teeth marks.

((icarus cross // 26 // trainer )) ((iris buckle // 22 // victor of the 88th hunger games, district ten tribute )) (( emmy styx // 23 // victor of the 86th hunger games, district one mentor ))

[tetheredgod]

HERE LIE

/ ICARUS CROSS, trainer from district two ( you ask me about love and i tell you about violence )

/ IRIS BUCKLE, victor of the 88th hunger games, tribute of district ten ( i am quiet, i bury no one, blood is drying beneath my nails )

/ EMERALD STYX, victor of the 86th hunger games, mentor of district one ( i'm like a dog that got hit by a car but was totally fine )

[tetheredgod]

fossils // self para

tw: violence

“Because if you walk into a room and notice what is missing from it. It’s still there, isn’t it? The first poem I wrote that wasn’t about you was still about you.” Caitlyn Siehl, What We Buried

JASON had surprisingly bony hands and a forehead with a single crease in it from the time his eldest brother threw him face-first into a brick wall. There was not a softness to his body; the blonde of his hair had grown down to his shoulders, leaving darker roots and knotted strands closer to the brain he professed not to use. His knuckles weren’t rough as much as they were hardened, his words weren’t sharp as much as they were blunt. He had a crooked front tooth, his right one, which was an ailment he must’ve picked up at some point, but no one could pin-point. When he smiled, the tooth stuck out a little past his lip, like he was biting down, like it was a last-ditch effort to keep his amusement from showing. When he was twelve, he found a pit at the edge of the Academy’s grounds. It was six feet deep and stretched to about the size of a small room. When Icky asked him what it was, Jason said it must’ve been a dog pit.

“A dog pit?” Icky questioned.

“Yeah. For fighting dogs, y’know? So they can maul each other in the dirt, but not get near the people that have placed their bets on them. Like a colosseum for dogs.”

"That seems too civilised,” Icky said, stumbled over a word too big for him. “Dogs don’t get colosseums.”

“Clearly,” Jason said, nodded towards the hole in the ground. “They get pits.” Then he smiled, tooth poking out. “Do you want to get in?”

Icky stood at the edge of the pit, hesitance grounding him in the grass. He wanted to, but it felt wrong. “Do you want to get in, Jase?” he asked.

Jason nodded. That was all that Icky needed to see. He lowered himself into the pit, desperately clawing at its walls as though it would slow what was essentially his fall into the underground. His hands were covered in sand, dirt under his nails.

“Jase, come look!” he said.

When Jason joined him, sliding down in a manner that seemed more dignified somehow, Icky triumphantly held up the only treasure he’d find in the dogpit.

“It’s a lighter!” he said.

“Oh cool,” Jason said. “We get a pit, and we can go set things on fire!”

They’d fight in the pit most days. First, when they were small, they had to stand on each other’s shoulders to get out of the hole. Icky would hoist himself back to the world, then lean over the edge of the pit to pull Jason up after. When they got bigger, they made a competition of it, as they did everything, to see who could scramble their way out of the pit with the most amount of dirt under their fingers. They were like dogs with bones about the place – they’d let the other Academy kids come look, but threatened to break legs if anyone dared make contact with the six-feet-deep dirt. It was theirs to show off and theirs to command. There were a few times they would drag their latest victims, kids who’d looked at them funny or who had dared to speak over them, to the edge of the pit, would hold them over it, would make a show of it. But it was their pit, only they could lower each other into it. Like some sort of sacred ritual. If they weren’t in the pit, they’d be circling it. Jason and Icky, the best kids at the Academy, who had a bone to pick with a hole in the ground.

Icky had often considered that he didn’t know Jason at all. That Jason was this collection of facts that never fit together properly. His favourite colour was this odd shade that sat right between purple and red – sometimes Icky would show Jason the bruises he’d acquired, because he knew Jason liked the colour. He was a quiet kid, but not calculated enough for it to be deliberate, for his voice to cut like a knife when he did speak. Sometimes it simply felt like he had nothing to say. Like everything had already been said; Jason had joined the Academy the year before Icky, was a year older than him. Whenever Icky strayed from the path they’d set out between them, to both go into the Games and win, Jason was there to steady him. The Academy kept a watchful eye on its most promising future-tributes; the only reason they’d been allowed to keep the pit, the only reason they’d get away with bullying half of the other kids there, was because Jason and Icky had signed their lives away the moment they signed up for the Academy. They had to match each other, surely. If one of them fell behind, faltered, there’d be nothing left for them at the Academy. Jason was a head shorter than Icky and Jason had a dimple in one of his cheeks, but not the other. His mother, a woman who was as quiet as he was, had a dimple in the opposite cheek. Jason was a million facts Icky could easily rattle off. Jason was a thousand sparring strategies Icky never needed to think about. Icky knew Jason for ten years and didn’t once ask him how he was doing.

////

When Icky was fifteen and the sun was setting, he and Jason scrapped like animals over a splintered bone. Icky was sure there was blood in his mouth, a punch still ringing in his ears. The Academy would’ve stopped this fight by now, but that was why they were in the pit. The pit was this breathing, living thing. The pit wouldn’t dictate for how many rounds they could kick the shit out of each other. Icky had found breaking point; it was six rounds in and he was great at taking a punch, so he held out for longer than Jason did. Icky won round seven, pinned Jason into the dirt with his thin knees. They stared at each other, faces too close together, the shaky breaths in the space between them bringing the only warmth of the incoming night. Icky looked away then, though he didn’t move. The pit seemed so much smaller than usual then. It was shaking, somehow.

“You won,” Jason said.

“I know.”

“Please get off me,” Jason scoffed.

“No, I’m not letting you go.”

The dirt walls were closing in.

“Icky, I’m gonna send you to your dead mother if you don’t get off me now—” Jason’s tooth was poking out again. Icky caught it from the corner of his eye.

“You know, I’ve never liked that joke, Jase. You’re lucky I like you, I’m in the perfect position to punch you in the face.”

 He was examined then, he knew he was being examined. Icky still wasn’t looking, but he knew he was being watched for weakness, for the single moment in which he would falter, would stop committing to the bit. Jason was looking him up and down, Icky couldn’t tell what kind of punch he’s going to pull. His grip on Jason’s wrists tightened.

“You’d have to let go of my wrist if you want to punch me, you know what would happen then.”

And Jason sounded so confident, so fucking sure of himself, like cause and effect has played out before him already, and he was simply waiting for his opponent to agree to bear the brunt of it.

“Yeah, you’d flip us over,” Icky said. There was this crack in his voice that echoed back from the dirt walls and Icky hated being fifteen, hated being on display so easily. “So, it’s a matter of speed. Either I punch you before you flip me, or you flip me before I get a punch in.”

“And then I’ll punch you in the face.”

"And then you’ll punch me in the face,” Icky agreed.

There was a silence. A contemplation. Icky swore he could hear the pit breathe. Beneath him, Jason was warm and clammy, covered in dirt. A scratch had pulled its way from one side of Jason’s cheek to the other. When he smiled, the clawmark moved too.

“I just like seeing you bleed. Makes you look pretty,” Jason said. Icky has never looked at the scars of dirt on the ground so intensely, with such a devotion to not looking Jason in the eye. He knew he was being played with, yet he couldn’t shake it. He swallowed. Jason spoke: “Who’s faster between us?”

“I’d say we’re pretty even. You could just take it back, you know? I wouldn’t have to punch you if you just take it back,” Icky said.

“Over your dead mom’s body, Icky.”

“Okay, right, fuck you—”

Icarus tried to outsmart him, let go with both hands so he could sit back, keep himself far away enough so Jason couldn’t grab him to flip their positions. He futilely prepared for a version of Jason that never reached him. Jason didn’t reach to strike him off balance, but instead spurted forward to grab Icky by the head, two hands bruising his jaw on contact, Icky’s face cupped roughly and dragged forward. The Jason that met him was an unforgiving thing, all teeth and lack of care as he kissed him.

When Icky pulled away, this shaking shell of adrenaline and overwhelm, he thought he might’ve just died. Like something had gone so horribly wrong or so horribly right that it couldn’t fit into his understanding of the world. The pit shook too. Icky fell back into the dirt and looked up at the sky, which now only held the last embers of the evening, fading into darker blues.

“J-Jase?”

“What? I guess I don’t mind you being on top as much as I thought I would…”

The pit was never truly unsupervised after that. One of them would circle it on their hours off, or they’d keep an eye out from one of the few Academy windows. Icky and Jason stopped dragging other kids to the pit. It was only theirs now. The dog-fights they’d engage in at the bottom never lost their fervour, the teeth simply tasted different; if anything, it was a simple extension of a sparring if they ended up kissing after.

On some nights, when they’d stay late at the Academy, the pit was a hungry stomach and Icky was balancing on its edge somehow. He and Jason would sit together and not sink down to violence. They wouldn’t look at the hole beneath them or what it could hold. On one such night, Icky was sixteen and Jason provided the only light in the dark. Jason was trying to light a cigarette despite the turbulent evening wind. Neither of them smoked and neither of them said anything about that. Icky was looking at the sky, he was leaning back and the world overwhelmed him, and he’d never felt this small. It was a good thing; it lessened the impact.

“Jase?”

“Yeah Icky?”

“I think I love you.”

“I know.”

“Oh.”

“Icks?”

“Yeah?”

“Me too.”

They didn’t talk about it again.

////

Jason had three brothers and Icky had none. This didn’t matter as much as it did. It didn’t matter when they were sparring, because Icky could keep up even though Jason had more experience. It didn’t matter when they were in Jason’s house, which they were whenever they weren’t at the Academy, because it wasalways busy, though it was never full. It mattered when Icky would find Jason sitting at the edge of the sandpit, though. It mattered when Icky would find him with his shoulders shaking in that awful way that implied he was still trying to stop himself from giving in, like he was trying to show some restraint. He would’ve been crying or had cried already. It would only be in the particularly quiet evenings, when the sky seemed too large and the world seemed too small, and the sandpit would sit as an undignified grave in the Academy’s garden in which no one was buried. Two of Jason’s brothers had died in the Games, subsequent years with subsequent failures. The third brother was a wanderer; the only thing holding up that man’s spine was the Peacekeeper outfit he’d stuffed himself into after chickening out of volunteering. He was the family’s shame, had been thrown out the house the same day he didn’t volunteer. This was the deal kids made with the Academy – once they’d jumped in head-first, had trained and had proven they were worthy of a tribute spot, there’d be no outs, no excuses. The Academy didn’t like having its resources wasted. District Two didn’t like kids that didn’t do as they were told. This had never worried Icky, as he was a great little soldier. Jason seemed worried sometimes, but Icky never asked about it.

On nights like these, when Jason would cry, he looked so small. His broad shoulders were at odds with the rest of his slumping body. On nights like these, Icky would sit next to him quietly, knowing better than to say a single word or to bring it up afterwards. He knew better than to speak because he didn’t know what to say. He didn’t understand.

One time, Icky held him. Just once. Icky brushed the knots from his hair with shaking fingers. He had felt warm, unguarded. This living, breathing thing, despite himself. His tooth had stuck out funny as he chewed on his lip and tried not to let Icky see. And Icky had this awful urge to scrape all the sand down in the pit together, to smooth it out, to straighten all the marks that they’d left in it. Icky had felt the awful want to be something cleaner, someone who could hold Jason without all the dirt under his nails.

////

On the night before the Reaping, Jason’s Reaping, they laid in the pit together and didn’t fight. The walls seemed higher than they normally did, like they were shielded, somewhere far away from the world. When Icky risked a glance to his side, where Jason lay staring up at the same sky, he considered that Jason’s long hair, splayed in the dirt, almost looked as though it was a crown on his head. There were parts where their bodies touched; a knee turned just enough to touch Jason’s side, Jason’s shoulder wedged against Icky’s armpit. Icky had never looked at Jason and thought of him as fragile. But something between them was.

“You’ll still go see my mom, right Icks?” Jason sighed, blowing something between nonchalance and an unusual anxiety into the air. He’d taken to smoking in the past year, blew some smoke with his words.

“We’re on for dinner tomorrow, actually. We’re just waiting for you to be gone, she’s been saving all the good gossip for the past year,” Icky responded, his words almost too dry for the crisp night sky.

“Fuck off,” Jason huffed, “just cause you don’t have a mom, doesn’t mean you get to steal mine.”

“Someone’s gotta clear out the fridge while you’re not around, Jase. I’m sure she doesn’t mind another son,” Icky said.

“Maybe you’ll be her only son,” Jason said. It was a shaky breath, hesitant in a way that tried not to draw attention to itself.

“Fuck off,” Icky responded in turn. “Knowing you, you’ll be back next week.”

“And if I’m not?”

“Jase, what the fuck. You can’t start saying stuff like this now—”

“I’ve been saying,” Jason interrupted. He moved away, put an arm’s length between them, but didn’t get up and didn’t look away from the sky. “You just haven’t been listening.”

“You’re saying you don’t want to go,” Icky said, disbelief clinging so tightly to his jaw that he barely managed the words.

“No, not even that,” Jason said. His voice shrunk, and he seemed so small all of a sudden.

Icky pushed himself upright, if only to check if Jason was still there, that he hadn’t somehow disappeared with how softly he’d spoken then. The stars reflected in Jason’s eyes in this funny way that meant Icky couldn’t tell if he was close to crying or not. He was biting down on his lip, right tooth sticking out. He looked like a kid.

“I’m saying I’m not strong enough to come back,” Jason shrugged. When he frowned, the scar on his forehead moved with the wrinkles.

“Bullshit,” Icky said.

“Icks—listen. We don’t have anything beyond this. We go into the Games, and then what? When’s the last time the strongest Career actually made it back out? We never planned out what happens after this, after the Games. We never needed to.”

“Of course we have something beyond this, Jase. We—we’ll… I don’t know, we’ll have matching fucking houses in the Victors’ Village. We can do whatever we want. Whatever you want. Tell me what you want, we’ll make it work. We’ll plan it now.”

“You,” Jason said. His voice was this oddly high-pitched thing, like the word escaped him through the gap in his teeth. His cigarette lay abandoned in the dirt next to him as he sat up.

“Fine,” Icky said. “Then that’s what we’ll do. You go tomorrow, I go next year. Fuck the matching houses, we’ll share one, we’ll—”

“We’re not winning twice in a row, Icks,” Jason said. And it solemn and large and finally settled between them as something that Icky couldn’t argue. He’d been so set on deflecting, on clinging to his confidence, had been so safe in the knowledge that they were the best kids at the Academy. See, they even had a pit to show for it. A pit no one was allowed in, as they knew better than to try and go up against Icky and Jason. Maybe that was just the thing, though. There was a world six feet above this that didn’t care for whatever this pit was.

Icky’s mouth went dry and he thought it might’ve been the smoke. But he nodded. He never really disagreed with Jason. Like he was a reflex to whatever Jason threw his way. It was quiet then. The night surrounded them and the sky seemed too big.

“We don’t need to win twice,” Icky said, deciding on a death sentence.

“What do you mean?”

“We only need to win once, right? If we don’t need two houses in the Victors’ Village, we don’t need to win twice.”

“So you’re not going into the Games?” Jason asked. His frown had deepened as though it sat somewhere between confusion and dissatisfaction.

“No, you’re not going into the Games,” Icky said. His thoughts were racing, or maybe his heart was. A million pulses fired in his mind at the same time.

“Icky?”

“I’m going,” Icky said. He nodded with a determination that normally wouldn’t overtake him in this way – he tended to be more hesitant, a little less head-first. Maybe it wasn’t determination then. Maybe it was simpler. Something like devotion. Icky wasn’t looking at Jason, he was looking at the footprints the both of them had left in the dirt to get down here. “I’m volunteering tomorrow.”

“Why?”

“Because then you get away with not going. No one would be mad at you, Jase. They would just think I screwed you over. That I jumped the line, that I wanted to beat you to it.”

“And we’d only have to win once,” Jason concluded.

“We’d only have to win once,” Icky agreed.

Icky had never won a thing in his life. But Jason moved towards him again and closed the gap between them, kissing him with a softness Icky wasn’t used to, and for the rest of the night, Icky could’ve considered that a victory.

////

In the morning, Icky doesn’t raise his hand at the Reaping. He hesitates. Jason, next to him, holding his hand, a head shorter than him, eventually pulls away and breaks something fragile. Jason lifts his hand. Jason volunteers as he’s supposed to.

When Icky goes to say his goodbyes, impact hits in his hollow chest before he sees it. Jason has charged with precision, is hunting for blood. Icky had prepared for a version of Jason that never reaches him; the Jason that meets him is an unforgiving thing. Icky is on the floor in two seconds flat, hard concrete, elbows stinging on impact.

“J-Jase?”

“You promised, Icky! You fucking promised!”

The walls aren’t moving. They’re awfully still, they echo back this awful noise that Jason makes as he balls his fists once more. Icky is trying to get back up, is scrambling to get off the ground.

 “Jase, if anyone can do it, it’s—”

“Me? You’ve always been better than me, Icky. And you’re not going, you’re just letting me—”

“Win. You can still win, Jase, you’re gonna--”

“Die. I’m gonna die in there, Icks. You’re letting me die in there—”

Icky is on the ground again, this time his elbows take so much of the impact that they simply forget to sting. He’s looking up at Jason, at his shaking shoulders, at the way his tooth sticks out over his lip as he bites down. At the way he looks so small all of a sudden, trapped between the big, cold walls. Icky wants to hold him again, wants to take it back. In Icky’s back pocket is the lighter, the one they had found in the pit. He would’ve taken it as his token. He’s reaching into his pocket, he needs to give it back, he needs to--

He realises he can’t twist around enough to reach his pocket. Something has this tight grip on his left leg, it keeps him from turning. Then there’s a crack. This deafening noise that Icky can’t make sense of. It’s this white-hot searing that comes to him in waves, yet feels like a dull surprise more than anything. Like he’s arrived late to a punchline. Like he should’ve known. There’s this awful sound that escapes from the back of his throat as he realises that Jason’s just stomped on his leg hard enough for it to break.

“Jase, please—Jase, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry—”

“You don’t get to walk away from this, Icky!”

Icky swears he’s howling, must’ve been howling. It echoes off the walls as he tries to get back up, as he scrambles to get away once more. He’s trying to push through the pain but his leg’s still in a deadlock.

The sounds coming off the walls could’ve echoed the same in the pit, Icky realises. It’s all high walls he can’t escape. There is a second breaking, though it doesn’t reach his mind as much as the broken does, the state of being mangled.

He stops struggling. He’s in the pit then, in the dirt. He’s looking up at the sky and the world seems so big, like it’s moving on without him. He hears a dog howl. Something is still tugging on his leg. The sky is growing darker.

There must’ve been a third noise, a third breaking. Icky’s not there for it. He’s still looking at the sky, the dark, and the walls of the pit that are closing in around him. His mouth is dry as though he’s inhaled all the smoke from one of Jason’s cigarettes. He coughs out some words, but doesn’t hear them.

(“Please get off me—”

“I’m not letting you go. You don’t get to go after this, Icky. Only one of us is going into the Games.”)

Then the walls close in. He’s buried somewhere, six feet deep.

////

A year after Jason dies, Icky drags himself to the pit. Its edges are less sharp than they were before, like more kids have thrown themselves head-first into the ground now. Icky holds himself up by leaning on a shovel that he borrowed from Jason’s mother; his leg is still too tender for him to be out like this, but he’s lost most of his hesitation now, so he’s thrown his care to the wind. He tries not to hesitate these days.

It takes him a full day to move dirt and sand around, to try and smooth over this gaping hole in the ground. It doesn’t level evenly with the rest of the grass. If anything, maybe Icky makes it worse. The ground becomes this mangled thing beneath him, that’s no longer six feet deep, but does spread wider than it did before. It’s like a dip in the ground now, where a pit must’ve been at some point, but no longer is. An undignified grave in which no one is buried. There’s dirt under Icky’s nails by the end of it. There might’ve been dirt under his nails the whole time.   

[vilebodys]

“ well, i’m trying to do at least that for you, i haven’t been the best aunt or an aunt to you at all,  i think it’s time you got at least half of something resembling a traditional family.” she thought of emmy, and how lonely it must have been growing up without a father. even though emmy didn’t want to admit it, pretended that she didn’t care about gloss, cashmere knew better than anyone that one could keep up a lie for only that long, until it’d become brittle under relentless waves of little truths. 

her heart thrudded against her chest in an almost violent motion, then weakened when she noticed how emmy’s voice tilted slightly. suddenly, she looked like the young and vulnerable girl, even cash sometimes failed to see behind those sharp edges and fire. this wasn’t just emmy, who once kicked down the door to her apartment ( which she never bothered to fix ), but a girl who probably needed her as much as she needed gloss. and perhaps, cash needed her to, even if it only meant that keeping her alive would need to suffice. 

“ emmy, you know i would do everything for you.” she’d already volunteered for her. the thought of her death scared her less than knowing that after it, she couldn’t do anything for her anymore. her love couldn’t defy death, but if there were a chance, she’d claw at the boundary until her hands bled. she’d try. she’d always try for them.   “ but i’m not changing my mind because i know it’s not true. you need him now, you need him after all of this and you needed him before, even if you don’t realize it, yet. he’s going to be a great father to you, please just give him a chance, i want both of you to have that chance.” her eyes softened, her tone losing its edge. 

“ if you don’t want me to make this about you, then fine, i’ll make this about me, emmy. the truth is, i’m selfish.that’s why I’m choosing the easy path because losing either of you would be worse than a meaningless death.” in the end, she knew she was hurting them both with her choices. .a coward who claimed to be brave, who managed to fool both of them, and escaped with her death.

     “ emmy. ” her voice sharpened, only her empathy for emmy dulling it to a worn blade. “ don’t about yourself or him that way.” she drew a slow breath. “ gloss… he’s gone through a lot. before the games and especially after.” even if cashmere would ever be able to forget about the blood soaking through her clothes, she’d never forget about the look in her brother’s eyes, when he returned from his. when the capitol managed to break a part of him, half of her shattered with it. the half she managed to keep standing had only survived so she could hold him together. because if he fell apart entirely, she would too. life had always been cruel to them, blind to prayers and unmoved by pathetic begging. but she’d had gloss who protected her, and she’d do the same. only, that the guilt of failing to do that would remain a scar. this was the last chance to make up for it.       “ he deserves much more than that, he deserves more than what the world gave him, and i hate myself for how little I can do,  for how all I can offer is the chance for him to live. he’s the most selfless person i know, and he’d have done the same for you, in a heartbeat, probably even before that. soon you’ll be able to see all of it.” she squeezed her shoulder a little tighter when she noticed her leaning in, even when she took her hand away, the warmth still lingered in the palm of her hand.

emmy’s agreement took her by surprise. she’d thought she’d be mad enough that she refused it. cashmere often failed to see how much emmy had grown, partly because she’d always see her as the little child who was forced into the arena. now, she was grown up, and cashmere felt strangely grateful she’d lived long enough to witness that. 

“ sure. ” her lips pulled into a grin. they could throw her into an arena, burn her alive, over and over again,  she would never change her mind. not as long they lived. but emmy probably knew that,  and if she didn’t, she wouldn’t tell her she’d struck the worse end of the bargain     “ then let me ask for another thing. i don’t want you mentoring us. i don’t want you going through more pain than you have to and if something happens i don’t want you to blame yourself.” 

[tetheredgod]

"i don't think we're made for that, though. a traditional family. i don't think i'm made for that." it was a half-hearted resistance to a battle she had already lost; when met with compassion, emmy had no true fight to put up. it was reluctant, a shrug, a denial of something that had washed over her already -- maybe she wasn't made for a traditional family, but she now had an aunt who cared to try anyway. it sat dryly in her mouth then, the irony. that she had this now, and would risk losing it so soon. "you know what, though? i think you're giving it a great shot. maybe we're not traditional, but... it's working, right? the whole family thing. it's gotta be working on some level."

she didn't think she wanted someone who would do anything for her. it felt too much like being left behind. and emmy would've done it first, if given the choice. shit-scared, she would've volunteered if given the option because it would've been so much easier to dive head first into another stupid decision than to not get to decide at all.

"yeah," she said, nodded. "i think this it is selfish, cash. the whole volunteering thing." which wasn't truly an accusation, no matter how much fire emmy could still muster ( it wasn't a lot ), because emmy would've done the same thing. "i'm gonna have to pick up the pieces after all this. if something happens to you--" though emmy made the very active choice to say if not when. "if something happens to you, how do you expect me to deal with that? look at you--" emmy gestured up and down, as if to emphasize, "i can't... do what you do. i can't mentor whatever tributes are next the way you do, i can't keep my shit together the way you do, i can't look after gloss the way you do. and then to top it all off, i'd have to miss you too. it's not fair, cash."

it was a futile lament, though. almost childish simply for being spoken, rather than kept as a petty thought. it wasn't a true complaint as much as it was emmy giving up, letting something slip from her shoulders that felt an awful lot like grief. like she'd lost something already. she turned away then, had to turn away, wiped the back of her hand across her stinging eyes.

"i trust you," emmy shrugged, the closest to defeat she'd get. "if you say he's not that much of a dick, i'm willing to believe you." which somehow felt like the most vulnerable words she'd spoken, like everything else that had fallen from her tongue despite her resistance was at least expected of her, a tantrumming child that would die on any hill. to soften enough to not immediately turn down what cash had to say about gloss felt far removed from that.

emmy shook her head once more. "i won't mentor you," perhaps it was the one battle she wouldn't fight, at least right now. "if you don't want me to. i'm not qualified to do any of this stuff anyway, you know? i stumbled to victory the first time, i can't drag either of you across the finish line this time round." she bit down on her lip then. "but i'm gonna blame myself either way, and you know it. so if you do need anything--- i don't know, i guess you know where to find me."

[buriedbody]

“let’s fine you something to eat. how do you feel about bruschetta ?” his tone leaves little room for argument. bread and tomato feels like it’d be easy and light enough to digest on an empty stomach, and hopefully some food would make her feel better, at least physically.

“it’s not too difficult; the sponsors are already looking to spend money. you’re not trying to convince them to open their wallets, just where to spend it. besides, career districts tend to an easier sell.” maybe it’s a touch to blunt but he’s not aimi to sound overly reassuring—which in it of itself should do most of the work in reassuring her. he doesn’t need to; why sugarcoat something that doesn’t taste bitter ?

besides, emmy is not a child, though she certainly still feels too young to be making these decisions. felix feels it more acutely with her in particular, it wasn’t too long ago when she was his assigned tribute. then, she was a child. that’s the point, that they’re children, he can imagine a voice saying. it doesn’t sound like his own. “we’ll guide you through it,” he repeats. “think of it as playing a role, if it makes it easier.” he wonders how gloss and cashmere will fare—in front of the gamemakers, in caesar’s interviews, in the court of public opinion. they did well once before. “but we don’t have to start today.”

[tetheredgod]

emmy shrugged. "bruschetta sounds great," she said. it wasn't to please him, she wasn't anything close to a people pleaser. but she liked him, so she'd meet him halfway. being dragged through the motions felt like a kindness these days, and her dry mouth had lost the sense to protest.

"career districts are an easier sell, but i'm not a career," emmy mused, as though that would make the difference. it felt vulnerable, to deliberately set herself apart from the norm, from the thing that might've aided her in this case. she hated talking down on herself. today, her insecurities spilled from her quicker, made her shoulders slump. "even if i could convince them to spend it on our district, how the fuck would we decide if we're spending the sponsor money on gloss or cash." they were both as strong and capable as each other, that had always been their trademark. emmy didn't want to pick between them, didn't want to whisper to sponsors about where to spend their money; it would make her responsible. she couldn't be responsible for whatever happened next.

"you're coping surprisingly well," she remarked then, took a breath, took a moment to truly look felix over. "i thought all of this would be more devastating for you somehow." if it wasn't for losing the victors, maybe it could simply be for the fact that he was now stuck with a far less competent mentor than the usual pickings. maybe she wanted to draw this line between him and the other capitolites, where any ounce of sympathy would mean he was genuinely on her side. she furrowed her brows, looked him up and down once more.

[bludstaine]

exhausted, it feels as though events such as this one sucks the very life out of mina. in truth, it has always felt this way to her; from the moment that victory crown was placed upon her brow, golden swimming in a sea of silver, she has felt worn out by the life she won in the arena. she often wishes she could slip away unseen, but it is more than just her own life on the line these days, it is the lives of her tributes who need mina to be the eyes, the hands and the lips they cannot be as they are locked away in the training center. if there were nothing to fight for beyond all of this, mina isn’t sure where it is she would find herself, today. her eyes lift towards the trainer she has had little dealings with. generally, she spends her energy on working with potential sponsors rather than those tasked with teaching her tributes how to kill. she recalls her own training sessions with a barely suppressed shudder, that tiny creature that she was in a room full of kids she would later watch die. “i’m not hungry,” she sounds almost petulant in her words, but mina’s appetite is lost to the terror she feels for ash. “i doubt those will make this any more bearable.” she should watch her tongue, and it is for this reason that she lifts the hors d’oeuvre to her lips and takes a bite. a capitolite man nearby is watching, and she turns her head away in well disguised disgust. “i feel bad for not eating at these things. i used to be little more than skin and bones before i won.”

[tetheredgod]

"oh darling, no one's hungry," icarus said, hummed the notion away. he spoke as though he was a seasoned veteran now, purely due to the time he chose to spend in the capitol, rather than fleeing back to the districts like others, like victors, who rightfully retreated as soon as their job was done. "you eat so you can stay on your feet after the alcohol kicks in from all the overpoured cocktails those sponsors give you." as if to prove a point, he took two hors d'oeuvres off the tray ( he didn't know what they were, nor did he particularly care to know ), and ate them in one bite.

he caught the sightline of the same capitolite man that mina turned away from, he tipped his glass in the man's direction with a smile that could've been genuine or of genuine revulsion. "you're still surviving," icarus said when he turned to mina again, "it just looks different now. not skin and bones. just eating awful appetizers at worse parties." which he supposed wasn't quite the same life-or-death struggle, but was somehow the kindest sentiment he'd mustered up all night.

"look," he said. "we can't afford to be downers at parties, can we? i'd be fired and on the next train home, and you--" he didn't need to mention it, so he didn't. a lack of capitol support would not save any tribute in the arena. "let's walk around, show face. those capitolites are vultures, but i reckon they'll leave you alone for tonight. too many exciting things happening. all you have to do for now is simply be here."

[camisadi]

"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?"

[tetheredgod]

he chuckled at that, it was more of a cough than a true laugh. like it escaped his throat despite himself.

"oh, i don't think i'm easy prey," icarus said. because for as much as he put up a lame fight when asked to, he still considered himself very capable at worst. "if i was easy prey, i don't think i'd be here at all." which said something between, he wouldn't have been picked to train tributes in the capitol and he wouldn't have made it past his teens, through the academy, all the other stuff.

"i love beating up victors. we can even go for another round if you're particularly fussed," icarus said, offered it up so half-heartedly that it couldn't be serious. his leg had taken a hit, not from quin necessarily but simply from the fight he'd put up. it curled awkwardly now, like it had a mind of its own and was a prey animal at best, trying not to be witnessed in its weaknesses. icarus stood slightly off-kilter, though he only allowed it because it was quin he was with, and he didn't need to pretend as though the strain of the leg didn't get to him.

"i think you're all a bit whiny, actually." which was a joke as much as it wasn't, a simple prodding as much as it was this odd and familiar feeling overtaking him momentarily -- he wasn't jealous. it couldn't be that anymore, he was too old and weary to be particularly thrilled at the idea of being a victor anymore. it was something else, something more ridiculous perhaps. he felt as though maybe it was easier to carry trauma if it had been televised, like everyone already knew the deal, like he wouldn't need to explain for the fifth time that he'd both earned his place here and his right to complain about life every now and then. he just really loved complaining.

"i'm gonna get the knives out if you don't watch your words now," icarus said, though quin's words about his left hook had been the first thing today to get a genuine laugh out of him. he lingered on it for a moment too long, though, and considered he had genuinely missed his knives a bit. "c'mon, you're trying to keep us down here. you don't want to go get involved with all the hunger games-themed excitement outside of the tower?" icarus fucking didn't. he wasn't about to be the first to admit it.

[burntgcds]

ASH HATED HOW THE VICTORS WERE EXPECTED TO PUT ON A SMILE AND ACT LIKE EVERYTHING WAS OKAY. The Capitolites treated them like they're toys, not broken people who escaped one hell and fell into another. She appreciated that, like her, Emmy didn't play along with that routine. The duo didn't wear facades and dull their personalities to fit a certain expectation--- they flashed their teeth and tried to bite any hand that longed to feed them.

"If I go first, avenge my death." She nodded, letting out a puff of smoke and watching it circle around her. "Give the camera a middle finger or something. Needs to be badass and piss people off. I'll do the same to you." Perhaps it was morbid to discuss post-death plans when they haven't even entered the arena, but Ash wasn't an optimist when it came to their odds.

At the suggestion of chopping off a hand, Ash let out a dry laugh. She glanced at her prosthetic arm before responding, "Only if I get a model like yours. You careers get all the good shit." She wasn't sure if Emmy's district had anything to do with it, but that was her guess. It could've also just been Ash's luck that she'd get a dull prosthetic.

[tetheredgod]

"i'm not even a career," emmy scoffed, nearly choked on some smoke like she'd just been insulted to her face. "i think i'm just incredibly likable and lovely. maybe you should work on that, you'd get a cool as fuck prosthetic too." which was a joke she could only pull off because they were such mirror images, because neither of them was particularly keen on being seen without their teeth out, because perhaps both of them faded in comparison to more famous family.

"maybe they'll leave us alone, you know? what's the fun in sending the least interesting victors into the games again," emmy said, in a thought exercise more than in vain hope. the unspoken part sat heavily somewhere amidst the smoke in the air. the games were rigged anyway. maybe even for careers this time round. "i'm more worried about the arena than the other victors, anyway. i feel like we could outrun a bunch of them. i'm more concerned with whatever theatrics the gamemakers could throw at us." there was a detachment to her words, like she could've been talking strategy if she put any effort into it. she took another drag of her cigarette, then unceremoniously crushed it under her foot.

[camisadi]

His eyes kept wandering back to the sideboard.

There was a stain marring the wood, left behind by another victor or someone visiting them, a ring of condensation that had sunk into the material. Quintus' mind kept skipping back to it, like a video that rewound itself: he'd sand it down and then he'd keep going, until there was nothing left but dust. There was something satisfying, he'd found, to reducing something to nothing.

Maybe that was what this was; he'd been something, and now he was nothing. Or it was a delusion he'd carried with him from childhood, like there was an expiration date to irrelevancy. In the end, once again caught in that reaping pen like a corralled animal, he'd frozen like a deer in the spotlight. There was nobody else to place the blame on, now. The numbness that kept him from anger was nothing but a cold relief.

Emmy's arrival was the needed distraction on an evening threatening to turn sour. Like he'd done so many times before, Quintus wiped the slate of his mind clean. Rallying was, after all, what he'd always been best at - and getting a head start on the socialising would be a good thing, unprepared as Emmy was to mentor.

"More than one party," he told her. The arm he put over her shoulder in a makeshift hug felt heavy even to himself. On another day, as a joke, he would've sidestepped in anticipation of an incoming elbow aimed at his ribs. But it didn't feel like the right time to revoke comfort freely given. "I could use some fun. Catch you up on all the gossip too."

[tetheredgod]

she furrowed her brows. "is there much gossip?"

it wasn't as though she normally had her heart set on tracking rumours, but her perspective was violently shifted into place when she realised the world hadn't just stopped for everyone over the past week or so. there must've been gossip, there must've been some capitolite who hadn't held their drink and had the most embarrassing night, there must've been some friend back in district one who'd gotten married or had died. emmy's fingertips tingled, something like an odd sense of unbelonging under her skin. like she could've reached for the normality then, but couldn't grasp it. there was much gossip. so much of it. it wouldn't stop. she fucking hated it.

more than one party felt like a chore somehow. emmy imagined she'd barely be able to drag herself through the first one, yet knew in the back of her mind that she'd be far enough into some alcohol at that point that she might as well do a second. she wished it wasn't like that, though. she wished she wasn't planning her night in numbness and even dreading it then.

she let quin's arm rest over her shoulder. there was this utter inaction on her part, where if anything, she simply shrunk in on herself, into the touch, away from her spine that was barely holding her upright. then she took a breath and bettered herself. she nodded.

"let's fucking go."

and yet-- there was this stupid little thought she couldn't let go of. somewhere in the back of her mind, it sat amidst grief more than resentment.

"quin?" she said, and the way she piped up was more high-pitched than normal. like she had to squeeze it from her throat. like she had to ask, but knew the act was futile. "what have you been training for? this whole time you've been working out like, four times a day. i don't do that. i'd rather die, really. so why do you? it can't be that good, you know."

[buriedbody]

once he and emerald were successfully out of earshot of anyone else, felix made no move to look for any hor d'œurves despite his earlier claims. absentmindedly, he brushed off a stray sequin that had fallen onto emmy's shoulder, out of an ingrained habit to keep his victors and tributes looking sharp. all the while, he thought of what he should say.

it was obvious to whoever was familiar to the games like he and emmy were – cashmere and gloss, though trained careers themselves — they were no longer in their prime, not after nearly three decades of fighting in the arenas themselves. sponsors often needed to believe in a tribute's chances of victory to open their wallets for them. they weren't a lost cause though, they did not win their games on luck and they both had a story—one of family and love—one that they could spin to their benefit. happy fucking hunger games. he smiled at the irreverence in her words, but he couldn't quite muster up the energy to laugh.

but the fact that the duponts had to fight again, in an arena full of others who had all once won their games — it felt unfair. even if gloss and cashmere did not both die—at least one would. he could not pretend otherwise; the gamemakers made sure that the exception made in the seventy-fourth games had never repeated itself. "i'm sorry," he says. he tries for genuine, but the words feel hollow nonetheless. he's on her team, but in the ways that count, he'll never know what it's like to be in her shoes. "we'll try our best. quin is well-versed in swaying sponsors over, and i'll let you know who are the worth your time to talk to. we can guide you through it." you're not alone. it doesn't escape him, that even this feels cruel. would emerald even feel up to the task of securing sponsors for her family members ? it's as though she's begging strangers to give her family members a more painless death. "just let me know what you need from me. have you eaten anything tonight ?"

[tetheredgod]

"no, i haven't eaten," emmy said, shook her head. it was the first time she'd been offered an easy question tonight, something she could answer without choking on four different sentiments in her throat. no, she hadn't eaten. she wasn't particularly planning on doing so either, though she didn't feel like she needed to voice that part. there was this part of her that wanted to still entirely; to not eat, to close off, to only vaguely perceive the world around her rather than witness it. her dress was too tight for her to crawl under a metaphorical rock, though -- her sequins would dig into her skin. so she kept herself upright by her excuse of a spine and stared at felix's feet rather than his eyes.

she crossed her arms and that almost felt like a defeat; like any imagined elegance escaped her, like she was transforming into a petulant child once more that she simply couldn't afford to be. she tried to shrug the tension from her shoulders, spoke up once more:

"my dad--" and she stalled. she never said that, surely never to gloss. it was this foreign phrase on her tongue, like she didn't know how to work past it now. she cleared her throat. she tried again. she committed, but only because felix was the only person that would hear her. "my dad's good with the sponsor thing," she said, "i'm not. i don't think you and quin can save me from it. they're all weird anyway, the sponsors. i feel like an animal in a fucking zoo whenever they're around." which wasn't the bit she was worried about. she'd fought men for less. the part that worried her was that she wouldn't be able to work past that feeling, to sway votes, to convince sponsors to keep their eyes on her instead of finding something better.

she had to clear her throat once more. she kept having to do that. her mouth was so dry.

"i think you and quin are just gonna have to adopt me, you know? i don't think i'm allowed to be here without parental supervision." which was a joke, but maybe it wasn't. maybe this was the closest she'd openly gotten to seeking reassurance.

[metaltourniquet]

Gloss shifted an inch, enough space for her to stand without looking like she’d wandered into the lion’s den by accident. He clocked the cocktail death-gripped in her hand, the way her eyes wouldn’t land on anything for too long. Iris never did well with crowds. Tonight wasn’t just a crowd; it was a cage with better lighting.

When she spoke, he glanced sideways, not interrupting, not joking. Not yet. “Twelve,” he repeated, low. “Great age for state-sanctioned trauma.” He took a sip of his wine. “Real shame she won’t be getting her big Capitol debut now. I was so looking forward to watching a kid barely out of pigtails scream on national television.”

It was cruel ( deliberately ), but the tone gave him away. It was the kind of cruelty that tried to draw blood to keep someone from spiraling.

He tapped the stem of his glass against the rail once. “You’re thinking what everyone else is thinking,” he said, softer, eyes on the confetti storm below. “They didn’t stop the Games. They just… rerouted them. Same spectacle. Different sacrificial lambs.” His gaze flicked to her last. “Hey.” A single word, sharp enough to cut through the noise. “Breathe. You’re doing that thing where you look like you’re about to faint or start apologizing to the wallpaper.”

He lifted her wrung-out cocktail from her hand, swapped it with his wine glass instead, a silent drink something that doesn’t taste like liquified sugar and panic. “Take it,” he said. “Trust me. If we’re all going back to hell, you might as well have something decent in your system when the floor drops out.”

[tetheredgod]

she was left mostly unfazed by the sharpness of his words. if anything, she found it comforting to be met with a directness that everyone else had seemed to avoid. the capitol was all polished glass and marble, for once, gloss didn't seem as polished within it. she smiled a little. she didn't know where she'd mustered it from, but she could feel it tugging at the muscles of her cheeks. "her name's daisy. the twelve-year-old. i want you to know that," though she couldn't quite say why, she continued with the same softness, "when i was ten and she was born, i thought she was my sister. i thought that was how it worked. because our names are similar and stuff.."

she held the cocktail so dead-locked in her hand that she nearly jumped when gloss took it from her. when he swapped his glass for hers, she tried the wine. it weirdly stung in her mouth as the distinct sensation of a taste she could enjoy if she ever had the chance to drink more of it. tonight, it simply didn't taste great. she scrunched her nose at it but took another sip regardless.

"i'm worried we're not sacrificial lambs, though," she hummed. it spilled from her quickly then, this sentiment that had sat coiled in her stressed stomach more than the idea of dying. "i'm worried we're more like wolves. i'm worried it's gonna be ten times worse than it was the first time round." and the first time round hadn't been pretty, to say the least, but at least all the tributes had been children, reluctant to kill and be killed. iris wanted to imagine it was the same now, that the reluctance still lingered, but she'd had a little too much alcohol to indulge that escapism. "i don't want to... kill more people. i don't want to kill you. i don't know what that would turn me into. i don't know what that would do to whoever has to kill us."

saying it, however speedily she'd spoken, still didn't release the tension from her shoulders. she was being watched too much for that. she'd given up on being hopeful for tonight. she drank more of the wine and didn't like the taste. "i'm worried about what we're leaving behind if we die now."

[likeallfires]

iris was so young. he couldn't stop looking over at her, but he noticed the fatigue. the tiredness. how scared she must feel throughout the whole thing, how scared he felt throughout the whole thing. he had been worried about katniss, but then again he was always worried about katniss. he looked down at his hands, these baker hands that were meant to make something warm but when he looked down at them all he could see was the blood. he put his mug down, staring at his breakfast no longer hungry. "not sure," he says with a gentle smile. "i can maybe last a couple of days." he shrugs, looking down at his prosthetic leg. "i can't run because of this thing very well." he smacks it for a moment, before looking around. "give yourself some more credit. you're still a victor."

[tetheredgod]

"you know what, i reckon the leg might not be that much of a disadvantage," iris mused. like she had any right to muse. like she could simply detach herself from reality in that moment alone and be an objective spectator instead of a future corpse. "we're not spring lambs anymore, y'know. i'm sure there's a bunch of us that aren't runners regardless of our legs. i'm not much of a runner, peeta. you might... have a leg up on me." it felt odd to joke, but perhaps not as odd as it should've. like she could allow herself the indulgence because it wasn't as though she could joke later on, a week from now, when she'd be dead already. "you're a victor to. i didn't try to be one," though her eight-head killcount begged to differ, "did you?"

[fordirections]

"Of course you do, I'll admit I forget sometimes, how even with different districts our skills overlap." The Districts were kept separate. Far from each other in terms of communication even when it wasn't far geographically. The mention of the lasso made her soften, she didn't want Iris' thoughts to drift back there.

"I think you would look very dashing in a tie dear," She said with a soft smile, reaching over to squeeze Iris' hand before turning her attention to the material. "So, the first thing you want to do is put it round your neck with one side slightly shorter than the other. The thin side."

[tetheredgod]

"it's funny, isn't it?" iris couldn't think of the last time she'd willingly eaten a fish. like the difference between them, their districts, could be as sharp and distinct as the taste of a fish eye, yet it mattered less than what they tried to define it for. "we have the same hands, really."

she dragged the silk tie through her palms, like she was testing its smoothness on her skin. she was just to rope, to the roughness of it, to her hands being hardened by her actions. she needed a moment to snap out of it then, visibly needed a second before she could look up at nora once more. she swallowed something down when she put the tie around her neck, tried to do as she was instructed. "now what?"

[vilebodys]

her eyes tracked his performance, the dragging of his injured leg, followed by the dramatic collapse against the wall he apparently needed to support himself. this was the part where the audience's smiles would soften into pity as they watched icarus cross deliver the role of his life. but eden only scoffed, her lips twitching upwards. perhaps she was supposed to clap now, maybe then icarus would finally drop this act, realising she wasn’t the one she needed to fool. as if. 

her expression dropped with her gaze, and as he lied, she couldn’t help but look at his leg again. surely, she’d heard that he claimed it was only broken in two places. odd.

      “ of course, you’d do that as a liar. the greatest pretender.” she leaned back against the wall, crossing her arms, resting her head against the cold surface “ i think a real injured person would not use that leg at all, no ?”  

observing the ceiling she made it a point not to pay any more attention to him. the job was done. whatever needed to be said had already been said. the moment he took the space next to her, she immediately stepped away, her gaze already fixated on the door, she was ready to leave. then the cold of his following words slid down her spine, and she turned around. reason splintered into hesitation, and hesitation turned to anger. only in two steps she was on him, and leaned in closer, allowing another second to pass before she shoved his supposedly damaged leg against the wall, her own leg pinning his in place as his collar crinkled under her tight grip. 

eden wished she could believe she snapped. but the violence had stuck to her since the arena. a dead body she didn’t know where to bury. not beneath the rotten glamour of the capitol, nor the steel of district 6.  

     “ so that’s what you think ?  you can’t even fake that damn injury and you’re telling me you’d have put on a better show ?” she dragged him closer, and she could almost see how her face contorted in the reflection of his eyes. “ and what if i told you the show never ends ?” she hissed. “ what if I told you that when the games are over, everyone loses and you. you just somehow made it out alive ? that’s all you get” the capitol might not get you the first time, but it would make sure to end you the second time. slowly.  “ and if the people you care about don’t leave you once they see who you really are, you make sure they do. can you do this alone ? with no single soul who gives a damn about you ?”  she drew a breath, the words tasted like her own blood. 

      “ maybe you’re right.” her fingers were trembling but her grip remained tight “ maybe you would’ve put on a better show. because you don’t have anyone to lose. or anyone who’d bother caring about someone like you.” at this point, eden didn’t know whether she was talking about icarus or herself, but it somehow hurt the same way. “ and if you ever did, i’m sure you already lost them to that pathetic act of yours.” silence.

“ again. why didn’t you volunteer back then, you fucking coward ?  there were enough chances, but you’re just loud like an empty can, even now you wouldn’t even dare to step into that arena.” 

[tetheredgod]

maybe he'd expected the violence, his response to getting pinned against a wall was of dull surprise at best. he understood the language of the pain that shot up his leg then better than most conversations, and while he braced himself through it, would've probably folded in on himself if she hadn't such a tight grip on him, it was an old and familiar friend. it was this odd sense of adrenaline on his tongue, bitter and close to venom, but lukewarm in his throat for now. he even held up his hands as if to show intent; empty hands, not yet urged into pushing back.

his mouth had gone a little dry. when he sucked in a breath, the air grated down his throat.

"now you're just making it sound like you're jealous, darling. pick a problem. either have an issue with me not going into the games at all, or have a problem with the fact i would've outperformed you by a mile, with or without anyone to lose," he simply hummed in reply. he was trying to keep calm, mostly because he knew he'd lose any kind of argument the moment he were to snap back at her. it wasn't worth the fight, as much as he always seemed to be itching for one.

"once they see who i really am? oh, eden. i don't think this is about me anymore." because for as much as he could feel sharp intent, he didn't feel its consequences. he'd openly been awful, a sharp-toothed career, a coward. mostly a coward. he didn't particularly take to hiding that, though, it was difficult with the leg metaphorically dragging behind him at all times. he chewed on the sentiment. then he smiled. this small smile, genuine, something that said 'gotcha', like he'd just locked in a bullseye. now he was just teasing her. "are you lonely, darling? are you alone, not a single soul who gives a damn about you? have you taken to shoving people into walls because otherwise they don't stick around for you? you want me to stay here that badly?"

then the smile wavered a little. he involuntarily straightened, like the pain in his leg dulled to the point where he didn't feel it, like he was distracted by something.

"i broke the leg when i was meant to volunteer, eden," he said. and it wasn't a lie, but it was surely omitting a bunch of information. "i'm not dumb enough to throw myself into an arena after that."

[burntgcds]

THE CAPITOL WAS AN UNFAMILIAR SIGHT FOR THE EVERDEEN SISTER. Katniss essentially forbade her from following her to the Capitol during her years as a mentor, and Primrose could do nothing but nod and wait for her beloved sister to come home once again. This time, however, she couldn't sit back and watch her family leave her. Peeta and Katniss were both heading back into the games, and Primrose wouldn't let them go without a fight.

So, here she was, an unsuspecting presence in the tribute tower. She was searching for a familiar face or a way to navigate to the district 12 residence when she heard a loud remark coming from the corner of the lobby. Her eyes pivoted to the man, medic mind already racing with ways to help ease his pain. "Are you okay?" She asked, glancing down at his leg, "Want me to take a look at it?"

[tetheredgod]

worse than the shooting pain that followed the loud bang of his leg hitting the trashcan was the vague humiliation that came upon him in the same waves. he hadn't been alone, he'd been witnessed, he'd tantrummed, he'd had an outburst that was unbecoming of him, but perhaps not entirely unexpected. he didn't bother pulling the trashcan upright, its contents spilled like guts on the marble floor. instead, he sighed, turned, leaned his back on the cold wall next to his crime scene.

he was holding onto his knee, his hand reaching lower, fingers grazing over the weakest spots of his shin. like he could inspect the damage through the fabric of his trousers if only he poked himself hard enough. he looked up at the voice cutting through the ever-present buzz of capitol noise, his hair falling into his eyes.

"hm? oh no, i wouldn't worry about that, darling. i doubt i could fuck the leg up more than it already is," he said, tried to put on a smile though it looked pained at best. "are you always on the lookout for broken things, or did you just happen to stumble across here?"

[buriedbody]

closed for emerald styx ( @tetheredgod )

at the reaping for the 92nd games

felix could tell that the capitolites loved this year’s reaping—everything about it, really, being able to watch the reaping in the flesh, without the dangers and impossible logistics of having to travel to a district to do so. as with any move by the capitol that concerns the games, everything about this year’s games is immaculate. there’s no aspect of it that’s borne from wasted effort, every detail is meant to entertain the capitolites and quell any objections from the districts in one fell swoop. and it makes felix hesitate to name the feeling at the pit of his stomach, when his neighbors and parents’ friends come up to him, flushed and happy in their revelry, to tease — how does it feel, to have your uncle vie for your position like you’re vying for his ?

he’s not thick-faced enough to claim that he was the most relieved person in the room when cashmere volunteers in emerald’s place — it is a family affair after all, and he’s nothing more than a spectator where it counts. but. it’s no secret that felix is fond of emmy, as fond as he allows himself to be. she’s the first and only victor he’s seen through the games since becoming an escort, and in so many words it seems as though she’s nothing more than his favorite fighting dog or a prized stallion. he’s sure that in the eyes of the people watching, that’s all they are to each other. it’s easier to digest that way—sugar, salt, and fat like the canapés lining the avoxes’ trays.

“hi emmy,” he says, when the tributes have been corralled away. he’s wearing the type of sure smile he always wears at events like these. he turns to the person she was talking to. “you mind if i borrow her ? i need help looking for the — squid ink puffs. you understand.” he doesn’t wait for a response before pulling her away.

[tetheredgod]

she felt as though this cloak of safety had been ripped from her -- somewhere between her own name getting called, her literal entire family going into the games instead, and the moments after, when she was alone and bare and dragged into mentorship kicking and screaming. emmy hadn't been left vulnerable by it as much as she'd been left with sharper teeth, a quickness to strike that hadn't been as present before. she was ready to start a fight, and for once it felt like no one would be there to stop her.

felix might've caught her at just the right time, when she'd stood with her arms crossed half-listening to a capitol official that had only grabbed her attention because she'd physically grabbed emmy by the arm. at his words, she spun quickly, still a little over-eager in how rapidly she responded, a little too alert.

"right," she said, nodding, already mostly pulled away by felix then. "squid ink puffs." she'd never cared for squid ink puffs. her stomach was a solid pit of tension and she didn't think she'd eat anything, let alone squid ink puffs. but even with the adrenaline still stuck somewhere in her throat, she recognised a gesture for what it was and wouldn't say a word about it. she didn't mind felix, anyway. she had grown surprisingly fond of him ( which was to say, it was a surprise she could grow fond of anyone ). she couldn't put into words the contrast between the ever-present suspicion of him, and the fact that she almost confided in him, could almost trust his company. she voiced it nonetheless, though, as they found a spot where less capitolites would directly overhear when emmy spoke. or rather, where something else had taken up the capitoles' attention. there wasn't such a thing as less capitolites anywhere right now.

"i think gloss and cash are both gonna die," she said. and it was plain, the tremble in her voice only minor at best. it wasn't a worry as much as it was a confession: she would be the worst mentor district one had ever seen, and others would end up suffering the consequences. "happy fucking hunger games."

[swanfeasting]

open : to everyone.

where : capitol party post - reaping.

frame was slight but tense, all wiry precision. shoulders square, jaw set. skin was pale in a way that wasn’t delicate so much as stark, like she’d been carved out of colder weather and forced into all this artificial warmth. dark hair fell bluntly to her shoulders, intentionally unmanaged, the ends uneven as if cut with a blunt knife and no mirror. it contrasted too sharply with the capitol lights, turning ink - black whenever she moved.

they’d tried to dress her up for the party. capitol stylists could only do so much. the dress they put her in was sleek, metallic, far too polished. she wore it stiffly, like she’d rather peel her skin off than adjust to it. jewelry was kept minimal, leaving only a thin choker she tugged at like a leash. faint calluses sanded down, a healing cut near her knuckle, a bruise half - hidden beneath makeup she’d let them apply but didn’t bother maintaining.

so when someone drifted close enough to count as company, her gaze cut sideways. snapped wire.

[tetheredgod]

though being at ease would've looked entirely differently, icarus was at least at home at this party. he had mostly learnt to navigate the odd tension of indulgence that these places presented, the starkly violent ritual of consumption. he had a glass of red wine in one hand and the last of his goodwill in the other, he'd grown tired of showing up at every party and realising about ten minutes in that it was more like a lively funeral. everyone was getting buried tonight.

finding violet hadn't been a challenge-- she stuck out, contrasted with the more fluid crowd. working up the courage to actually go over was a different beast; it felt like confirmation of a fact he would've rather kept at the back of his mind. sure, he could complain all he wanted about this place feeling like a morgue, but that it wasn't his death people were toasting to.

he'd moved over slowly ( he knew better than to sneak up on victors, even if he preferred not to go near them at all most days ). when he joined her at her side, he wasn't looking at her. instead, he was still eyeing the crowd, as though they needed to be watched, like he needed to be alert.

"show me your hands, darling," he muttered, his glass pressed to his lips as he spoke. "i want to see what i'm working with this time around." which was probably the closest he'd get to saying, i noticed the cut on your knuckles and i want to be sure you're alright.

[camisadi]

quintus yamamoto & icarus cross (@tetheredgod) / tribute tower training facility

There was a game they used to play, Baster and Jade and Quintus and the rest of them at the academy. It was the children's version of what they'd hoped to be their future: teams divided by a line drawn in cool sand, a vicious brawl between the last players standing. The loser would go to bed hungry, the victor with bragging rights. When they woke up in the next morning, more often than not they'd be forced to scrub blood out of their sheets.

That's what it felt like, now. A game, the kind you play when you're young and haven't yet attained what you've dreamed of. Lines drawn not in sand but apparent even so, in the way people's gazes flickered between each other. Or maybe Quintus was imagining that last one, paranoid as he sometimes got, like the shiver slowly crawling up his spine was a living, breathing thing.

All that was missing, he thought, was the violence of it. It was itching beneath his skin, an unwelcome reminder of who he'd always been: a man with a score to settle.

That's how he ended up dragging Icarus down into the too-dark training room. Three rounds later, it was almost like he'd regained his balance, dragged off the ledge and replanted in reality. It was the waiting that was the problem, really. Even that countdown to the starting shot back in his Games, the one minute of his life he remembered with the most brilliant clarity, had felt like an eternity.

This time, when Icarus landed supine on the mat, Quintus didn't tell him to get back up on his feet. Instead he shook his limbs out and offered him a hand up.

"Good fight," he said, and meant it. "Thanks."

[tetheredgod]

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.