Is it too late to write fanfiction about the 29th Hunger Games now🫥
I've wanted to write this for a long time... but I got stuck for ages 😭. I hope it's not OOC 💖.
If Doomsday Comes Tonight
It was a crudely printed booklet he found while searching the wardrobe for a suitable groomsman's suit. The cover showed a mosaic-like starfield with alarming words below: If Doomsday Comes Tonight. The text inside circled around to a single conclusion—a comet would strike District 1 that very night, and everyone would die. At that time, only nineteen years had passed since the Dark Days in District 1. Under the strain of harsh living, doomsday preachers were common. Some would lurk near primary schools, seizing any chance to thrust their "truth" into children's hands. Even attending a private school hadn't spared him. They were mostly charlatans, frauds, or the mentally ill, always eventually dragged away by Peacekeepers. As doomsday was postponed again and again, their numbers dwindled, until now they had vanished completely. Hyperion tossed the booklet into the trash and adjusted his tie before the mirror. He likely didn't know—no one knew—that everything, everything, began here.
At three in the afternoon, the wedding hadn't yet started, but the hall was already filled with people. In a nation where black mourning clothes were donned yearly, frequent celebrations had become the best tool for self-numbing. Guests in bright formalwear mingled on the marble floor like colored pills tumbling across a white tray. Hyperion and his brother Helios entered in succession, and the groom's relatives eagerly surrounded them. To them, the bride and groom were the closing line of the first fairytale, while the Carnell sons, in the bloom of youth, were the opening of the second. Hyperion conjured his most perfect smile, uttering pleasantries in a gentle voice; he was unfamiliar with most of them, serving as groomsman purely at his father's request. His father was a jeweler who had devoted his youth to his career. Wealth rolled in, youth rolled away. When Mr. Carnell saw the wrinkles in his mirror, he felt it was all too late. But turning to see his two handsome, tall sons, he felt it wasn't too late at all. His sons were the continuation of his bloodline and his youth. If his life was a film playing forward, they were the second screening. He delightedly pressed rewind, never tiring of it.
"Speaking of which, any thoughts of marriage?" a man in a cashmere suit suddenly asked. Eyes around Hyperion converged on him. He frowned slightly. "I don't have a girlfriend yet."
"What a pity," the suited man said with feigned regret. "You shouldn't lack for admirers. I hear Helios is already discussing marriage with his girlfriend. The younger brother mustn't fall behind!"
Sunlight slipped through the window cracks, lazily bathing his face. Hyperion felt irked by this intrusive heat source. 'Shouldn't lack for admirers,' 'should marry,' 'should be like Helios,' 'should live a more normal life'—the younger brother must emulate the elder in everything. They overlooked the fundamental difference between him and Helios: facing the gentle, graceful figures he was expected to adore, Hyperion felt not the slightest stir of emotion, nor any yearning. Building a family, taking a wife—a life founded on that felt, to him, like utter deception. A betrayal of any woman deserving genuine affection, and a betrayal of his own heart. Like wearing a splendid garment that never fits, every seam of the fabric chafing and constricting until it suffocated him.
"I'd prefer to wait a little longer," he politely deflected.
"Don't wait too long," the man adopted a paternal tone, speaking earnestly. "Youth is fleeting. Wait any longer and you'll be old. Why not have your brother introduce you to a few girls?"
He glanced toward his brother, who shot him a sympathetic look. Meaning: This man has standing in social circles; don't make a scene. Hyperion numbly acquiesced. The sun outside grew fiercer. He felt like a clay figurine baking in a kiln, waiting to be shaped, then glazed with a layer of corpse-pale enamel, finally placed neatly atop a wedding cake. Forever young, forever perfect. The man before him continued expounding his life experience, mouth opening and closing, his voice so loud it seemed all of District 1 was speaking through his throat. A sudden, terrifying thought surged in Hyperion's mind—What if the comet from that booklet really did fall?—No, how could he think such things on someone's wedding day? Sharp sunlight punished his eyes. He squinted, and when he opened them again, a year had passed.
The red carpet leading to the interview stage converged into an endless streak of bloodstain. He heard Lucky Flickerman proclaim his name in a rich, excited tone. The Capitol's floodlights turned the stage into a transparent display case; he was the movable jewelry. Hyperion smiled and waved to the audience below, which erupted into deafening cheers.
"Hyperion, true to his name! I tell you, look at you District 1 boys—" Lucky pretended to wipe a tear. "First the handsome knight, now you. You're stealing all our girls! Come on, tell me, what's the secret?"
For a second, he froze, seeing the shadow of the suited man in the host. But he quickly gathered himself. "The secret is," Hyperion mysteriously extended a finger, tapping his lips. Lucky immediately leaned in, feigning intense listening. Usually, one would say something clichéd here—a better hairstyle, tasteful clothes, being considerate to ladies. Yet, his thoughts veered slightly off the intended track. He suddenly wanted to see the host's expression when denied the expected answer. "—There is no secret!" he said cheerfully. "It's all about personal feeling, Lucky. You just have to feel it!"
Laughter from the audience nearly drowned the entire arena. Lucky exaggeratedly threw himself back. "You're terrible," he said. "I am absolutely not sending you sponsors!" As the laughter subsided, Lucky's tone turned serious. "Back to the topic, Hyperion. What is your purpose in volunteering for the Hunger Games?"
"For myself," Hyperion answered almost without hesitation. He didn't want to recite hollow propaganda lines. He had played enough the identical copy of Helios. Here, at least, even as a tribute, he was Hyperion from District 1, not someone's son, someone's brother. "I want to live my own life. The Capitol can help me achieve that."
"Strong character. And what are your plans once inside the Arena?"
"I will follow my mentor's teachings, eliminate all threats, and ensure the crown returns to District 1 this year." Under the lights, his pale blue eyes glinted like ice. "And, of course, try to show you all something interesting as well. As for more—" He turned to the audience. "I don't want to give too much away, or you might not watch."
Applause and praise lifted him high. From then on, Hyperion's name appeared frequently on posters, betting slips, and in the whispers of the Capitol. Many wrote him love letters, eager to exhaust all vows. Now he was in the Arena. The Capitol's excessive love was condensed into small sponsor gifts, drifting down before him like falling silver stars.
"What did they send you?"
His ally was watching him. The District 2 boy's brown eyes took on the hue of caramel in the night. Their relationship had surged forward, only to grind to an abrupt halt in an ambiguous, unresolved place. Hyperion had shared the warmth of his palms and arms with him but refused to let a word more precise than 'friend' pass his lips. They dragged on like this until the tail end of the Arena's third day, when they were assigned the first watch. Hyperion opened the sponsor gift, first acknowledging the note scrawled with confessions, then turned to Gunnar. "Strawberry soda."
Gunnar nodded. The Arena night was colder than expected. He shifted closer to him. "You're very popular."
They both smiled. Silence fell again. Hyperion found this quiet more draining than any conversation. "The stars are beautiful tonight."
"No," Gunnar replied sullenly. "Just confused. Are you scared? I thought you District 1 types would be more..."
He didn't finish. Hyperion knew what he meant. "This is the Arena, Gunnar."
"I don't need reminding."
"I feel the same way about you." The soda swayed in his hand, the red liquid swirling in the glass bottle like a bouncing heart. "You know it, I know it. That's enough. There's no need to lay everything bare." The last sentence burst in his mouth like a gall bladder. For a moment, Hyperion couldn't distinguish his own voice from those in the District 1 social circles. Gunnar turned his face away, shifting further from him.
"Sorry," Hyperion said softly, unsure if it was to himself or to him.
An agonizing silence stretched between them again. Until Gunnar spoke. "Talk about something else. About you—actually, about anything. Don't let me think about this. I'm going crazy."
Hyperion didn't look at him, but he knew he must be crying. In the Arena's sky, a meteor streaked down, a silver thread vanishing into black velvet.
"I wish it were the end of the world right now," Gunnar said calmly, his voice thick with congestion.
"I've wished that too," Hyperion said, his gaze fixed on the point where the meteor had vanished. That buried memory surfaced with unexpected clarity. He spoke again, as if sharing a secret with the night itself.
It was the same day he received that booklet. He had failed an exam—not terribly, but just enough to fall short of Helios's perfect score. At dinner, his father launched into the familiar refrain: about perseverance, about family legacy, about how one son's achievement would cast the other's minor flaws into glaring shadows. Praise for Helios was a polished stone; the gentle, "constructive" criticism for Hyperion was a grain of sand under the skin, constantly chafing, festering.
A child's mind can spawn strange escape routes. Choked by that bitter air of comparison, the absurd claims in the crude booklet no longer felt like nonsense, but a secret key. If doomsday comes tonight. The thought wasn't terrifying; it was a relief. If the world ended tonight, there would be no more exams, no more measured glances, no need to be the slightly inferior copy of his brother. He could just... stop.
"It seems absurd now," Hyperion told Gunnar now, a faint, self-mocking smile touching his lips. "I can't even empathize with that boy anymore. Who thinks of the end of all things over a few points on an exam? The most dramatic academic despair."
Whether it was his imagination or not, Gunnar moved closer. He nudged him. "Don't talk about yourself like that."
So Hyperion continued. He described how, after the house fell silent, he slipped to the window and curled up on the wide sill. He didn't pray or panic. He just watched, with a childlike, solemn determination. If he was doomed to die, at least he'd witness the spectacle. He wanted to see if the comet's fall would be as dazzling and terrifying as the booklet predicted—a glorious period at the end of his short, unsatisfying life.
"It actually came," he said, the memory vivid now. "Not the world-ending kind. But it was still beautiful. It split the entire night sky, trailing a shimmering dust tail. The light lingered for seconds after it vanished. So beautiful. Not scary at all. Like a silver wind sweeping across the heavens."
He held his breath, watching until the last trace of light faded. Then, a slow, dawning realization surfaced. The world remained. His room was unchanged. The next morning, he was caught red-eyed and exhausted. His father's reprimand was sharp. The boy felt doubly foolish—first for foolishly hoping, then for foolishly getting caught.
"I thought I was being so clever, waiting for the end of the world," Hyperion concluded. "All I got was a pretty light show and a headache. The world went on. I went back to being the brother. Looking back now, I think I was completely—"
He didn't get to finish the thought.
Gunnar pulled him into a tight embrace and kissed him hard on the lips.
It was their first kiss. Gunnar's technique was painfully unskilled, his lips like sour, unripe apricots clinging to a branch. He held him tightly, grasping for every shred of affection like a child. Hyperion could have pushed him away. He should have. It was wrong. They wouldn't have anyone's blessing. But they were in the Arena. They were in the Arena.
They kissed for a long time. When Hyperion finally broke away, gasping, Gunnar eagerly kissed him a second time. The freckles under his nose were like a dusting of cinnamon sugar; his lips tasted of salty tears. It's fine, Hyperion thought. Just one night. I only want this one night. As if doomsday comes tonight. As if that comet falls this very night—
Hyperion Carnell said to Gunnar Majors.
Rambling😭(It's rlly long I hope you don't mind):
So first of all——I really like the dynamic you’ve created between Hyperion and Gunnar.
Originally, I considered writing from Gunnar’s perspective, portraying Hyperion as purely using him without any real feelings. But thinking it over, I believe their relationship didn’t start with manipulation—it started with love.
First, Panem’s society is terrifyingly conservative. Even Ace, talking about Flash years later, had to refer to him as a “close friend”—and that was sixteen years after the 29th Hunger Games. It’s hard to imagine how intensely homophobic the culture must have been back during the 29th Games. Developing a same-sex relationship in that environment was dangerous, almost certainly meaning the loss of all sponsorships. Yet Hyperion still chose Gunnar. If it were only about using him, why would Hyperion put himself in such a disadvantaged position?
Moreover, Gunnar’s skills were actually inferior to Hyperion’s, so the “using him for strength” argument doesn’t hold up—Hyperion was strong enough on his own. That’s why I think Hyperion truly loved Gunnar from the beginning. Loving someone doesn’t always need a logical reason—it’s an emotion, an impulse. Hyperion isn’t a robot, and not every decision is carefully weighed for pros and cons. Sometimes people just follow their hearts.
Now, about the original ending—I originally wanted to write it from my perspective(like add a lot of psychological descriptions and stuff😭, but my writing skills aren’t quite up to it. So let me share my take on it instead. In my view, the ending marks the return of Hyperion’s rationality. His ultimate goal was still to win, so no matter how much he loved, he had to let go. It also serves as a final contrast between their personalities: Hyperion was more realistic. He recognized this was a life-and-death game, that he had to play by the rules, and that his district mattered more than his love—so he withdrew earlier. Gunnar, on the other hand, strikes me as more idealistic. He still held onto hope, trust his lover more (and here, I think an important factor is that Aris died—Gunnar’s only remaining trust was in Hyperion), and so he died in his lover’s kiss.
No, it is not at all too late, and I'm sorry for responding now, but I haven't been active on Tumblr for 2 weeks partly because of some stomach issues I had and partly because of using up all of my free time to finish Part Two.
I must say, I'm always excited when you write a fanfic about the District 1 tributes. Without spoiling much, your fanfic about Celeste and Pandora inspired a certain scene in the movie. You'll see it when the time comes.
As for Hyperion, yes, I believe his feelings for Gunnar were genuine, but just like you pointed out, his main goal was victory, and when there were four of them left, he knew he had to put an end to their relationship because he didn't want to face his lover in the finale.
I really love how you wrote him, and you also integrated his backstory and his struggles to measure up to his brother.
Thank you so much for sharing these fanfics, I love all of them! 🎀
