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quintus 'quin' yamamoto, d1 victor of the 79th hunger games. intro.

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@camisadi
dependant blog for mockingjaysfm. penned by isa.
quintus 'quin' yamamoto, d1 victor of the 79th hunger games. intro.
closed for quintus yamamoto ( @camisadi )
set after the reaping for the 92nd games
it’s not about me. it’s what runs through his head when he visits his childhood home after the reaping. as soon as he enters through the foyer, he already feels as though he can’t get away fast enough. he’s filial enough to stay long enough to help his mother choose between two outfits for her next social function and listen to his father’s latest project at work. he nicks one of his father’s most expensive whiskeys on his way out, and tempers it by hugging both of his parents at the door. the familiar refrain to make them proud lingers in the cold winter air like a cloud of breath.
it’s late by the time felix reaches quintus’s accommodations. the guards don’t even raise an eyebrow as they buzz him past the door; there nothing too strange about an escort visiting a mentor on the cusp of the 92nd games, after all. once quin lets him in, felix toes off his shoes and collapses onto the chaise in the living room, not unlike stage curtains coming to rest. the dramatization is deliberate—it hides the fact that he’s been tense with anxiety all evening. he didn’t bother to drink at the party; he knew that the trembling of his hands as he attempted to hold a drink would give him away. but it’s not about him.
“have a drink with me, quin. it’s the good stuff.” he gives the victor a wry smile. “i nicked it from my father. even i wouldn’t spend what this costs on something like alcohol.”
Felix comes to him after Quintus has shed his reaping suit, after the parties and the glamour. He comes with a certain vulnerability, shown in socked feet and the way he sinks into the chaise. Not many people, Quintus thinks, see Felix this way: made softer by contrast and the day's weight on his shoulders.
Most importantly, he comes with a gift. Quin takes the bottle as he passes him on his way to the bar, chances a look at the label and finds that he's unfamiliar. "This is wasted on me," he notes, but doesn't let it go to waste: once uncorked, he takes his first sip straight from the bottle, like the savage he knows Felix's father thinks he is.
It really is good stuff, in the way everything they serve in the Capitol goes down smooth. Quintus finds them glasses, adds ice to Felix's and none to his, and fills them with a pour so generous he almost spills it when he carries it over. When he clinks his glass against the one he hands over, it almost sounds like the end of a countdown, or a fired cannon.
In a better mood, with skin that isn't still crawling, he might've crowded Felix on the chaise. Tonight he takes the armchair opposite him, lets himself sprawl the way he never would in public. "Happy fucking hunger games, Felix," he toasts, and then drains half his drink in a long swallow. Back home, this would be the point where he'd start thinking about media strategies. "Your parents enjoy the show?"
there was an unspoken rule icarus had long kept to when it came to sparring: he'd put up a good fight, but he wouldn't try to win. maybe it was easier to accept a loss if he never competed, but more than that, it kept icarus from considering just how good he used to be at this, and how much the leg got in the way now.
getting knocked to the mat didn't knock any sense into him. he could've easily gone for another round, until blood was drawn, until he felt like he'd somehow earned it. but when quintus held out his hand instead, icarus huffed and grab ahold, pulling himself up. he wasn't quite upright, though; the bad leg had him bending over a little, the limb awkwardly curled to keep weight off it.
"a good fight, not a fair one," icarus hummed, joked. "you're beating up a one-legged man when you could've just gone back into the arena, quin. now that would be a good fight."
he swallowed down a question that he already knew the answer to. he was going to ask why quintus hadn't volunteered at the reaping-- it would've felt like asking himself why he hadn't volunteered at all. still, icarus considered that he would've, if given the chance now. the games had lost some of their glamour to him, but they only existed as a hypothetical now, one he would indulge for the sake of it. like he could claim some wrung-out honour back if only he said loudly enough that he would go into the games now, if given the chance. he brushed some hair from his sweaty forehead, sighed deeply.
"i'm worried you're gonna make me do this more often now that your selection of people to beat up in the tower is dwindling. next year's gonna be hellish with so many victors gone." it sat odd on his tongue to discuss it so casually, but he had forced it past his teeth regardless.
"What, man," Quintus said, and then let out the startled laugh of a man who'd never once considered himself at a disadvantage. "You're saying you're easy prey?"
In some ways - the ones Quintus wouldn't voice, because he'd learnt to swallow his opinions and he valued Icarus' friendship, or whatever else it was between them - Icarus was. Despite the height and weight he had on Quintus, the bad leg wasn't doing him any favours. Neither was his attitude. It'd take a fool to assume Icarus wasn't pulling his punches, and a worse one to think that Quintus fought at his best when faced with this sort of opposition, but there was a mentality they shared. Icarus was good at rolling with the punches, if nothing else, and wore defeat like a favourite, washed out shirt.
Quintus stepped back, letting go of Icarus once he'd found steady ground beneath his feet, and started on the usual routine of light stretches. Icarus' comment went momentarily unanswered as Quintus mulled it over. Then he clicked his tongue with distaste. "I don't like beating up victors."
And it was true; there was a different energy to it when you faced someone who'd fought for their life before, a desperation to the way each of them moved. Like the silhouette of memory, mirrored over their vision: a feint on the mat turning into a deadly strike in the arena. With Icarus, who'd never faced violence like that, it was different. There was more satisfaction in facing a target who reminded him of the boys he'd trained with, cocky and self-assured and untouched by what the future would hold.
There were many things Quintus could say. Icarus understood him in ways many other friends didn't. But that hollow spot in his chest wasn't something he could put into words, and Icarus wasn't the sort of man you opened up to.
"More work for us," was what came out instead of something sensible. Water off a duck's back; all it took was him pushing his thoughts down deeply enough that they might never resurface. "But you could use the practice. How are you gonna train anyone with that left hook of yours?"
@camisadi
emmy styx &&. quintus yamamoto post-reaping
she had already kicked down four doors, metaphorically speaking of course, before she found quin. emmy had this pit in her stomach that could've been hunger or simple desperation. anxiety numbed her throat in a way that felt like she'd never gone without it, but had only just realised how tight it truly felt. it was as though the world had tilted into this off-centre picture of itself; she couldn't find the right door, couldn't find the right thing to say. she could only brush past these statements rummaging in her mind that should've been conclusions already, but she'd only just settled the score with dull surprise.
the biggest conclusion was, everything sucked anyway, but everything sucked a little more after the reaping. in fact, it sucked far worse after she was reaped, then volunteered for by her aunt ( though emmy didn't think she'd ever called cash that to her face ). the lingering dread hadn't settled-- it had simply found a new place in her chest to call home.
the sight of quin wasn't necessarily one of comfort, but one of a familiarity she recognised and didn't immediately distrust. like she might not have been allowed to keep her family, but quin was still there, and she'd settle for it without question. when she slunk up next to him, that felt familiar too, but differently. it was quiet, close to unspoken, like she was retreating back to the person she'd been when she'd only just gotten out of the games herself. this version of herself that couldn't ask for anything outright, grieved quietly, stayed numb.
"wanna go out tonight? there'll be a dumb fucking reaping party somewhere in the capitol."
His eyes kept wandering back to the sideboard.
There was a stain marring the wood, left behind by another victor or someone visiting them, a ring of condensation that had sunk into the material. Quintus' mind kept skipping back to it, like a video that rewound itself: he'd sand it down and then he'd keep going, until there was nothing left but dust. There was something satisfying, he'd found, to reducing something to nothing.
Maybe that was what this was; he'd been something, and now he was nothing. Or it was a delusion he'd carried with him from childhood, like there was an expiration date to irrelevancy. In the end, once again caught in that reaping pen like a corralled animal, he'd frozen like a deer in the spotlight. There was nobody else to place the blame on, now. The numbness that kept him from anger was nothing but a cold relief.
Emmy's arrival was the needed distraction on an evening threatening to turn sour. Like he'd done so many times before, Quintus wiped the slate of his mind clean. Rallying was, after all, what he'd always been best at - and getting a head start on the socialising would be a good thing, unprepared as Emmy was to mentor.
"More than one party," he told her. The arm he put over her shoulder in a makeshift hug felt heavy even to himself. On another day, as a joke, he would've sidestepped in anticipation of an incoming elbow aimed at his ribs. But it didn't feel like the right time to revoke comfort freely given. "I could use some fun. Catch you up on all the gossip too."
quintus yamamoto & icarus cross (@tetheredgod) / tribute tower training facility
There was a game they used to play, Baster and Jade and Quintus and the rest of them at the academy. It was the children's version of what they'd hoped to be their future: teams divided by a line drawn in cool sand, a vicious brawl between the last players standing. The loser would go to bed hungry, the victor with bragging rights. When they woke up in the next morning, more often than not they'd be forced to scrub blood out of their sheets.
That's what it felt like, now. A game, the kind you play when you're young and haven't yet attained what you've dreamed of. Lines drawn not in sand but apparent even so, in the way people's gazes flickered between each other. Or maybe Quintus was imagining that last one, paranoid as he sometimes got, like the shiver slowly crawling up his spine was a living, breathing thing.
All that was missing, he thought, was the violence of it. It was itching beneath his skin, an unwelcome reminder of who he'd always been: a man with a score to settle.
That's how he ended up dragging Icarus down into the too-dark training room. Three rounds later, it was almost like he'd regained his balance, dragged off the ledge and replanted in reality. It was the waiting that was the problem, really. Even that countdown to the starting shot back in his Games, the one minute of his life he remembered with the most brilliant clarity, had felt like an eternity.
This time, when Icarus landed supine on the mat, Quintus didn't tell him to get back up on his feet. Instead he shook his limbs out and offered him a hand up.
"Good fight," he said, and meant it. "Thanks."
( mackenyu arata , cis man , he/him ) did you see them ?! that was QUINTUS YAMAMOTO, the winner of the 79th hunger games. they’re back for the 92nd games as a MENTOR, and you know they’re one of my favourites! the THIRTY-ONE year old brought such honour to DISTRICT 1 when they won their games with A SWORD AND SPONSOR GIFTS. they’re known all over panem for being so ADAPTABLE despite being so IMPATIENT. they remind me of a child soldier's unwavering devotion, a falcon spotting prey, the pop of a champagne bottle, reaching for what can't be touched, and when i think of them, i think of SPACE COWBOY by flipturn . — isa . 26 . she/her . gmt . no triggers .