My name is Emmitt and I am a minor. I enjoy space stuff and science. My fandoms are pjo, house md, dps, and arcane. I use he/they/it pronouns and I am boyflux as well as aceflux, aroflux, pansexual, gay, hypersexual(NO NSFW), and polyamorous. Please do not interact if you are an nsfw, terf, zoo, homophobe/transphobe, racist, or sexist blog. I will add more later on!
WARNINGS: references to child abuse / endangerment + hunger games spoilers
WC: 4557
A.N: First chapter, yippie! hope u enjoy <3
Sun had bled through the curtains, the warmth of daylight rose to my face and I instinctively recoiled from the sting. My body lacked the satisfaction of good rest and the consequence was a warm ache that ebbed through my nerves so tirelessly I couldn't exercise my limbs for a few seconds.
My brothers were also busy stirring in their beds as they tried to catch a few more minutes of sleep. Most people couldn't even close their eyes the day before the Reaping, and almost every year, I see a pool of figureheads idling with tipping heads. It wasn’t abnormal to hear screams echoing in the night, either. The thought of the Capitol was enough to send someone off their mattress in a flash. I never suffered from that reflex; I always awoke paralyzed from my nightmares.
Either minutes or an hour pass before I slip out of bed with a light sickness and stretch. My muscles infectiously grow with energy, and with every step, I can feel my legs pull themselves out of fuzzy rigor. Waking up was always the hardest part of the day. I remember looking like a sleazy housecat every time my parents had to pull me from bed. I’m better at it now, but I think it’s impossible to tame my wild hair.
I changed into a light button-up and splashed my eyes awake with cold water, I decided to take a long look in the mirror. Blue eyes stared back at me, my hair was also incredibly messy, so I combed it flat with my nails. I try to make myself look less exhausted by toying with my skin, my fingers massaging around my eyes didn’t scrub my dark circles away. I gave up after a minute and walked down the closed hallways, past the row of open door frames.
My house was a hybrid, living quarters and a family business blended into one. Our bakery was most of the building, space was a bit of a problem, but it didn’t dwindle on being troublesome. The shop was much brighter than home, romantic with firefly light and milky scents – cakes, bread, and other delicacies. It was also warmer than the market, having a big furnace that snorted overwhelming heat made it comfortable to loiter around. It was hard work, it took ages for my hands to get used to the constant rhythm of easing dough and enduring flames, while also maintaining a skillful sense of control to capture the more fundamental details of decorating. It was painful but worth it. As pompous as it sounds, a passerby's impressed gaze was incredibly satisfying; I was contributing my way – it’s cool.
I met my father in our living room. It wasn't spacious, just a chair or two and a bookshelf tucked into the corner with dusty contents. The ragged carpet was an eyesore, but in my father's words, “It gave the room character.” Regardless, it was the root of most contention in the house.
He was flipping through the pages of an old book, breathing slowly. I could see the burn marks flaked across his skin from hours of laboring near the oven and yet his hands, while large and capable, still worked gently through the thin pages. My father was completely still, and it hadn't been the first time I had assumed he was deep in slumber. A tired, yet endearing “Morning.” rasped from his old throat. My greeting was that of a soft smile.
My father was a broad-shouldered man with a robust body. From afar, one would assume he had spent all his years in heavy work, but in close proximity, you would realize he was more domestic and fluffy, that despite all that strength he could unravel great tenderness. I had inherited some of his features, his blond hair and eyes, and some of his build.
Most mornings were akin to this. Slow, quiet — apprehensive. It was best not to be so disruptive. I sat next to him and he looked younger than me, most likely due to his ability to fall asleep on a whim. Still, there was a glint of woe in his eyes. His large brows furrowed, “Sleep well?”
“Yeah,” I said, blinking tiredly. He laughed softly, any father could read through lies. He relaxed in his seat and rocked back and forth with his hands locked together.
We had a few minutes of conversation, topics about my paintings, the bakery floated adrift our tired mouths that struggled not to whisper about the Reaping. It was marching in my mind, the sight of someone marching up on stage was buzzing in my skull, and I completely tuned out what my father was chuckling about. I always tended to space out, almost all the time. Not sure why, my mother tried to whip it out of me a few times. Obviously, it didn’t work – as if blunt trauma could fix my brain.
“Peeta? You alright?”
I said something incredible, “Uh . . .”
Fortunately, I didn't need to reel back and ask what he had said. Rye had entered, exchanged a few words, and clicked his tongue. I nodded to Father and made my way outdoors. The air was welcoming, even warmer than I expected, so I pulled up my sleeves.
“It's good weather today,” Rye said. It was, what a waste. District 12 was a town of ashes — not surprising considering coal miners were the backbone of everything. It wasn’t entirely miserable, there was still something to smile about even if it was tucked in the darkest crevices. I had found solace around people, their ability to sculpt something so bleak into an inflexible community, made the silhouette of Peacekeepers and large barbed fences flee my mind most of the time.
The streets were ghostly. Dead pathways, quiet porches – The ring of bells tailed by barking and the cacophony of preparation. Unlike most shops, Mother demanded we'd keep it open for the influx of celebrations from families rich with mirth and relief, their children wouldn't be in the Games this year. Those who weren't lucky could only curl up in their house, swallow their tears, and pray with their eyes pressed against the television. It was hours until everyone had to gather in the square for the announcement, which left plenty of time to work until my hands hurt.
Rye and I walked into our yard and underneath a clanky rusted shed laid a trove of ingredients wrapped tightly in dark brown sacks. Nearby lay bottles, buckets, and other tools that were rough with decay. “Alright, let's get this over with.” my brother said.
Rye was two years older than me, nineteen, and had held the title of being the only boy able to beat me in wrestling, which I aimed to beat, but now wasn’t the time. I admired him, he was hardworking and talkative, assertive too. He was the spitting image of my father. We even mistook them for each other occasionally.
We started tossing the flour bags over our shoulders until Brio, stumbling with mismatched clothing, mirrored us without a word. His curls drooped over his eyes but we could see there was discontent heavy in his gaze. Me and Rye exchanged glances.
“What’s with the pajamas?” teased Rye. He huffed as he walked to the backdoor. I found myself smiling too, Brio only raised his hand in the air as if that’d zip either of us up. Despite being the youngest, I had grown accustomed to the labors that baking required, and backpacking a few pounds had nestled itself into my main routine.
Several classmates still didn’t believe my family business was baking, not coal mining or building with my bare hands. Which is still pretty funny, I’ve only excelled in wrestling. I’m not strong enough to deal with picking away in an entrapped place. I get squeamish in tight spaces, if it’s too tight I’ll faint in a few seconds.
Brio slammed the sack onto the hardwood and cleaned sweat off his brow. “Mom woke me up before I could change. Told me to catch up because I take too long to get ready.”
As they bickered I started working and I fisting dough when something caught my attention. I had dozed through most of their conversation, so I waited in silence until they fed me some context.
“What do you think the Games are going to be this year?” asked Brio. I don’t blame them for bringing it up, but it’s so morbid. Rye only shrugged, concluding a string of disturbing events the Gamekeepers had cranked out. Then he finished with a dry, “Not my problem anyway.”
My brothers aren’t typically the best to converse with, but we get along fine. Work is equally distributed, and we gossip and fight – since I’m the youngest, it’s easy to assume I get picked on the most, but my brothers find themselves often disappointed and even embarrassed when I jab back much harsher than they expected. Brio had started the furnace and while feeding it, he continued.
“Can’t believe she’s making us work so early,” Brio muttered disappointedly. “I wanted to see my friends.” So did I, but I didn’t feel like airing out my complaints this morning.
“We’ll be able to see our friends after the Reaping, everyone's gonna be celebrating anyway,” Rye answered.
I cleared my throat, “You don’t know if they’ll be taken into the Games, you know. It's best to stay with them while you still can.”
Rye scoffed. “Like that’ll ever happen.”
Unlike me and Brio, he is spared from the Games due to his age. For chances of being invited to the Capitol to televise your death, it’s out of a bowl filled with hundreds of names; that includes the duplication every year and the tesseras.
The chance to opt out of starvation in exchange for the chance of being picked in the Games. Most kids put themselves on the frontline for resources to live another week, it still disturbs me how easy it is to starve to death here. My family never got entangled in that, but I’ve seen it. It’s ugly, unfair – and it makes me feel guilty. Like I can do more, but I don’t.
I argue. “Easy for you to say. You aren’t even liable to get locked anymore.” I find his arrogance annoying. The Capitol never played fair, our status didn’t free us from anything. All we had was slightly polished shackles, everyone in our District was drowning in the same pool – why couldn’t he see that too?
“Oh, shut up. None of you are going in there, it’s probably going to be some nobody.” He insisted grimly. Rye wasn’t wrong, but I wished he picked better wording. I held back my tongue because I had to use the furnace and that required deep concentration.
Brio came to my defense. “He’s right, you and your friends are going to be fine. Me and Peeta aren’t,” he folded his arms. They were already drenched with batter. “And you know those freaks from the Capitol, the bowls probably rigged. They’re unpredictable! I bet they’re trying to shake things up this year to make things interesting, maybe they’ll have a bunch of rich kids kill themselves.”
I told him flatly, “We aren't rich.” he stared at me as if he learned that for the wrong time.
“I know, but — the Capitol’s probably getting tired of seeing nobodies all the time, right? We lose all the time, anyway, they probably want a change.” Unlike Districts 1 and 2, we didn't get special training for the Games due to the overwhelming amount of losses we received. Brio had a point. It could be possible — I decided to help Brio with the cakes.
Rye bit his bottom lip. Then he argued after a few seconds, “Whatever. I’m telling you, you’re not getting picked. Neither of your friends.” he reiterated. “You two are so dramatic.”
Rye still wasn’t, I’ve always seen him drop his head every time Effie Trinket dips her hand into the bowl and picks a random boy to become our short-lived Tribute. It was challenging to be calm. Watching someone, most of the time your age, suffer for the sake of the Capitol? Anyone in their right mind would shiver at that. Myself included. Indifference, despite the hardship our District posed, was hard to achieve in cases like this.
I grow slightly upset thinking about it, and I nearly spill something, it catches the attention of them both. Everyone stands still, like disturbed deer – paralyzed, silent . . . their eyes wander, bracing for heavy footsteps across the hardwood. None came.
“We can’t have a mess now, Mom will get upset,” Brio warned. He was layering thin sponge cakes on top of buttercream like mortar and brick. Then slapped pits of frosting and smoothed them out with undivided attention.
I nearly rolled my eyes in annoyance at first, not wanting to dirty a kitchen was stupid, but I nodded when it subdued itself with fear. Mother’s demands weren’t always logical, but nobody was brave enough to defy her word. She was strict, just as icy as her eyes, and was somehow able to bite back her breath long enough for a full argument. Her face would get as rest as the fires that cooked the sweets sometimes and her eyes would round into something devilish.
I sigh. “Right, sorry.” And I composed myself. My father had walked in a few times to work alongside us, I had no idea where my mother was, and I couldn't care less. Best not to question whatever concerned her or talk to her – honestly, it was best to act like you didn’t exist in her presence at all.
I had no problem with killing time with art. Most of the time I was so enthralled I didn’t know an hour had passed, or what my brothers were talking about. Every once in a while, the commotion of them going against their throats had disturbed my lazy stream of tranquility. I was pretty smart at school, respected by my peers too but I mostly looked forward to painting.
I was a whiz with watercolor and unlike wrestling, if anyone tried to ask me how I did it my mouth would go dry. It would just happen. A lot of my peers found it odd I dedicated a lot of my time to my sketchbook rather than physical studies. I never replied honestly but to tell the truth, I enjoy the intimacy of it.
It required concentration, silence, and thought. You can sit down against an oak tree, look about, and if your mind motivated your fingers to start manipulating the page you’d end up with something you may or not be proud of. And regardless of my occasional annoyance, it was mine, and I liked it.
I saw Brio folding his apron and then he thumbed some batter on his frecked cheek, I could even see some stuck in the strands of his golden hair. I pointed it out and he spent a minute trying to finger the dry material from his curls, “It’s almost time. Better get ready,”
Rye’s voice was still sore from a prior dispute. “Aren’t you going to help clean up?” Of course, he wasn’t. I could hear him rushing away and my brother groaned so loud it’d probably shake the house.
We had gotten some good work done and were cleaning up, and fixing our required wear for the Reaping. Snow white blouses with dark pants, slick back hair, and black clicky shoes. I hate how tight these are, bland too. I struggle with one of the buttons and Mother offers to help me, lip pursed. She brushed my shoulders despite them being perfectly clean. I feel myself shrinking.
My mother was in a light dress, with light makeup and light touchups to her hair – her face remained disturbingly stoic. But I saw some affection in her gaze, of course she’d never show it but it was better than swallowing hatred.
Her voice was soft, “You all did well this morning.”
I nodded.
“And you got ready without my help.”
We always did, I nodded again. “Yes.”
She recognized my meekness and kissed my forehead. “Oh, Peeta. You know I’m only hard on you three because I love you, right? And now look at you, you’re all capable men now.”
This always happened. Simple things either turned into emotional, well appearing to be emotional, apologies or rants. I’ve heard this before, but it’s better than screaming or hitting. I wonder why she’s bringing up how exceptional me and my brothers are today, it’s probably the Reaping. She was not careless like Rye, but not nervous like Brio. Mother just was . . . just mentioning it because she needed to. It probably brought her ease and that muddied any sense of sincerity in the rough.
She straightened my collar, tugged my cheek, and walked away. I didn’t feel anything from that, stuff like that would spark out of nowhere. I think it’s to make herself less guilty – a few minutes later Mother will get angry at me again, and again. I expect a few comments as we’re walking to the square. This was normal however, you eventually grow numb to behavior like this. But even when you do, you still get anxiety from simple things.
We leave the house, Mother is bickering with Father to lock up the shop in fear of thieves. Me, Rye, and Brio walk ahead and join the lines of miserable shadows slumping forward across the dirt roads. Every year, Brio makes sure to point out we look like a bunch of swans. That gives me some comfort for a little while.
Rye lowered his head and began clutching his stomach, while he tried pulling through his sickness he whispered. “Who do you think it’s going to be?”
“Why are you bringing this up?” Brio retaliated. “You’re making everyone more nervous.”
I kept my head down. They couldn’t stop yapping if their lives depended on it. “You wanna talk about flowers and puppies, you bozo?” He asked bitterly. Nothing happened next because our parents had caught up, and they both continued in silence. The lingering gazes of our neighbors and friends walking in unison shifted to the direction of the square, the embarrassment still rolled in my stomach.
Brick houses stood idly on top of overgrown hills and twisted wire fences, morning birds circled across the sky like vultures, and the clicks of hooves from wandering livestock drowned away – the whirrs of cameramen clamoring inversely above the sea of grieving faces muddied the sound of the breeze. The more we approached the square, the more my senses started to become more artificial.
This wasn’t out of character for the Capitol. As if sending two kids to slaughter wasn’t bad enough they needed to jam cameras in our faces. Everyone was cold and miserable, I will never understand how entertaining that is. The patrons of the Games, as much as I don’t want to believe it, are alien to us. But they also see the Districts as a people without reason. I guess we create great distance between ourselves, I think it makes everything worse.
I try not to sniffle every time we round up in rows after signing in, separate from our parents, and wait in the sun. My parents fade into divided crowds, I can’t pick them from the others. And as I wait, scratching my skin, I remember how the boys in my row look so similar to me.
My mother always told me to distance myself from our Tributes. That there was no point praying, rooting, or holding my breath for some nobody. Rye and Father said around the same thing, but it wasn’t nearly as cruel. Brio didn’t bother watching the Games – nobody could blame him. Maybe I’m just weird but I only tuned into the Games thinking they could all be saved. The file grows tighter, I think I might suffocate. District 12 has a population of about eight thousand, all gazing at the Justice Building nervously.
Effie Trinket is standing with a wide smile on her face. I won’t deny she looks nice, but kind of creepy. Like any Capitol person she’s practically shimmering with giddyness, but it doesn’t feel like normal joy. It feels nervous, forced. She’s really weird but it’s probably due to the cameramen. She’s posed next to two giant balls (one for boys, one for girls) filled with small slips of paper, each has a name. Her nails are twitching enthusiastically, they’re brimmed with cosmetics; just like the rest of her blinding outfit. Pinkish hair, green suit, and a wide smile. It’s just so out of place.
You can practically feel the cameras staring at you; everything is claustrophobic but that doesn’t matter as the clock strikes two and everyone, militarily, straightens and zips their lips shut. The mayor, a frail eagle of a man, prepares himself on the podium. I usually space out at this part like anybody but I’ve heard it so many times it’s basically tattooed onto my brain.
Panem used to be a place called North America, but it grew flat from natural disasters – droughts, wars, storms, fires, bombs and violence, heresy, panic, hatred and famine – from the ashes, the Capitol emerged. It was a utopia, but not for us; that’s the point, isn’t it? Want to live perfectly, just get thirteen districts to do the work for you! Everything was peaceful (for the Capitol), until the Dark Days. The Districts had enough, there was an uprising but as expected they were obliterated. Thirteen was reduced to rubble and bone – the survivors were punished by the Treaty of Treason.
The Hunger Games were a reminder of our defiance, our ungratefulness, and our anger. Each year, twenty-four Tributes are held in an arena designed for the most thrilling experience. Children are at the Gamemaker's mercy, you are forced to kill people – if you don’t, they’ll make you either through flames, savage wolves, or disease. It’s sacrifice, it’s sadism. Nobody can do anything.
Those who survive are never the same. The Games turn you into something to gawk at. You’ll never truly be at peace because television will collect you in fear, it’ll dramatize your violence, it’ll dehumanize you in any way it can. I wonder if Capitol citizens question the Games, or they just see us as actors; no one is truly getting hurt by them if they do . . . well, it’s just how things go, I guess. You get riches when you win but everyone knows that isn’t enough.
The Mayor recites the past Tributes. In over seventy-four years, we have only had two. Only one is alive and he’s bumbling onto the stage right now, I can smell the alcohol on his breath. Judging by his ears and jelly walk, he’s in a haze. Everyone applauds, awkwardly. It’s funny, I mean – it’s not but Haymitch tries to hug her and she practically has to wrestle him off. Right now, the Capitol is laughing their makeup off. We’re so stupid, aren’t we? A drunk Tribute was completely mindless.
The Mayor was probably swimming in his own sweat so he introduced Effie to prevent any further humiliation. She adjusts her wig and skips to the podium and I forget how overwhelmingly bubbly her voice is when she shouts, “Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!” and then she calms. Despite being so shiny, there's a lot of rough in her.
She seems agitated, probably because she got embarrassed in front of the nation but who knows? “It truly is an honor to be here.” She says proudly. “For so long, I’ve admired the Games and all of you! And although your Victor number may be short, I know all your hearts are rich with resilience and they’ll burn brightly for your District, and for Panem!” Effie adds.
I want to think she’s being genuine. But it’s the Capitol, this could just be a script – or she could just be a tired woman who doesn’t want to deal with drunks anymore. I have a little bit of sympathy for that. She goes on and I think about Katniss. I know she’s probably in the crowd somewhere, I wonder if she is as scared as I am. My mind always drifts to her sooner or later, lovesickness has been an avid figure in my life ever since I was a kid.
We don’t know each other well, we only crossed eyes a few years ago but I think about her all the time. My brothers tease me for it, they say I should spend my eyes on a girl worth my time. I don’t think they realize how wonderful she is, even if we aren’t close. My father was in love with her mother, but she married another man – he was never upset, however. All he wanted was for her to be happy, I want the same.
There’s no time to be love-struck however, I remember where I am. I’m crammed and Effie is rambling about how she was always fixated on the Games, and Panem and President Snow. How long was this going on for again? It had to be a few minutes or something. Everyone around me was growing upset, they just wanted to get this over with. Standing around as the blazing son bore over you as some Capitol woman spilled her life story about wasn’t in anyone's interest.
In the crowd, I eye Rye who isn’t staring at the ground. I look at Brio who is completely numb, a ghost. There were a lot of ghosts in the cluster and they all woke up from their mental grave when Effie clapped her hands together, her exotic eyelashes batting rapidly. “Ladies first!”
And her heels click against the floor, dramatically digs her hand into the bowl with the girls’ names and brings out a slip of paper. I hear whimpers in the crowd, everyone is holding their breath. Not just the girls, but their mothers, sisters, grandmothers, cousins, and friends – their friends and lovers all stared like hawks as she opened the slip and announced clearly into the sea of people: “Primrose Everdeen!”
I hear a collective sigh of relief and it’s disturbing how everyone softens, even at the sight of a little girl being dragged towards the stage. Her screams fill the square – I feel myself churn internally. It was only a few seconds but Katniss had pulled herself from the row of girls and let out a pained howl. I didn’t comprehend it for a second because of the shock, but she had just volunteered.
A cesspool of eyes was watching her now, not just in the square but across all of Panem. Her tears would be televised to thousands, it is here the reality of the Games strikes me cold. The cruelness of the Games has unraveled itself in its utmost eternity to us all right now and all we could think was: “Glad it’s not me.”
However, I didn’t. I had helped the girl in the rain before, it marked me with pain and now all I could do was watch as she announced herself on the stage.
