Work Text:
She’s a child. The anger wells up inside, spitting and fierce. A baby that walks. Dead on her feet.
And this is wrong. So wrong.
Your fists clench, nails biting into your hands. And when your voice raises from your throat, scratchy and burning and growling, it’s easy to forget that you were scared just a moment ago.
A girl had run screaming after the summoned tribute, the child. She and her screams are forgotten as your words ring out.
"I volunteer as tribute.”
All eyes turn to you in the silence. The gravel crunches under your feet as you shift your weight, placing a hand on your hip and biting the inside of your cheek to feign nonchalance. You stare up with dead eyes at the cameras.
“I volunteer as tribute.”
It’s so easy to be angry, you reflect later, head settled against the train window as the landscape races past. It overrides everything else, it motivates, it empowers. It makes you seem and feel confident, even when you’re not either one of those things.
What you are is seriously ticked off with a grudge that’s probably going to get you killed.
Groaning, you push the thick mane of loose, dark waves out of your face. It’s very frustrating. You’ve been growing it out for several months, and it’s just another annoyance that you’ve decided to blame on the Capitol. Yanking one of your shoestrings out, you tie your hair in a messy bundle and turn to the table in the center of the room. The motion is too quick, and you bump your hand against your chest.
Yet another problem you haven’t had to deal with in years to help plummet your mood. You let that fuel you. The fact that you’re on a train riding towards certain death can be thought about later, in the confines of your own room, where no one has to know you’re afraid.
Instead, you kick the table right when Effie walks in. Her scandalized gasp makes you smile. Haymitch’s throaty chuckle is a nice bonus.
Growing up in district 12, you have a vague awareness of who everyone gathered in the train car is. Effie you harbor a rather hostile resentment for; you’re trying to keep a cap on that, but it’s difficult. Peeta is the baker’s kid. You don’t think you’ve ever even spoken to him before. And Haymitch, of course, is the resident drunk by all accounts.
Basically, an ignorant participant in a corrupt system, a regular guy sentenced to death by said system, and a guy punished for not dying according to the system.
And you, someone more complicated than the system allows. You want nothing more than to rend that system asunder.
When the subject comes up, you smile and tell them just that. Peeta looks at you curiously, but Haymitch just snorts and downs another drink.
“I don’t want to just kill other kids,” you continue like you hadn’t been interrupted. “I don’t want to win. Not by their rules. I want to throw a wrench in their perfect little system. I want to save someone besides myself.”
Both men raise their eyebrows.
“You wanna die?” Haymitch continues to chew his steak.
You grin. “No. I want to have lived.”
“Same thing in the end. Dead is dead.”
“Sometimes you can live forever even if you die,” you reply. “It depends on how you lived. I want to live forever. And I want you both to help me.”
Haymitch looks like he’s going to argue, but Peeta simply asks, “How?”
His face is set and serious. Haymitch rolls his eyes and waits.
“I don’t want you to die.” That’s just the beginning. This is all only the beginning. The plan, the stakes, are all so much larger, so much higher. And this is just where it starts.
By the end, even you have lost sight of what it was at that moment. Because it grows. It becomes so much more than you had designed. And, surprisingly, a lot more personal. And selfish.
Falling in love probably does that.
It’s Peeta who comes up with the plan. Star-crossed lovers. It’s ridiculous, but the capital eats it up. You’re forced to wear elegant dresses and come across as pretty and likable. It’s rather easy, actually. You’ve been pretending to be something you’re not for most of your life, and you were prepared to do the same here. Even Haymitch, Peeta, and Effie seemed shocked when you mention it.
“Wait, you’re a guy?” Haymitch asks, looking baffled.
“Yeah,” you drawl, staring at them. “You didn’t know that?”
“But you … you’re the female tribute for our district.” Peeta seems to be trying to reconcile something very confusing in his mind.
You glower in his general direction, more at the memories this brings up than because you’re angry with him. “The capitol says if I have a vagina, I’m a girl. End of story. So I’ve always been up for the female reapings, no matter what. So that’s what I have to play up, whether I like it or not.”
"But you’re so pretty,” Effie sputters. Her, you resent.
"Do me a favor, Haymitch.” You ignore Effie. “When my story gets around, make sure to refer to me as ‘he’, okay?”
“Sure, kid.” He slaps you on the back as he walks past. It makes you smile.
Somehow, Haymitch always makes you smile. Or makes you angry. It’s strange how the two go together. But it’s somehow a combination of ups and downs that keeps you coming back, keeps you happy even when you’re mad. It’s a relief, natural as breathing. Maybe it’s what home feels like.
Peeta’s okay, sure. He’s this all-around good guy, like an innocent child you want to protect. He’s hope for the future, for humanity. He’s a good friend. But as anything else, he’s pretty bland and boring.
Effie’s childlike, too, but in a whole different way. She’s like a spoiled child, instead. Ignorant instead of innocent, but sweet at odd moments that make it hard to hate her. But you do sometimes. And then other times … you think she’s starting to get it. And that makes you proud.
Cinna rocks. He’s a party, and he’s totally cool with flirting back and forth. Best friend material, and sometimes you think he’d make a great boyfriend.
Too bad by the time you start to think that it’s already too late. All that crap about how you don’t get to choose who you fall in love with and junk.
You have so many reasons for wanting this. For fighting, rebelling, being angry. Reasons you’ve had for years, reasons you’ve derived from your own existence, reasons that you live every day. Maybe that’s why they don’t make you as angry anymore. These reasons are so much a part of you, part of your awareness as a person, that you have this sad acceptance of them.
New reasons, fresh reasons, bring back to the surface all your indignation, rage, hurt and pain and fear. New reasons that are kind of petty, not nearly as good as your others, not nearly as noble. But they’re new, reasons you haven’t had to deal with before stemming from feelings you’re not used to, and they rekindle all those old emotions that motivate you and make you dangerous.
Maybe that’s why people put love on such a high pedestal. Part of it aggravates you; this, after all, was not the reason you started fighting. You didn’t get this far just to have all your motives reduced to “fell in love with some dude.” But there’s something oddly infuriating about knowing the pain of someone you love. Suddenly it seems more important than your own, even if it isn’t. Love is blinding like that. But whatever. Any reason to fight is useful, so long as it keeps you going.
And it does. When you’re suffering, bearing physical and emotional pain, half-dead in the arena and afraid for your life and wondering if it’s all worth it, it’s convenient to have his face, his pain, his disappointment to think about. Because part of you starts to think that being dead takes away your problems. But not his. Not his.
You’re fighting for more people than just you. You’re fighting for people like you, people opposite of you, people with nothing to do with you. You’re fighting for people. And you’re one of those people. Just one, but one nonetheless. And it doesn’t end with you dying. But it could end with you overcoming.
Whatever gets you through. That’s what you have to keep thinking as you take in gasping breaths beneath the arena dome.
And what keeps you going is, oddly, not those moments that made you angriest. It’s the subtle ones that made you smile.
Like his laugh when you did something unexpected to tick off the Capitol. Or his devious grin while helping you plot out your plan for getting sponsors. And his shaking chuckle behind the scenes while the people eat up your “star-crossed lovers” routine.
How did you manage to fall in love with him while trying to pretend to love someone else? It seems ridiculous.
But when you survive—when both you and Peeta survive—and you come home, there’s no denying, in your heart, what you feel.
Not that you’re telling anyone. Upon your return, Haymitch informs you that this charade is never going away. The star-crossed lovers are officially a couple now, for all the cameras to see, and you can’t escape it.
You and Peeta stare at each other, lost.
“But we don’t want this,” you mutter desperately.
“That doesn’t matter,” Haymitch repeats, as he has throughout the conversation. “You wanna live? You gotta play the part for the rest of your lives. Or not only you two will suffer.”
“So much for going home and finally confessing my feelings to Katniss … ” Peeta mumbles, sinking back into his chair with an air of loss and finality.
Haymitch gives him a sympathetic look. “Girl back home, huh?”
“I thought, maybe someday … I figured, if I lived through this, I’d have the courage to finally tell her. After all, I almost died. Why not?”
“But that’s never going to happen now, you know that, don’t you?”
Peeta finally looks up. “Yeah, I know.”
“You too, kiddo.” Haymitch nods your way, and you avert your eyes. “You drag anyone else into this, they’ll die. You didn’t have anyone else back home, did you?”
You want to glare at him. Say, no, I didn’t have anyone else. I just have you.
“Same boat as Peeta, I guess.” You finally say. “We keep our mouths shut and it’ll never make a difference.”
“That’s the spirit.”
The downtime after the games is thus spent playing happy couple awkwardly with a guy you probably would have been okay being friends with, but will probably never manage now, and hanging out with Haymitch. He drinks less when he’s preoccupied with a restless company like yourself, and sometimes things aren’t so bad. He lets you dress the way you want when the cameras aren’t rolling, and no one back home seems to care about the switches between the boy you they are used to and the tribute you that has to wear dresses and pretend to be a girl.
Life isn’t perfect, isn’t happy, isn’t what you wanted. But there are good moments here and there that make things tolerable.
Until the 75th Hunger Games announcement.
You’d shown up at Haymitch’s house beforehand to watch it with him. This Hunger Games would now include you and Peeta as mentors now as well, and you knew every mentorship was torture on Haymitch. You wanted to be with him.
When you realize what they’ve announced, what it means, you almost wish you hadn’t come.
“No,” You whisper, staring at the screen.
Haymitch has thrown a glass at it. He’s in a half-dazed rage, yelling incoherently. You can’t take your eyes off him.
He’s eligible. Haymitch could get reaped again.
So could you, of course. So could Peeta. In fact, you are the only one who can be the “female” tribute. There’s no way out of this.
But Peeta doesn’t deserve to go through this again. And Haymitch …
You can’t think. You can’t …
“I’ll get Peeta to volunteer if they call your name.”
Haymitch flails to a halt, staring at you through his mess of limp hair.
You nod. “I’ll promise to get him out, whatever. I don’t care about me. I’ll help Peeta win.”
“You’re gonna be up against previous victors, kiddo.” Haymitch shakes his head, glaring you down. “What makes you think you stand a chance?”
“Then Peeta and I both die. Fine. But you aren’t going.”
He stares at you, momentarily stunned. “And why is that?”
You ignore him. “I don’t plan on dying, obviously. I’ll want all the tips and training you can offer. We’ll use every trick we can, inside the arena and out. I want to save Peeta, of course, but most of all I want to come home, so this is gonna be even more work than last year—”
“Peeta doesn’t need to risk his neck at all,” Haymitch buts in. “I’m more experienced, and I’m a washed-out old drunk. I’m more expendable. If Peeta’s name gets called … I’ll volunteer.”
That last sentence rings rather hollow in the room, Haymitch’s voice obviously shaking. He doesn’t want to go. He’s afraid. Of course he is. You’re terrified.
“Don’t.” You shoot back. “You’re right about being more experienced. We need you on the outside helping us, Haymitch.”
“Peeta can do that job. He’s way more likable than me, anyway. I can teach him before we go in—”
“You are not going—”
“You can’t stop me—”
“I won’t watch you die, Haymitch!”
“And I won’t watch the both of you out there in that arena again while I sit cozy on the sidelines!”
“The only reason we got through the first Game was because of you. I can’t do this with you on the inside.”
“You don’t get a choice.”
“And you don’t, either. I’m still going to get Peeta to agree to volunteer for you.”
“And I’ll volunteer for him.”
You both glare at each other, fists shaking. “Fifty-fifty.”
Haymitch smirks. “You’d think if you trusted me so much to give you good instructions, you’d listen to me now.”
“I wouldn’t risk your life for my own survival, let alone Peeta’s.” You snap. “He’s a good kid, but he’s practically nothing to me otherwise.”
Haymitch’s smirk falls, and you cocks his head to the side, brows furrowed. “Wait a minute. What are you trying so hard to protect me for?”
You still, whole body tensing, then shrug, trying to play it off. “I like you better?”
“Because I’m such a likable person.”
You’d snicker if you weren’t so on edge. “Who else is gonna help me rip the Capitol a new one? Because that’s what’s most important. This is never going to end if we don’t put a stop to President Snow.”
Haymitch is watching you closely now. “You don’t sound very convincing.”
You sneer. “Oh, really?”
“Really. Fess up, what’s going on with you?”
“Nothing.”
“This ain’t nothing.”
“Are you gonna help me make a fool of the Capitol or not?”
“What are you suddenly so gung-ho on the Capitol for? You haven’t mentioned your little grudge against them in months.”
“Just because I haven’t mentioned it doesn’t mean I haven’t been thinking about it!” You stomp your foot, really starting to lose your temper. Why can’t he just let this go? What does he want you to say? He’s the one that told you to keep your mouth shut about being in love with someone else, after all!
“Prove it, then. What’s eating you up about the Capitol all of a sudden?”
“It’s not sudden!” You practically scream. “Do you see yourself? I want them to pay for what they’ve done to you! For every single day for the past twenty-five years! For your mom, your brother, your girl, Maysilee, for each and every tribute they’ve made you train, get to know, grow attached to, and then watch die, knowing you had a hand in it, knowing it was up to you to train them to survive and help keep them alive and you failed. For all the blame that they tried to lay on you, that you lay on yourself for that. For the games, the trauma, for the nightmares and every single drink you’ve ever taken. I want them to give your life back!”
Your voice catches. Your breath is coming in heavy heaves, and you almost growl, face contorted in anger, teeth clamped and eyes burning.
“But they can’t.” You snap viciously, quietly. “So I want them to suffer. And then I want them to die.”
The hot salt-water trails down your cheek.
“I want them dead.” Your pitch rises, and your voice breaks. Head falling, your eyes clamp shut in frustration—and agony.
You can’t stop the sobs from starting, but you reign them in as best you can, throwing your shoulders back proudly.
He stares, disbelief and confusion and wave upon wave of pain. It hurts that you know you caused that, that you dredged up those memories for him, but it’s too late to take it back. Everything is out here now, your feelings laid bare.
Haymitch looks away, licks his lips and runs a quick hand over his stubbled chin. Then he turns his glare at you again, throwing his hands up. “Since when has this been about me?”
“Since I freaking fell in love with you, probably!” You spit back scornfully.
And there it is.
Too late, you bite your lip. Turning away, you kick a stray end table.
“You what?” His voice sounds disbelieving. You refuse to look back at him.
It’s getting hard to breath. Your binder feels too tight.
“Y/N?”
“I can’t … ” You run a hand through your hair in frustration, annoyed by the length of it, the feel of it, at how little control you have right now. “I can’t worry about protecting myself if you’re out there with me. I’d throw myself in harm's way in a second to protect you. I can’t stand the thought of you being out there again, being in danger. I’m just gonna hurt you by ending up another dead tribute. Please don’t volunteer. Help me and Peeta win again from the outside. You’re the only one who can.”
“ … you’re serious.”
“Shut up and help us.”
“Y/N, I’m a drunk old man—”
“Haymitch, I will kiss you to shut you up if you don’t do it yourself, I mean it. I know what you’re going to say, I’ve told it to myself, believe me, my life literally depends on loving Peeta, you think I haven’t been through this with myself already? So shut up and help us.”
You finally turn to face him again, trying to keep your calm. He’s still staring at you with his confused, stunned face. Your throat gets tight.
“Why me?” He holds his palms up, almost in supplication, waiting for an answer. He sounds sad. Broken. “Why me?”
Screw it. You take three long strides forward, grab his shirt and pull him to you.
You aren’t gentle. Neither is he. He smells like alcohol and thick musk, his face is scratchy with stubble, and his lips are as chapped as yours. Even his tongue is rough.
It registers with a great level of shock that he’s kissing you back, deepening it, pulling you closer with unsteady hands and a too-tight grip on your shoulders. Your hands make their way up to his hair, tugging as he gasps against you, and you angle your head for a better position.
One of his hands races down, grabs your hip, and pulls you flush against him. The discomfort of the sudden awareness of your body, how it betrays you, you try to ignore in favor of taking in how he feels against you instead. And the sound of him, groaning against your mouth, nipping at your lips, practically melting against you—
It’s everything you ever wanted from this man. You hope, for this one moment of peace, you are giving him the same taste of happiness he is giving you.
Because you’ll do anything to give him a lifetime of this. Of the happiness he deserves. And not just him, but yourself and anyone else you can help, as well. To do that, you’re gonna tear the Capitol down.
When you two finally part, you tell him so. He stares at your for a moment, then nods. And tells you his plan.