a collar, and I think it deserves a better name than 'Dog,'" Ari continued. "You found it, so I thought you might want to? Otherwise we'll have to let El name it."

"Does El have good ideas?"

Ari did a quick look around, checking the kitchen for El, before deciding it was all clear. Even then, he lowered his voice. "No."

"Really?"

"I'd rather not call the dog 'Hotdog,'" Ari said. "It doesn't even look like one."

"Fine," Tisiphone said. "I'll think about it."

"Good," Ari said, relieved. "The sooner the better, I think. Otherwise 'Hotdog' might stick."

"Okay," Tisiphone said.

Ari fell quiet, focusing back on his damp pile of dishes. Tisiphone limped over to the sink and ran her palms under the water to keep Ari from bringing it up again. She held them there until the water shifted from pale pink back to clear.

Further in the house, her sisters' voices rose again. They were too far for her to make out the words. She thought she was grateful for that.

Ari gave her a look. "I'd go in there if I thought it would help," he said.

"It wouldn't," she agreed. "Neither would I."

Ari nodded, more to himself than to her. It didn't take him long to change the subject. "Your hands clean?"

"Yes."

"If you could help me sort the utensils, then, that would be nice." He gestured to the heap of silverware piled next to his growing collection of plates. "I washed them already."

Tisiphone shrugged, reaching for the stack. She took her time sorting, occasionally reaching for a rag to dry a spot Ari had missed. She tuned out her sisters' far-off voices, concentrating on the cool metal against her fingers. Every utensil had its place; she arranged them carefully, one by one, letting the simplicity take over.

"I used to crochet," she murmured.

Ari set another plate in his stack. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." She opened the silverware drawer, beginning to transfer the utensils to it.

"What kinds of things?"

She thought back. "Hats. Scarves. Mug holders. A blanket or two… I made the girls cardigans once. And I made El a fish."

"Thinking about starting again?" he asked.

She set the spoons in their place. "Maybe."

"It sounds nice," Ari said. "I hope you do."

Forks, knives, all put away. She slid the drawer shut. "Yeah," she said. "Maybe I will."