Chapter Text
Not him.
That is the only thought that bounces around in Touya’s head as Yamada Hizashi’s obnoxious upbeat voice trills out the name of the unfortunate victim written on the slip of paper he holds in gloved hands. ‘Todoroki Shouto.’ The name echoes hollowly in Touya’s bones, his ears ringing with the sharp static whine of the mic. The two words play on an endless loop in his mind as Touya’s body locks up in disbelieving terror and his fingernails dig bleeding crescents into unmarred palms. Not him. Not him. Not! Him!
It shouldn’t have been him! I can’t allow it to be him!
“I volunteer!” Touya’s tongue trips over itself to get out in his newfound haste. “I volunteer myself as tribute in his place!”
He shoves bodily through the dense crowd around him - a feat that would normally be impossible with his lanky body if it wasn’t for the lack of resistance from the gathered spectators and the adrenaline pumping through his veins. He thinks the choked whine of protest that reaches from somewhere behind him is Fuyumi, and maybe that solid body he pushed to his left was Natsuo, but he doesn’t care to focus on that right now, doesn’t have the time. He has to act.
He has to save his baby brother.
When he reaches the bottom of the ceremonial stage Yamada’s emerald eyes are shining curiously down at him from behind the man’s ridiculous orange shades. Touya doesn’t miss a beat as he urgently shoves Shouto back behind him from where the boy had already set foot upon the steps and begins the climb up to the gallows himself with a hard swallow. He feels his youngest brother’s hands reach to clasp at the back of his shirt, stretched fingertips brushing the fabric, but before the boy can get a solid grip someone else is there pulling him back. Touya sends out a silent thanks to Natsuo when he sees the shock of short white hair from the corner of his eyes.
“Hey, hey, hey, listener! Thank you so much for your enthusiasm! BUT!!!...” Yamada’s voice booms much too loudly for the amount of space between them before trailing off in hesitance, “I’m not quite sure that’s allowed?” He casts an unsure glance to the other side of the stage, looking for assistance from the only other conscious occupant (Aizawa having long since fallen asleep on the floor in the back corner as per usual). No one in this district has volunteered in years, if ever, and it seems even Yamada is lost on what the proper rules and etiquette practices were for such an event.
The mayor of District 12, Yagi Toshinori, looks back at the Capitol’s escort with no enlightenment to offer. His sunken eyes flicker to meet with Touya’s and a strained expression crosses his features. It seems to settle somewhere in between the tired lines that trace age into his cheeks and the firm downturn of his lips the longer light blues look into turquoise. Touya wonders if Yagi recognizes him; if he’s recalling the man who sells him fresh strawberries in the heights of summer, the eldest brother of the kid who has playdates with his youngest... Remembering the boy who returned alive but mangled from the mine explosion five years ago when Enji did not. Touya grimaces and breaks eye-contact first.
“Go ahead and let the boy do as he pleases,” Yagi asserts then with final authority. Touya exhales in almost-relief.
With the concession, Yamada Hizashi perks back up almost immediately, outrageous cockatiel hair not swaying in the slightest as he swerves back towards the new tribute. Flashbacks race behind Touya’s eyelids with the sight, memories of Reaping nights years prior when he and his siblings would mock the escort in morbid attempts at humor, desperately trying to cheer each other up and distract from thoughts of grieving neighbors. Fuyumi, brushing her hair up in mock stylings of the escort’s comical signature hairdo. Natsuo, pitching his voice in bad impersonations of ‘hey, hey, hey!’ and ‘PLUS ULTRA!’. Shouto, using the nearest cylindrical object as an impromptu microphone.
He tries not to think about how they’ll handle the loss this Reaping night; how they’ll escape reality when they’ve become those aforementioned neighbors.
“So what’s your name, brave listener?”
“Todoroki Touya.”
“Oh? You wouldn’t by chance be the brother of our dear Shouto over there, now would you?” Yamada’s eyes brighten up more (if that’s even possible) and he gives a good-natured wink and chuckle. “Couldn’t let your little brother steal all the glory, huh?”
Touya feels like he’s going to be sick, confronted by the genuine excitement of Yamada Hizashi’s words, but he swallows it back and just nods. He knows better than to show any kind of weakness right now as the cameras will be focused heavily on his face since he’s the first volunteer tribute District 12 has had in almost as many years as the Games have been held. As though it isn’t already bad enough that they’ll be broadcasting his disfigured visage throughout all of Musutafu for the other tributes to see. Extensive scarring over what’s essentially just skin and bones doesn’t exactly scream strong nor imposing. Definitely not the image of a threat.
Turning back to address the audience, Yamada emphatically extends his hands out to his sides in dramatic showmanship, “Well, listeners, let’s give it up for this ambitious young man!”
Yamada had obviously been expecting cheers and clamor in response, however, what he gets is a complete absence of any sound. No one moves to applaud or celebrate this turn of events. Even Giran the local opportunist isn't hitting up the crowds for bets anymore. Silence is the boldest form of dissent the people can offer right now, the safest way they can protest without endangering their already pisspoor livlihoods. Under normal circumstances it would be expected to remain silent in the face of the Capitol’s injustice (a lesson young Touya had been taught under broad hands when he’d made the mistake of speaking his mind in public with a child’s innocence), but on a day like today where participation in the Reaping is mandatory, that same silence is an act of rebellion in its own.
While no one ever held Touya in the highest esteem, they all know the awkward but kind-hearted Shouto who goes out of his way to help everyone around town in his spare time. Many had found soothing comfort in the gentle nature of Touya’s twin, Fuyumi, or in the healing hands of Natsuo and Rei. Most knew of the nightmares, kept like open secrets in the district, that the Todoroki family had suffered for years under the calloused hands of Enji and of those awful years that had followed in the harsh wake of his death. This was just another cruel twist in the tragic fate of the Todorokis and it was hard to abide.
Yamada Hizashi, to his credit, remains undaunted by the frigid reception that comes from the audience. Touya imagines it’s because he’s just a clueless pampered idiot like all of Capitol’s citizens. Gloved hands clap Touya squarely on the back before Yamada’s prancing back over to the box that contains the names of the rest of the district’s hostages, intent to get the ball rolling again. “As exciting as that was, we still have one more tribute to choose!”
Touya slides his eyes shut, focusing all of his energy on rebuilding the unaffected mask he’s worn for years since he’s learned to keep his mouth shut and his emotions locked away. He hopes against odds the next name isn’t another one of his siblings. He’d taken precautions over the years to make sure his siblings never had to enter their names more than required, but that hadn’t seemed to matter when twelve year old Shouto had still gotten drawn. He resists the urge to chew on his scarred lower lip in nervous habit. He doesn’t know where the cameras are focused right now, but there’s no guarantee they aren’t still on him.
Somewhere in the time it takes for Touya to recenter himself Yamada has already reached his hand in and drawn a new slip. The man takes a deep breath before shouting the name out to the masses.
“And the next lucky listener is: Takami Keigo!!!”
Touya’s eyes fly open.