Chapter Text
The other side of the bed was cold. Robin reached a hand out, expecting to find Ernesto’s arm but finding the boy to be gone. He must have climbed into bed with their mother. Robin couldn’t blame him. It was the day of the reaping, after all.
Sitting up, Robin’s eyes landed on the bed a few feet away from the very one he slept in. There was Ernesto, lying on his side, curled up against their mother.
At Ernesto’s feet lay the ugliest cat Robin had ever seen. Well, he hadn’t seen many cats before…but he was sure that this cat was certainly the ugliest. Ernesto had named her Gatito because of how tiny she was when he first took her home. That cat was anything but tiny now. She hated Robin, and Robin hated her.
He thinks it’s because she remembers when Robin tried to toss her outside in the rain, trying to get her to run off. The last thing he needed was another mouth to feed. But Ernie had cried and begged, so Robin let her stay. The damn cat wasn’t totally useless. Sometimes it would kill the mice that got in the house. After hunting, Robin would occasionally feed her the entrails. She eventually stopped hissing.
Entrails was the closest they would ever get to love.
Sliding out of bed, Robin quickly got dressed. It was early in the morning, sure, but that was the best time to go hunting in his opinion. It was nice and quiet, and the sky was beautiful.
The Seam, where the Arellano’s lived in District Twelve, was usually flooded with miners heading off to work at this hour. But today the streets were empty. The reaping wasn’t until two in the afternoon. May as well sleep in, if you can.
Quietly sneaking out of the house, so as to not wake Ernesto and his mother, Robin made his way to the woods. Slipping in-between the fence, Robin made his way towards the forestry. Stopping at a tree, he picked up his bow and a sheath of arrows he kept hidden there. It was too risky to walk the streets with them in arm. Drew far too much unwanted attention.
While going to the woods was illegal, and often punished by death, there wasn’t much choice in it. District Twelve barely had any food, and there were plenty of animals just waiting to be eaten. It was idiotic to not hunt.
It was easy to hunt. To let go, to stop worrying about keeping the family fed. Robin would spend hours here if he could. But of course, that wasn’t an option. Disappearing for hours at a time wasn’t safe, even if nobody would come looking for you. It made people grow suspicious.
He managed to kill a few squirrels. Sure, they weren’t great, but they were edible. Robin made sure to pick a few strawberries as well. He knew someone who would like those, and who would pass up an easy opportunity to make money?
Once back in town, Robin made his way to the mayor’s house. He loved strawberries— and even better, he was willing to pay for them. The mayor’s daughter, Donna, opened the door. She’s in Robin’s class at school, but they never spoke much. Though, he thought she was decent. She was kind, and that was all that mattered.
“Nice dress,” Robin said simply, looking at Donna’s attire. She wore a pretty, dark red dress that matched the colour of her bow.
“Well, if I end up going to the Capitol, I want to look nice,” Donna answered with a shrug, taking the strawberries from Robin’s hands. She disappeared momentarily, returning with the strawberries gone but now holding money.
“Trust me, you’re not going to the Capitol,” Robin answered, tucking the coins into his pocket. His gaze landed on the pin on Donna’s dress. It was real gold. Or, well, it looked like real gold. “You have like, what, four entries? I had eight by the time I was twelve.”
“That’s not my fault,” she stated simply.
“Yeah, I guess not.” Robin shrugged in response. He waved before heading back home. While he didn’t mind Donna, he wasn’t big on conversation.
A part of him did feel bad for the comment he made. Sure, it wasn’t Donna’s fault that she had a lower chance of being reaped. The system was unfair, with the poor getting the worst of it. The second you turned twelve, your name was entered into the reaping once. When you’re thirteen, it’s entered twice. That cycle goes on and on until you’re eighteen, when your name goes into the pool seven times.
But the catch? If you’re poor and starving, you can get your name added to be given more supplies. The ‘supplies’ being enough grain and oil for one person. So, at the age of twelve, Robin had entered his name four times. Now that he was sixteen, his name was in the reaping twenty times.
Of course he was set off by someone like Donna, who had never needed to enter her name more than forced. She had little to no chance of her name being drawn. It wasn’t impossible, sure, but very slim. That wasn’t the case for Robin.
At home, Robin finds that Ernesto and his mother are ready to leave. Ernesto wore Robin’s first reaping outfit, a simple shirt and dress pants. The clothes are a bit big, the pants being held up by a belt, but they work. The shirt is tucked in Ernesto’s pants, but even then it keeps peeking out.
Robin sighed, quickly getting dressed. He tugged on his own pair of dress pants and a well-fitted blue shirt. He didn’t like blue, in all honesty. But what was the point of complaining? It didn’t change anything.
Once fully clothed, Robin sits on the edge of the bed as his mother begins to braid his hair. He wants to insist that he can do it himself, that he’s grown, but he lets it be. It feels nice to be the one getting taken care of for once.
“You look handsome,” said Ernesto, his voice hushed.
“Yeah. And nothing like myself,” Robin huffed, though a smile formed on his face. He stood up, wrapping his arms around Ernesto and hugging the younger boy. He knew how awful today must feel for him. It was his first reaping after all. Sure, Ernesto is about as safe as scientifically possible as his name was only entered once. But it’s obvious that he’s worried about what might happen to Robin.
“Tuck your tail in, little duck,” Robin grinned, pulling away from the hug and tucking Ernesto’s shirt back into his pants.
“Quack.” Ernesto laughed in response. Robin rolled his eyes playfully, resisting the urge to ruffle Ernesto’s hair. He really didn’t want Mama to scold him for messing it up right before the reaping.
At one o’clock, they all make their way to the town square. It’s too bad, honestly, that the reaping is held here— one of the few places where District Twelve was decent. The square was surrounded by shops, but today they were empty. The air felt unwelcoming, to say the least. The camera crews certainly didn’t help.
Kissing Ernesto on the forehead, Robin exhaled shakily before joining the other sixteen-year-olds. Nobody is talking, instead remaining silent and waiting for the reaping to begin. Robin decides to do the same.
As the clock strikes two, the mayor steps up to the podium and begins to read the same speech as always. He tells the history of Panem, lists the disasters, the droughts, the fires, and about everything imaginable that helped shape the country and form the districts.
The rules of the Hunger Games were pretty simple, in Robin’s mind. Each of the twelve districts must provide one girl and one boy, called tributes, to participate in the games. Those twenty-four tributes would then be placed in an arena where they fought to the death. The last tribute standing wins.
To make matters worse, the Capitol requires the districts to treat the games as a festivity. The winning tribute receives a life of ease and their district to be showered with prizes all year long.
Robin snaps out of his thoughts to hear the mayor beginning to read a list of the past District Twelve victors. In all seventy-four years of the games, District Twelve has only had two victors. Only one who is alive today. Armando “Mando” Reyes staggers onto the stage, falling into the nearest chair available. He’s drunk. Very.
The mayor is visibly distressed by Mando’s behaviour. Everything is being televised, which meant that District Twelve was certainly being laughed at by the citizens of Panem. He tries to pull the attention back to the reaping by introducing Ophelia Fable.
Ophelia trots to the podium and gives her signature, “Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favour!” She goes on about what an honour it is to be here, though everyone in District Twelve knows she’d prefer to be anywhere else. Nobody would ever willingly choose to represent District Twelve.
“Ladies first!” Ophelia chirped, making her way to the glass ball with the girls’ names. She reaches in, digging in deep and stirring her hand, before pulling out a slip of paper. Trotting back to the podium, Ophelia smoothes out the paper and calls out the name.
“Faith Blake!”
Robin recognized that name. He’d heard it called out several times during attendance at school. Only once the girl reached the stage, visibly distraught and anxious, did Robin realize who it was.
“Finney! Finney, no!” A girl cried out. Gwendolyn Blake. Robin had met her a few times— not because he went out of his way to see her, but because she was friends with Ernesto. Gwen was quickly held back by her father, who instantly wrapped his arms around her. The crowd was silent, staring at the child on the stage.
Robin had never spoken to Finney. He only knew the kid went by that name because he’d heard Gwen talk about her ‘brother’ while she was hanging out with Ernesto. Robin wasn’t a genius, sure, but he wasn’t dumb. If Finney said he was a boy, then he trusted that.
Ophelia shook Finney’s hand, smiling at the boy in-front of her. Upon realizing that Finney had nothing to say, she cleared her throat awkwardly and returned to the podium.
“For the boys!” She hummed, digging into another glass bowl and drawing a piece of paper. Returning to the podium, she opened the paper and read the name. After several moments she glanced over at Finney, who had tears pricking in the corners of his eyes, before turning back to the crowd.
“Ernesto Arellano!”
Robin felt his blood go cold. His eyes went wide, as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. This couldn’t be real. Ernesto’s name had only been in the reaping once, there was no way his name could’ve been drawn. Robin’s breathing hitched, becoming unstable and heavy. Only once he saw Ernesto walking down the path to the stage, his shirt untucked, did he snap out of his haze.
“Ernie!” Robin cried out. “Ernesto!” He quickly began to push through the crowd, not caring for how harsh or roughly he may have shoved anyone. Politeness was the last thing on his mind. Reaching Ernesto, Robin quickly pushed the boy behind him.
“I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute!”
Ophelia’s smile fades, instead replaced with confusion. District Twelve hasn’t had a volunteer in decades. While in some districts being reaped was considered a great honour, such beliefs were extinct in District Twelve.
“No! Robin! No!Por favor, no te vayas!” Ernesto screamed hysterically. He wrapped his arms around Robin, trying his hardest to keep the older boy from moving.
“Ernie, suéltalo!” Robin spoke harshly. He couldn’t let himself cry, so he had to be mean. If he cried, all the tributes would make note of it during the replay of the reapings tonight. No way was he about to make himself a target. “Suéltame!”
Robin feels someone pulling Ernesto off of him. He turns around and sees Gwen, her own face streaked with tears. Robin gives a weak nod to the girl before quickly making his way up the steps, not wanting to give Ernesto a chance to break free and grab onto him again.
“Bravo!” Ophelia hummed. She is very, very obviously happy to finally have a little excitement occurring in her representative district. “What’s your name?”
Robin swallowed hard, clenching his fists at his side. “Robin Arellano.”
“Oh, well, I bet that was your brother! Come on, everybody! A big round of applause for our tribute!”
The crowd remained silent, except for Gwen and Ernesto’s loud sniffling. From the corner of his eye, Robin can see Finney staring at him. He ignores it.
Then something unexpected happens. At first one, then another, then nearly the entire crowd touches their three middle fingers to their lips and holds them up. The gesture is old, rarely used except at funerals. It means to say good-bye to someone you love.
“Look at you!” A voice hollers, throwing an arm around Robin’s shoulders. It’s Mando. He reeked of liquor, but Robin felt a tinge of gratefulness. The smell distracted him from crying, so there was that to be thankful for. “I like him! Lots of…spirit!”
Mando released Robin, stumbling towards the front of the stage before pointing at the camera. “More than you!” he shouts at the device. Robin doesn’t have time to question what the hell the man is rambling on about before he falls off the side of the stage, knocking himself unconscious.
Robin reluctantly returns his attention to Finney, who is visibly shaking. Why him? He thinks. Not that it matters. He and Finney aren’t friends. Not even neighbours.
They didn’t speak, and they never have. They had only ever interacted once, but that was years ago. Finney had probably forgotten it by now.
Robin surely hadn’t.
It had been months after his father’s death. Mama was still grieving, and it certainly didn’t help that she’d lost her job. At eleven years old, Robin was the one taking care of his family. There was no choice, really.
Eventually money had begun to run out, which meant that starvation was beginning. Starvation wasn’t an uncommon fate for those in District Twelve. The victims included elderly who could no longer work, children from families with too many mouths to feed. It was unfortunately more common than not.
On the day of the encounter with Finney, the rain was falling hard. Robin had been in town, trying to sell old clothing at the public market. There had been no takers. By the time the market closed, Robin had been trembling so violently from hunger that he’d dropped the clothing in a pile of mud. He didn’t care to pick them up. Nobody wanted them, anyways.
He couldn’t go home. Couldn’t face Mama and Ernie, both so thin and hurting. So Robin made his way to the back of the shops. Maybe he could find something in the trash bins. Of course, they’d just been emptied.
Passing the baker’s, the smell of pastries became dizzying. Suddenly a voice had begun screaming at Robin— it was the baker. He yelled about calling the Peacekeepers and how sick he was of having brats digging through his trash. Putting the lid back on the bin and backing away, Robin’s eyes landed on a boy peeking out from behind his father.
The boy went to the same school as Robin, sure, but he’d never cared enough to learn the kid’s name. The baker went back inside, grumbling about something. Robin shivered, moving to lean against an apple tree. His knees buckled, sliding down the tree trunk till he sat flat on the wet mud. He was so sick and weak and tired, oh, so tired. Just let them call the Peacekeepers. Better yet, let him die here in the rain.
Then there was a clatter inside the bakery, followed by the man screaming again and the sound of a blow. The boy then reappeared at the back door, his left cheek a bright red and his eyes glossy. In his arms were two loaves of bread, both scorched black.
The boy began to tear the bread, tossing them into the nearby pig trough. He never once glanced Robin’s way, but Robin was watching him. Because of the bread. Because of the red mark on his face. Why had the man hit him?
The loaves looked fine to Robin. They were perfect, if you ignored the burnt spots. Before he could question it further, the two loaves landed in front of him. They now had mud on them from hitting the ground, but who cared? It was food. It would keep Mama and Ernie alive.
Quickly, Robin shoved the loaves under his shirt. The bread was still hot, burning into his skin. He was dripping wet from the rain, the heat of the bread contrasting perfectly.
Reaching his house, the bread was no longer as warm. That was fine. Robin dropped the loaves on the table, collecting his family and telling them to sit down. He scraped off the burnt bits and sliced the rest. They ate an entire loaf.
Only the next morning did it occur to Robin that the boy may have burnt the bread on purpose. Might have dropped the loaves into the burning hot flames, knowing he would be punished, before delivering them to Robin. He quickly brushed the thought away. It had to have been an accident. The boy didn’t know him, he had no reason to do this.
At school, Robin passed the boy in the hallways. His cheek had swelled slightly and his eye was now black. The boy didn’t pay any attention to him, instead staring at the floor and avoiding all contact. Only when Robin had picked Ernesto up and begun making his way home did he notice the boy staring at him from across the school yard.
To this day, Robin couldn’t shake the connection he shared with that boy, Finney Blake, and the bread he’d gifted him. More than once he had turned around in the hallway and caught Finney’s eyes on him, only to quickly look away.
He felt like he owed Finney. Robin hated owing people. Maybe if he had thanked Finney at some point for the bread, he wouldn’t be feeling like this. But the opportunity had never come up. And now it never will. Because they’re going to die, maybe even kill each-other. Thanking the boy for the bread while slitting his throat didn’t seem too sincere.
As the mayor finished whatever speech he was giving, he motioned for Robin and Finney to shake hands. Finney’s hands are cold and shaky. Nothing like Robin’s warm ones.
Robin turns back to the crowd, Finney’s hand still in his own. The anthem of Panem plays.
Whatever. There’s going to be twenty-four tributes in that arena. Odds are that someone will kill Finney before he has to.
Of course, the odds hadn’t been in his favour as of late.