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?"
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."
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.
( 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 .
hi everyone! i'm isa and very excited to be here and introduce you to my boy quin (or quintus, if you're being formal). his intro got very long, so thank you in advance for reading!!
early life
quin is born to a somewhat successful businessman from district 1 and his wife - who herself trained to be a career, but didn't end up making the final cut. his mother's got a bit of a chip on her shoulder about that situation, and thus quin's fate is sealed when he's given his name: he will be, so his parent's hope, the fifth male victor of the district. (whether this worked out or not is up in the air, but i like to think it didn't!)
and so, from the time quin learns to walk, there's training - first with private tutors, then at an academy. knowing nothing but what he's been told, quin fully buys into it: he will bring honour to his district, there is nothing more worthy than winning the games, so on and so forth. there's nobody in his life who teaches him a sense of worth beyond his career skillset, no parents who'll encourage him to be anything but a future victor. he's pretty much the ideal career: staunchly loyal to the capitol, deadly in a way that's (spoilers!) going to pay off on screen, attractive enough to be interesting for capitolite teenagers watching.
quin, very predictably, makes the cut when he's 18. he volunteers, he says all the right things in interviews. he's learnt how to play the game, and it doesn't even look like he's reciting lines that have been fed to him. on screen, he appears confident - cocky in the ways that people like when the talk is backed by actions. his training score is high, his stylist does a good job at not making him look like a fool. he goes into the arena a clear favourite.
the 79th hunger games
quin's games were held in an abandoned cityscape. he stuck with the career pack for most of the runtime. they first designated a city block as their home base, then headed out in daylight to hunt down tributes. once most of the others had been picked off, the career pack - now numbering five - broke up. quin teamed up with the male tribute from district 2. the next day, they came across his district partner, who had sustained an ankle injury; the boys consequently killed her. quin's games ended in a showdown between him and the male tribute from 2, a fight memorable enough that it got plenty of airtime in recaps over the next years.
quin fought primarly with a sword he'd received from the cornucopia, and benefitted from generous sponsor gifts throughout his games. certain reactions of his - like him discreetly puking his guts out after the initial bloodbath - never made it onto viewer's screens. he was portrayed as an archetypical career, with little remorse to spare.
after the game
(cw for this section: depression, allusions to victor prostitution and drug abuse)
it was only when he returned home that quin realised he'd never had a home to begin with. robbed of his life's purpose now that he'd won, he struggled for a long while to reorient himself in life. his family, who had previously kept him at arm's length - attachment to a boy likely destined to die had seemed like a bad idea - was suddenly all over him, but their efforts to include him felt too ingenuine and disjointed. quin moved into his home in the victor's village and spent a few weeks cooped up inside. it was on his victory tour - and when he returned to the capitol - that he snapped out of his fugue state. and while he had little patience for the generally vapid attitudes of capitol socialites, he quickly figured out that he really liked the parties he was invited to.
to this day, quin makes an effort to spend more time in the capitol than back in district 1. there's people who pay for his time or for him to attend certain parties, those who bring him into the city and set him loose to collect gossip. quin makes sure he's a pleasure to be around and swallows whatever designer drugs are currently en vogue. he makes himself available for interviews, appears on talkshows; anything to escape the depression he experiences when he's home.
personality & interests
i'll level with you: quin's so used to acting out different versions of himself that even he doesn't quite know who he is. he's good at fitting himself into new social situations, an extrovert who likes being around people. he's charismatic in that he takes up space - you'll notice when he enters a room. the trauma he experienced during his games has turned him from a brainwashed child into a more critical adult, but he's very careful around whom he voices displeasure about the political climate, and people he's not close to might see him as the capitol darling he paints himself as.
quin enjoys mentoring, and he takes the gig seriously when he's assigned or takes it on. he's a responsible mentor adept at talking sponsors into donating. there's a soft core to him once you get friendly with him, and he can be fiercly protective of the people he considers his closest friends. while not being self-sacrificial or overly adept at emotional comfort, he's the type to offer silent support or a round in a sparring ring if needed.
onto the bad... he's impatient as hell, especially when he feels the other person should already know something he's explaining. even as a kid he was overly critical, which worked wonders for his career... career (he's critical of himself, too), but didn't make him too many friends back in the day. he's learnt to swallow down many of these comments but sometimes you'll still get a biting jab out of him. he's also got a bit of a short temper - he's never learnt how to regulate his anger, and it shows when he's in environments he feels comfortable in. he works off a lot of that energy in the gym, but when that outlet isn't available he starts getting unpleasant. and he's very difficult to get to open up; the lack of a truly loving parental connection did a number on him in childhood. it's for the same reason that there's a desperation with which he holds onto the people he's close to.
quin took up metalsmithing after his games - he mostly makes rings, sometimes earrings, and if you're friendly with him chances are he'll gift you something eventually - and he learnt how to play the piano, which he shows off fairly frequently. quin doesn't like to read (his education stopped focussing on life skills you might need in a regular job when he picked up a sword), but he's a pretty decent storyteller and will listen to friends talk about the books they're into. he's learnt to cook, but he isn't all that good at it. he works out daily and keeps up parts of his former career training regime. in district 1 - and in the capitol, when he's able - he likes to go on long, meandering walks. he mostly enjoys hobbies that have him shape something with his hands: he had a phase where he got into pottery (and has many wonky bowls to prove it), then he started painting said pottery, then he got into woodworking and abandoned it. those fickle hobbies he picks up and drops aren't known to the general populace, but they keep him busy, and keeping busy is what he needs or he'll start losing it.
connection ideas!
now we get to the fun part. i'm a brainstorming kinda person so these are just starting ideas : ')
fellow people who enjoy the capitol lifestyle can find quin at their mutual acquaintance's brunch event.
fellow victors (general); quin's social enough that he'll make nice with the victors he comes across as long as he's not being antagonised.
fellow victors or d1 staff (specific); one or two people who realised how badly he was doing after his games and helped him get back on his own two feet.
former flings; quin takes a very casual attitude to sex. he's bisexual, so anything goes here.
fans of his performance; people he was a fan of; someone whose actions in the games were dissected in the academy training rooms and who directly influenced something quin did in the arena.
shared interests, or people with hobbies they're happy to teach him. i could see him picking up fiber crafts if he had a patient teacher, for example.
a fellow victor whom he doesn't actually get along with (a clash of personalities, maybe?) but whom he relies on in the capitol and vice versa - a sort of 'the enemy of my enemy (the capitol as a whole) is my reluctant friend' situation.
so much more... but this has been a lot of text so i'll stop here!
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