Summary - In a world without the Games, your friendship with Maysilee is your everything - until one secluded summer day leads you both into uncharted waters. What was once familiar now feels brand new, and as the sun sets, you’re left wondering how you ever settled for just friendship.
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Maysilee’s hair glows gold in the midday sun, tiny braids weave throughout, a new one revealing itself with every gust of wind. The faint clinking of the jewellery dancing over her chest is all that breaks your silence. After nearly a decade of inseparable friendship, you find there's not much left to say, but her presence calms you, like she’s warm milk and honey.
The day you met Maysilee, she had snuck out to the meadow to weep. You found her beneath the tree you claimed as your castle and wove her a bracelet of daisies to cheer her up. You were only children then, but the memory of her rosy pink face pressing a kiss to your cheek in thanks has stayed burned into your mind ever since. From that day onward, Maysilee made a habit of sneaking to the meadow where she knew she’d find you. You'd braid your hair together until it was intertwined, and make chains of flowers to adorn throughout it. Now, as a teen, the town claims she’s the most stuck-up girl in 12. You suppose the hard-faced facade is somewhat of an armour, and you often wonder what she hides so preciously beneath it.
She glances back at you once, checking you’re still close behind.
“Take a right past that stump,” you say, nodding toward the mossy lump you had once carved your initials into.
“That’s not the way I know," she hesitates.
“Trust me,” you insist.
Her shimmering locks swirl as she turns to look at you, giving you that doubtful look you know all too well. You’ve walked this path together thousands of times, so you expected Maysilee to be wary when you switched up the route. She so hates change. But you’re certain this will be worth it.
Maysilee’s body stiffens as she makes the turn, and you bounce to her side to help lead the way. You can feel her body relaxing in your proximity, encouraging the smile on your face to grow even steeper.
“What are you so giddy about?” she teases.
“You’ll see,” you chirp, nudging your shoulder into hers.
You continue to walk side by side, listening to the jabberjay’s distant song and giggling at one another as you stumble over fallen branches and exposed tree roots. Your hands brush once or twice before Maysilee flexes her fingers and buries them in her pocket. A cold chill rushes down your spine, which you’re quick to blame on the breeze. Some part of you knows that’s not the case.
Finally, through the thick foliage and clustered trees, you spot it, sparkling like dewdrops on a spring morning.
“Close your eyes!” You order as you jump in front of Maysilee and cover her deep blue eyes with your shaky hands. She grasps onto your wrists for stability, her delicate fingers burning your skin with their soft touch. You slowly guide her to a flat clearing and count down from three before removing your hands from her eyes. Awe lights up her face for a brief moment, only to be replaced by a frustrated furrow of her brow. Before you stretches a sparkling lake hidden deep within the heart of the forest. The place is sacred to you - a quiet escape from the outside world. You’ve never trusted anyone enough to let them into this sanctuary of yours. At least not until now.
“How long have you known about this?” she barks, but her hands are still gently wrapped around yours.
“A while,” you admit with a guilt-ridden smile.
She’s never been able to stay mad at you. One look into your eyes, and her icy exterior melts away. You suppose that’s why you’re friends. You bring out a softness in one another that nobody else can find.
She scrunches her nose at you and throws your hands aside.
“It’s beautiful,” she utters as she edges closer.
You drop your things in a pile by the dock, and as Maysilee fusses with her picnic blanket, you walk out to the edge. Though you didn’t bring your swimsuit, the clear blue water is too tempting to resist. While Maysilee can be prudish, you’re comfortable enough around her not to care. You stand on the edge in only your bloomers, your clothes in a heap beside you, and let the cool breeze kiss your bare skin.
“Are you coming in or what?”
Maysilee turns. Her eyes wander over your exposed chest before darting away in embarrassment. She swivels her body around to face her back to you. You’ve noticed her gaze exploring you before - curious perhaps - but after all this time, you know better than to comment.
“I didn’t prepare to go swimming,” she answers. Her voice strains for sterness, but it’s quivering slightly.
“Suit yourself!” You bellow as you plunge into the shimmering lake. The icy water rushes over your skin, sharp and startling, and you break the surface with a gasp. Maysilee stands nearby, her hands clapped over her mouth, her slender shoulders shaking with silent laughter. You can’t help but grin at the sight.
“The water is perfect!” you lie, shivering beneath the ripples. “Come on, Mais!”
You flash her that smile, the one where you catch your bottom lip between your teeth. It’s never let you down before, and it doesn’t now - you see Maysilee shuffle toward the dock, her gaze darting nervously at the surroundings.
“Nobody will see us here,” you remind her, “it's our little secret.”
Her cheeks begin to blush, and you avert your gaze so as not to embarrass her any further. You catch her shadow in your periphery. It stretches across the rotting planks of the dock, inching nearer until her hands lift to her shoulders - and in one graceful motion, her dress glides to the floor.
“Don’t look,” she orders, and you abide, but your eyes refuse to leave her silhouette - the dip of her waist, the lean strength of her thighs. You plunge underwater to clear your head. You resurface and find her shadow frozen halfway, toes hovering just above the surface before she jerks back with a shriek.
“I can’t do it!” she squeals.
“You can! Just jump, once you’re in, you're in,” you encourage
“Do you want me to die of shock? It’s freezing!” she shrills
You can’t help but smile at her usual dramatic sass - classic Maysilee.
“No, I’ll have to go slow.” She exhales, composing herself.
Maysilee perches on the edge of the dock and slips her feet into the water until the ripples tickle her blushed knees. You busy yourself admiring the view to avoid looking at her, but there are only so many times you can drift in a circle until it becomes dizzying.
“Okay, you can look,” she sighs.
Your gaze travels slowly up Maysilee until it reaches her eyes. She coyly fiddles with her braids.
“You’re-” you start, hesitating out of fear of being too bold.
You and Maysilee have never been shy about trading compliments, but this feels different somehow - heavier, softer.
“I’m what?” She asks shyly.
You swallow hard, pushing down the fear that’s lodged in your throat.
“Beautiful.”
You’ve kissed your fair share of boys, a few girls too, enough to know the difference between flirting and whatever this is. Alone and naked with Maysilee, hidden away from the rest of the world, every glance and touch feels unbearably intimate in a way nothing else ever has.
You know she feels it too - the weight of something unspoken stretched taut between you. You see it in the way her gaze drops to her feet drifting beneath the water, in the way she gnaws at the inside of her cheek. You gently splash water over her knees in a feeble attempt to ease the tension.
“You bitch!” Maysilee gasps, weakly kicking at the water to splash you back.
Laughing, you suck in a breath and duck beneath the surface to avoid it, rising again to the sound of her soft giggles drifting through the wind.
You swim toward her and pull yourself up, resting your arms over her knees. It feels so natural to be this close to her, and yet you feel your pulse beating rapidly in your neck. You tuck your face into your elbows, hoping to hide the warmth rising in your cheeks. You feel her hand begin to groom your sodden hair, gently swooping it from your eyes and detangling it through her fingers. Your eyes close instinctively, soaking up every second of her touch.
“You’re beautiful too” Maysilee’s soft voice sounds even softer now, almost losing itself to the whirring of the breeze.
You squeeze your eyes closed even tighter, forcing this moment into your memory forever. Her hand gently cups your cheek, guiding your gaze up to hers. The sun's yellow rays spill out from behind her, radiating from her naked body as if she were the sun itself. She might as well be, you think.
Her eyes flicker between yours and your lips as she caresses your face with both hands. She gingerly brushes a thumb across your lip and leans in. The kiss comes quietly, unhurried and tender. When she pulls back, she takes you in for a moment, topless and trembling at her feet. She lets out a giggle and slips into the water where your arms await her. She lets out a yelp as the freezing water prickles her skin, and you feel her hard nipples pressed against your chest. Your hands find themselves on the small of her back, and as her trembling body moves into yours, they inch further down her delicate spine. She leans her forehead against yours, a breathless laugh slipping out between the chills. She kisses you once, then twice, then three times, until there's no air left in your lungs. You float together, legs intertwined like your braided hair in the meadow.
You dry off, the late afternoon sun warming your skin as you lie beside Maysilee on the picnic blanket. Her fingers seek yours, twisting together as you talk about the past - childhood adventures, old secrets, and the gossip of the town - until the sun surrenders to the evening.
Maysilee sighs, her head resting against your shoulder. "I don’t want this day to end."
You reach for the daisies scattered beside you, their white petals catching the last light. Carefully, you braid their stems into a ring, then take her hand and slide it onto her dainty ring finger.
"Let’s come back tomorrow," you murmur, your breath warm against her neck.
Summary: When your name is drawn at the reaping, you know your fate. With little desire for survival, no skills in combat, and a deadbeat mentor like Haymitch Abernathy, you’re certain there’s no life for you after the games. Your loud mouth only digs the hole deeper, causing you to repeatedly flirt with death before the games even begin. Now, Haymitch is forced to choose between his own well-being and the faint, frustrating spark of caring about you.
okay fine, i lied. i stopped halfway thru writing 18 bc i needed to make sure yall could see the vision so anyway here it is🫡 back to my computer i go!
and yes, i AM in fact cackling manically while i type this rn, what about it?
Warnings: blood, dehumanising themes, mentions of forced prostitution, abuse
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You rush to stand, forgetting the seething pain that lingers within your abdomen. Blood rushes to your head, causing your gash to throb beneath its bandage. You stumble to the bathroom and splash your face with water from the sink, rubbing hard at the stubborn blood that Drusilla’s heel unleashed across your face. Every wipe reveals a new mark, and by the time the peacekeepers are banging on the door, you see your once-even skin is marred with bruises and stained maroon.
You take a deep, laboured breath, mustering up as much composure as you have left, and unlock the door. You’re greeted by a pair of large masked bodies armoured in black and white uniforms with the Panem logo encrusted across their biceps. Between them, looking smaller than ever, stands Otis, half their size and trembling with fear. His delicate wrists are encased in shackles.
“Is this really necessary?” You ask.
“Capitol orders.” Barks one of the faceless bodies.
You reluctantly hold out your hands for them to cuff. The rusted metal rubs hard against your skin as the peacekeepers escort you to the train doors, where Effie is practically floating with excitement, Drusilla is flexing every frozen muscle in her face to produce a scowl, and Haymitch, recently showered, with damp ringlets lying in orderly rows over his brows, is fidgeting with the buttons on his freshly pressed shirt. Your feet freeze in place at the sight of him. His flared-sleeve shirt is delicately hand-embroidered with purple and yellow floral motifs, and his scarred hands are dripping in gold and emerald jewellery. Against the clean white of his clothes and the deep caramel of his damp hair, Haymitch’s skin is radiant. No wonder he’s the Capitol’s darling. A peacekeeper nudges you forward, waking you from the embarrassingly drawn-out trance that you have already dismissed as a mixture of nerves and a possible concussion.
“Alright, my children!” Effie beams, “Shoulders back, big smiles! And welcome to the Capitol!”
The doors slide open with a hiss to reveal a sea of cameras and microphones. Reporters dressed in vibrant, asymmetrical attire come clammering toward you, and you’re briefly blinded by flashing lights. Effie leads the way through the crowd, politely dismissing questions and repeating your names into the cameras, followed by “little but mighty,” which is at least half true. Drusilla follows grimly behind, saying “no comment” into every prying microphone, alongside Haymitch, who is busy batting off the greedy hands of Capitol women whose lust knows no bounds. Otis’ body is pressed close to yours, and the phrase “runts of the litter” rings in your ear. You're ushered through a velvet rope, where the chattering swarm of people gets left behind.
"There you have it, folks! The underdogs of District 12!” You hear a reporter announce.
You're led through an extravagant archway to exit the station, and you wonder if the immense architecture around you is all just a ploy to make the public feel small and powerless. If so, it’s working. You, Otis and your eclectic District 12 team form a circle beside a large windowless van - the black, bulky type they use to transport explosives. You suppose the livestock trailers were unavailable.
“Well, this is you,” Effie perks, “We will see you at the tribute centre later today. Don't go making any enemies!” She waves an accusing finger at you, making Haymitch snicker.
Drusilla gestures to the peacekeepers, who grab Otis and you by the arms and roughly load you into the back of the van. You wiggle to loosen their painful grip, but it only makes them clench down harder.
“Wait!” Otis squeals, “Haymitch!”
Haymitch appears at the foot of the trunk, giving the peacekeepers a nod that frees you from their grasp.
“Any advice?” Otis asks gingerly
Haymitch exhales hard.
“When you get to the showers, keep your mouth closed.”
And with that, the doors slam shut, enveloping you in complete darkness.
Otis shuffles toward you, and the warmth from his small quivering frame settles the anxiety in your stomach. Whatever happens, you have to be strong for him. You’re grateful to have some kind of purpose before your brutal end.
When the van finally halts, you and Otis are struck by the daylight that comes bursting through the opening doors. The peacekeepers are hauling you out before your eyes have time to adjust, but when they do, your mouth hangs agape at the view. A street entirely coated in pearly white marble glistens in the midday sun. Gawking teenagers line the streets, dressed in matching uniforms. You're led to the one building that sticks out like a sore thumb. It’s dilapidated and partially covered in scaffolding, with a large banner across it reading TRIBUTE CENTRE in obnoxious gold letters.
Inside, your competitors are herded into two single-file lines, one for the boys and one for the girls. Your stomach flips at the prospect of being separated from Otis, but before you can protest, he’s already being dragged away from you. The peacekeepers unhand him, and you watch as he irons out his shirt and straightens his spine in an attempt to grow an inch or two. Surprisingly, he’s not the smallest, but the chain of tall, well-fed boys towards the front eradicates your last thread of hope. You turn your attention back to your line, where the girl in front of you is making a point of sizing you up. She’s about the same height as you, but with more muscle than you and Otis combined. You don’t doubt she could take you. You hope that when she does, it’ll be quick.
Suddenly, a peacekeeper grabs her shoulder and pushes her forward with unreasonable force, making her stumble almost to the floor. She finds her footing, and you both follow the line into a pink-tiled room. You’re each positioned beneath a shower head and stripped of your clothes. You’re comfortable in your naked body and are certainly no prude, but this is dehumanising. The faint mutter of peacekeepers giggling to one another beneath their masks sends shivers down your exposed spine. Humiliation and fury combine in your stomach, making you nauseous. A jolt travels through your body as freezing-cold water rains down on you. echoes of tributes squealing in shock bounce off the rose tiles. Finally, the water slows to a dribble, and you stand shivering, naked, and dripping wet. Just when you thought it was over, A faint whistle travels through the pipes and erupts from the showerhead, coating you in a sharp chemical mist. You recoil into a ball on the floor, holding your arms tight over your face. Your wounds are burning like all-fire, the pain so excruciating you begin to retch. Any chance of being perceived as a threat has officially been eliminated as you gag in a pile on the floor. When a short blast of ice-cold water finally replaces the chemicals, you can’t even bring yourself to stand. You remain wrapped around yourself on the cold tile until a peacekeeper picks you up and hands you a paper gown to cover yourself. The chemicals on your skin turn to goo, sticking to every crinkle in the gown as you walk back to the main hall.
You search through the sea of sopping children to find Otis, whose long black locks are matted and sticking out in every direction. His eyes light up at the sight of you, and his arm interlocks with yours as you’re directed to the corner of what you've assumed was once a gymnasium. There, a flimsy table and a pair of heavily pierced teens wait for you with a gold number 12 plastered above them. Your prep team. They sit you down and get to work, combing through your tangled hair, filing down your nails into neat ovals, and meticulously waxing every hair on your body until your follicles are red and sore. You begin to empathise with all the birds you’ve caught, defeathered, and prepared for feasting back in 12. At least you had the respect to slit their throat before the plucking.
“Thought you were overdue for a shower.” Haymitch’s playful voice drifts through the curtain separating your station from District 11’s. He slips through, with Effie close behind - and a towering woman whose icy white hair brushes the backs of her thighs. The three of them pause, taking in the prep team’s work, their reactions spilling out in a chorus of impressed oohs and aahs. Effie and the unnamed woman pull the team aside, murmuring their thanks. A hushed voice carries just enough to be heard: “District 12 is always a challenge.”
“What was that?” Otis asks Haymitch with that same quivering innocence he can’t seem to shake.
“Insecticide”, Haymitch states matter-of-factly as he rummages through the bottles of medicine the prep team used on your wounds. He gives one a sniff, grimaces, and takes a swig.
“And the lady?” You ask, nodding toward the mysterious, statuesque woman he entered with. She turns to face you, her pin-straight hair flowing effortlessly with her every movement.
“Aquaria Dovecote, darling. Your stylist.” She answers with a very unconvincing smile, “I’ve got something very memorable planned for the two of you.”
She pulls out a large sketchbook bound with what looks like real cheetah fur and proudly shows Effie and the prep team its contents.
“Oh, Aqua! It’s perfect”, Effie applauds.
“You’re a genius”, one of the teens praises.
“A total genius”, echoes the other.
Haymitch approaches the book, and you watch as the intrigued look on his face melts into pure rage.
“No,” he demands, knocking the book to the floor “, No fucking way, Aquaria. ”
“Haymitch, please!” Effie hisses, her eyes darting around the room in embarrassment.
“No, I won’t let her do this! They’re just kids! You’re disgusting. All of you!”
Haymitch continues slurring profanities at the completely unfazed aquaria while you pick the book up from the floor. You flip through until you find the page marked 52nd HUNGER GAMES, DISTRICT 12. Beneath it is a sketch: the boy dressed in tight leather pants with smoky body paint across his bare chest, and the girl adorned only in body paint.
“It’s a nude illusion, Haymitch. She’ll be covered.” You hear Aquaria argue.
Haymitch is pacing now, his restless hands running through his blonde curls.
“You have no fucking clue, do you?” He pants.
Aquaria notices you examining her work. She perches beside you and brushes a strand of hair behind your ear.
“What do you think?” She asks softly, her sultry voice sending a chill down the back of your neck.
Haymitch’s eyes are fixed on you in anticipation. You notice the rapid rise and fall of his chest through his shirt and wonder why he’s so worked up. Capitol stylists are infamous for pushing boundaries - sometimes past the point of sense - and with your impending death drawing closer by the hour, you find you don’t care what they dress you in. Or what they don’t.
“Whatever,” you sigh, “I’ll do it.”
Effie and Aquaria squeal with excitement as Haymitch tightens the fist woven in his curls and storms for the stands.
“Oh, my children! They won’t be able to stop talking about you. District 12, little but mighty!” Effie hails.
You scan the crowded hall, searching for Haymitch among the swarm of stylists, mentors, and escorts - but he’s nowhere to be seen. Maybe you would’ve reacted the same 24 hours ago, but after being beaten, stripped, gassed, and plucked, you have no energy to retaliate. What more can they take from you? You’ll be dead in a few days anyway.
Aquaria unpacks a sleek metal contraption she calls an airbrush and sets to work, misting Otis’ deep skin with shimmering shades of grey. Nearby, the prep team slicks back and sculpts your hair with stiff gel, only worsening your headache. Haymitch reappears from the stands, his cheeks still faintly flushed. His eyes find yours and linger - long enough to make your stomach knot - before asking for a moment alone.
“Make it quick”, Aquaria orders as he guides you to a spot behind the paper curtain.
“Look,” He starts “, if you’re just doing this to piss me off, congratulations, it worked, but you can’t do this, alright, I’m- I’m begging you.” There’s a genuine fear in his voice that tugs on your chest for a moment.
“I’m not trying to piss you off; it just comes so naturally to me.” You tease in a weak attempt at diffusing the tension.
“You can’t let them sexualise you like this.” The burning anger in his eyes has faded now, replaced by a desperate, pleading glint. There's something unsettling about seeing him this vulnerable.
“I thought I was supposed to get them on my side.” You remind him, “I’m just doing what I’m told.”
“Not like this! You don’t understand, please.”
“What don’t I understand exactly?” You snap, “They’re taking my life, and now they’re taking my dignity. I don’t care anymore, Haymitch. I don’t have the energy to fight.”
“I am trying to fight for you. Just, please, let me.” He pleads, “I can go over there right now and tell Aquaria-”
“Why have you decided to care all of a sudden?” You interrupt, spitting with frustration.
“I don’t! I just-” He runs his tan hands down his face, searching for the words “You don’t know these people, princess. I do. I know what they do to victors they consider desirable. I don’t want that future for you!”
“There is no future for me, Haymitch!” You swallow the tears that are beginning to pool in your eyes. “I don’t care what they do to me anymore. It’ll all end the same.”
“Is this about the boy?” He asks with a tenderness that infuriates you. Why can’t he let this go? You hate how stubborn he is, and maybe even more, how much he reminds you of yourself.
“No, it’s not about the boy!” You bellow.
How does he always manage to push you to yell? You stand in the quiet for a moment, considering that it may in fact be about the boy. The thought only makes you angrier - that Haymitch put it there, that he might know you better than you know yourself.
The paper curtain whooshes open, revealing an impatient Aquaria.
“Has this lovers' quarrel finally wrapped up, or shall I keep waiting?” She mocks.
You avert your gaze and follow her through the curtain, leaving Haymitch still twitching with aggravation behind you. Aquaria hands you a pair of black rhinestone panties and two small circles of fabric to cover yourself before she begins spraying the paint. Beautiful dark clouds of coal dust drift across your bare skin, settling into your slicked-back hair. One by one, she presses black and silver rhinestones onto your body, dispersing them across your frame in glistening clusters. You expect to feel exposed, ashamed - but instead, there’s nothing. Just a dull, creeping numbness that settles deeper with every touch.
Aquaria finally deems you ready for the opening ceremony, and Effie gasps at the pair of you, her sparkly blue lids batting away tears that glisten with pride.
“Incredible.” She whispers. “Truly extraordinary.”
Haymitch comes staggering out from behind the curtain, and from the way he wobbles, you suspect he’s been stealing medicine from the other stations. There’s something about the look on his inebriated face that makes it feel less mischievous than it does a little sad. He catches sight of you, his gaze briefly moves over your uncovered body, before shamefully snapping away. His face twists with something pained, something you don’t want to name.
Summary: When your name is drawn at the reaping, you know your fate. With little desire for survival, no skills in combat, and a deadbeat mentor like Haymitch Abernathy, you’re certain there’s no life for you after the games. Your loud mouth only digs the hole deeper, causing you to repeatedly flirt with death before the games even begin. Now, Haymitch is forced to choose between his own well-being and the faint, frustrating spark of caring about you.
if you've ever had any interest in writing, but fear, perfectionism, or procrastination has stopped you OPEN THAT GOOGLE DOC RIGHT FUCKING NOW!!! creating is so so so important, especially right now with the rise of AI, we need breathing and feeling human beings to keep making things!!!!! writing fanfiction is still writing, and writing is ART!!!! ART IS REBELLION!!! KEEP MAKING ART!!!!
Warnings - blood, mentions of domestic violence, manipulation, abuse
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The carriage doors burst open, making the abstract wall hangings tremble.
“What is this ruckus!”
You swallow hard at the sight of her, cinched in swamp-green latex, with synthetic locks framing her face in sharp, choppy layers. Drusilla looks as sickly as ever.
“Efffie!” She screeches accusingly, “Can you not control your District pests?”
“There’s no ruckus, Drusilla, please, sit down,” Haymitch intervenes, casually gesturing to the empty chair beside him.
You question if she’s even capable of sitting in that hideous dress. She stands unmoving regardless, her bloodshot, beady eyes burning into you. How loud did you yell for your voice to travel to the next carriage? Guilt twists in your gut, the way it always does after such a rash outburst.
“Emotions are running high.” Haymitch chuckles, attempting to break the suffocatingly heavy silence. “We have two very passionate players on our hands this year.”
Being referred to as a ‘player’ makes you grit your teeth. Drusilla slinks around the table, examining you and Otis like you’re up for auction. You feel Otis quiver as she squeezes his frail shoulders and runs a manicured hand down his arm. She sighs.
“Up.” She demands, turning her attention to you.
You stay seated for a moment, fists clenched beneath the tablecloth and teeth grinding hard in your mouth. Haymitch shoots you a pleading look, and after a beat, you swallow the lump of anger in your throat and abide. Drusilla gives your tummy a firm whack, ordering you to suck in the breakfast you just devoured. She pulls your shoulders back and grasps your supple cheeks in her cold, hard hands, turning your face toward hers. She’s even more repulsive up close, and you don’t bother hiding the disgust that riddles your face. She releases her talons and drops you back into your chair with a thud.
“Well, Effie,” She says finally, “There's always next year.”
You scoff, “Maybe not for you.”
No amount of surgery could conceal her age; immortality is one thing the Capitol hasn’t yet been able to bottle and sell. You couldn’t resist a snarky comment about it.
“You don’t know how to muzzle that mouth of yours, do you?” Drusilla spits.
Her twisted choice of words once again solidifies what you already knew: you are inhuman to the Capitol people. Lambs awaiting slaughter. You hold her scowl, contorting every muscle in your face to look composed - bored, even - as rage makes your skin hot to the touch. You feel the solicitous eyes of Effie, Otis, and Haymitch fixed on you, and the whole room flinches as Drusilla releases a clenched fist to grab a chunk of your hair from its root. She yanks you up before slamming you hard into the floor where her spiked stiletto meets your stomach, again and again and again. Each breath you manage is strained and shallow. Just as you come up for air, her shoe rams itself into your head three times, making the room spin. Your body goes numb. All you feel is the warmth of blood trickling across your beaten face.
“Diseased vermin.” She shrieks, taking a triumphant step back from your trembling frame, “The lot of you!”
Though your body protests in pain, you climb the dining chair to bring yourself to stand, feeling a gush of blood fall from your nose and pool in your cupid's bow. Drusilla smiles at your state. A metallic taste fills your mouth and, without a second thought, you spit it at her, right in her smug face.
“We’re contagious.” You pant. The words are laboured, but you can’t help but smile.
Drusilla lets out a squeal and bolts for the door with as much dignity as she can muster up. Effie hesitates at the sight of you, but ultimately hurries after her. The second they're out of sight, you give in to the searing pain adrenaline has suppressed and collapse into a chair, clutching at your abdomen. Otis rests a hand on your shoulder and begins gently wiping blood from your face with the sleeve of his shirt. His soft features are twisted with worry. Haymitch is still sitting opposite you, his head resting in his tan, scarred hands. He takes a deep breath and looks up at you, wincing slightly when he takes in all the blood. You’d think the victor of the 50th Hunger Games would be a little less squeamish.
“Are you alright?” He asks
“Yeah,” you lie as your vision starts to blur.
“What were you thinking?” Haymitch’s voice rises, and a bulging vein reveals itself from beneath his curly bangs.
“I couldn’t just sit there and let her say those things about us. You're district too, you know, or at least you were.” You say, each breath still strenuous on your aching chest.
“Are you trying to make yourself an enemy of the Capitol before you even get there? You have no idea the lengths these people will go to to make your life a living hell if you step even a toe out of line.”
“I’ll be dead in a few days regardless.” You sigh.
He doesn’t like this statement. You watch as he shifts in his chair, finding composure.
“This isn't just about you, Princess.” He sneers. “This is about your family, your friends, anyone you have ever cared about. They will all face the consequences if you don’t get the Capitol on your side.”
You roll your eyes, only making you dizzier.
“You wanted me to help? This is me helping!”
His voice drops an octave as he yells. Though you’d never admit it, it frightens you slightly. You quip back anyway.
“You weren’t much help when your little friend was beating me to a pulp.”
A wisp of shame crosses Haymitch’s face.
“There’s nothing I could’ve-“
“Yeah, well, thanks for trying”, you scoff
“There’s quite a lot of blood.” Interrupts Otis, his youthful voice trembling. His sleeve is covering a throbbing spot just above your eyebrow. Haymitch lets out a rough sigh, pushes his chair back, and stumbles toward the door, leaving you bloody, bruised, and crumpled in a chair behind him. You didn’t expect him to sympathise, but for a reason you can’t quite fathom, it still stings. You sit in the silence for a moment, making a conscious effort not to look disappointed.
“Maybe he’s gone to get a bandage”, Otis suggests, attempting to soften the blow.
You giggle at his relentless optimism. “Maybe.”
Though a shooting pain penetrates your side, it’s nice to laugh. Otis is beginning to feel like a little brother to you. You wince at the thought of him, glossy-eyed and soft-skinned in the arena - the perfect prey.
“I’m sorry I didn’t try to stop her. I just froze.” He confesses.
“No, don’t apologise. She would've just beaten you, too. I need you healthy so you can win this thing.”
He smiles. You let Otis ramble on about his strategies in the games for a time, partly for his sake, but it is a welcome distraction from the pulsating pain in your head. He plans to make a big impression in his interview, gloat about his nimble body and calculated mind to get some sponsors, and then, once in the arena, hide until he’s the last one left. It’s not impossible. You recall a girl from 3 who won in the same way a few years back - hiding in the blind spot of the hellish mirrored arena until the competition eliminated itself. You’re certain President Snow wasn’t happy about that victory. Nowhere near gory enough.
The blood gushing from your brow begins to slow, and after pouring you a glass of water and moving you to a cushioned armchair by the window, Otis retreats to the bed carriage to change his bloodied shirt. You watch as Panem passes by your window, where you are exactly, you have no idea, but the flowy grass calms you as you grip onto your last thread of consciousness.
You’re startled back to reality when you hear a body thud into the chair beside you.
“Your prep team will fix you up when we get to the Capitol, but this should do for now.”
You squint, straining to bring him into focus, and just about make out his thick brows and deep grey eyes. Haymitch is holding out a bandage and a cotton wool ball soaked in liquid in his calloused hand. You can’t bring yourself to take it from him; your pride won’t allow it. He blinks hard in an attempt to conceal an eye-roll, but you catch it anyway.
He takes a heavy, irritated breath. “May I?”
You only glare at him. Haymitch lifts an unsteady hand toward your head, making you flinch. He hesitates a moment before gently brushing a finger across your forehead, sweeping your hair aside to reveal your wound. His warm hand rests against your temple, holding you still, as he brings the cotton ball to your brow. You shudder as the liquid stings your cut, making your nose run, and your eyes flood. Haymitch looks as pained as you are. He replaces the cotton ball with the bandage and delicately fastens it. He leans back slightly, taking you in, his hand still glued to your forehead. His eyes scan your face, and his brows begin to furrow slightly, as if you're some equation he can’t quite crack. He presses a thumb to his mouth and licks it before gingerly reaching out to brush it against your upper lip, wiping at the blood that coats your skin. A sinking feeling pulls on your gut, forcing you to bat his hand away and shuffle back in your chair.
“Leave it.” You mutter as you swipe at the burning feeling his touch left on your lips.
“Sorry,” He clears his throat, and you watch as he summons that confident charisma he forgot for a moment, “but make yourself look presentable before we get to the Capitol. There's gonna be cameras on you the second you step off this train.”
You nod.
“Can’t have people thinking I don’t know how to control my tributes.” He mumbles
“You don’t.” You sass. And in that moment, you question if that's all this is. Haymitch’s anger at you for challenging Drusilla. His bitterness at your defiance of survival. The sudden softness that is so uncharacteristic of him. Your performance here is a direct reflection of him. By keeping you in line, keeping you sweet, and keeping you alive, he’s protecting himself.
“I’ve only ever seen one other person stand up to her like that. I wish more people would. Just not… you.” He admits.
His forced attempt at charming you makes you cringe. Making you feel special would be an excellent strategy to manage your behaviour if you were any less neurotic. With his seductive hoarse voice and magnetic energy, he’d be easy to fall for. But you are nothing if not stubborn, and you refuse to be manipulated by yet another man.
“I’d do it again,” You say flatly.
He struggles to cover the irritation that plagues his face. It’s rewarding to know you frustrate him just as much as he frustrates you. He exhales and pours himself a glass of what smells like the same cleaning agent used on your wound. He chugs the lot in one large gulp, wiping the glistening remnants from his lips with the back of his hand.
“After the reaping, some boy threw himself at the cameraman when they tried to get a close-up of him.”
You give him a confused look, encouraging him to elaborate.
“He was yelling obscenities at the crew and flailing around like a fish out of water, screaming your name.”
You feel a sharp pang in your chest as the scene plays out in your mind's eye. There’s only one person that boy could be.
“So, you know,” Hamitch continues, slightly slurring, “you can’t tell me you have nothing to live for.”
“What did they do to him?” You ask hesitantly. You’re not sure you want to know the answer.
“I’ve been told he’s in custody now, awaiting a trial.”
You’re overcome with conflicting feelings, compelling you to silence.
“The Capitol can use him as leverage now. And they will,” He warns, “They have someone you care about - someone who clearly cares about you - readily at their disposal.”
“He doesn’t care about me.” You correct, and you know how stupid it sounds, but after all he put you through, you refuse to think otherwise.
Haymitch sighs. “Well, he was willing to die for you, Princess,” he adds, raising his eyebrows and pouring himself another sharp drink. Your head begins to pound again.
“I don’t need your opinion on my relationships, Haymitch. You’re not exactly the picture of stability and wellness.” You bite, gesturing up and down his unbathed body.
A rare flicker of insecurity crosses his face as his gaze wanders over himself. He’s so proud, you never knew he was capable of feeling such a thing. You push down the guilt that begins to rise in your stomach and rest your head against the train window, forcing your eyes closed. Your last interaction with the boy in custody replays over and over in your head. Tiptoeing over shattered glass, restraining his bloodied hands in yours, watching as tears streamed down his olive cheeks. The smell of Haymitch’s alcohol beside you only makes it feel more real. You flirt with consciousness for a time until your mind finally empties, and you pass out. It’s a pleasant escape from the searing pain that curses both your mind and your body. You beg for death in your sleep, but you wake anyway, and through the train window you see it - worse than any hell the afterlife could conjure - the Capitol.
turnnoffyourmind
vaporwave
pixelskylines
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