Hunger Games 1. Reaping Day

_**A/N: Okay so I wrote this forever ago and while sifting through old documents I read back through and thought thirty pages of material ought not to go to waste. If there's any interest in this story, I have a good chunk more already written and would continue writing just for the sake of my loving these characters so much. I haven't edited or anything yet, so this is raw "Aly's tenth grade writing" but I may go back through and tweak the awkwardness - there's another thing I'll do if there's any actual interest in the story. Usually people don't dig OC characters in general, let alone an entire story of OCs. We'll see. Soooo, yeah! Thanks for clicking.**_

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My own restlessness and my brother's screams keep me awake all night.

He is particularly bad this time around. I wasn't able to afford any kind of food yesterday, and another day without eating had only made him worse. His fever wouldn't subside, and when exhaustion finally forced him to rest, he woke but minutes later, screaming and sobbing all over again. I can't sleep, and I stop trying early on into the night. Each time he calls out my mother's name, I smooth down his hair and remind him in a soft voice that she's not here. Soon, he curls into my side like a small animal and weeps through the night.

The nightmares are all the same the night before the Reaping. He always gets so worried. Honestly, I do, too, but of course I'll never let him know that. The small amount of food we'll receive from my tesserae will keeps us alive for a while, along with whatever I can afford myself. The one good thing about the Games is that I can give Matthew what he needs so desperately because of it.

Looking at him, I know I need to feed him more. His bones are too visible, his eyes too sunken and his skin too pale. He looks dead all the time, especially now, as he lay finally asleep beside me. I rub my hand down his thin arm and check again to make sure he's still breathing.

I worry about him. At sixteen, it's only a few years until I'm ineligible for the Games and unable to sign up for tesserae. Without that food, I'm terrified that Matthew will starve, but I couldn't stand to see him sign up for tesserae when he becomes eligible next year. I spend the few quiet moments of the night thinking of what I could do to make more money. I decide, as Matthew nuzzles into my side, that I would do anything. I might even pay a visit to one of the creepy Peacekeepers that give Seam girls like me money for…I would if I had to. For now, I still have one of Mother's old dresses laying around, and if I look hard enough I'm sure I can find something else to sell. But I'm running out of things. I need a new way to get us by, and soon.

Matthew stirs just as the sun is starting to rise. His eyes are red and swollen from last night, and he looks exhausted as he rubs his eyes. I rub his shoulder and say, "Good morning."

"Mm," he mumbles. He tries to sit himself up, but only gets halfway before he collapses back down onto my chest, exhausted. I lay him carefully back down on the old comforter we use as a bed, propping his head up with the rolled up clothes that second as our pillows.

"It's okay," I tell him. "Just rest a bit. I'm going to the Hob, just for a while. I'll be back soon, just rest."

He latches on to my arm and shakes his head slightly, his Seam eyes distant, but glittering with tears. "No."

"Sh, I'll be back soon. I won't leave you, I promise," I assure him, same as every morning. This calms him considerably, and he lets me get up from the bed.

I try to remain silent as I pull on a black jacket over my old tee-shirt and slip on my boots, high enough to cover the skin exposed by my too-short pants. I gather all that I had planned to sell today (I manage to find a few pieces of jewelry in my mother's old drawer) in a burlap sack and kiss Matthew's forehead before I leave, promising once again that I won't be gone long, and lock the door behind me.

I don't have much luck, but I'm able to sell my mother's dress to a man who's daughter needs one for the Reaping and some of the old jewelry to a woman who in turn gives me a small bag of nuts and some dried fruit.

"Parsley!" someone calls, and I turn to see Amelia, a young woman in her twenties who sells most of the liquor consumed in the district, waving me over. She lives close to Matthew and I, and buys things from me often, though I sometimes wonder if she just does it to help us. I know what she's going to say before she opens her mouth, and I'm not disappointed.

"How's Matthew? I heard him, last night." Her young face is sympathetic, and I immediately feel sorry.

I shift my weight and look at her apologetically. "He's…he's fine. It was worse that usual last night, and he seems a little distant today, but once the Reaping is over and he has some food in his stomach, he'll be alright. I'm sorry if he kept you up."

"It's alright, I wouldn't have been able to sleep anyway. I haven't been eligible for five years and the Reaping still keeps me awake at night. I was about to come over and see what I could do, but I guess you calmed him down." She gives me a look like she's trying to find something. "Is he doing any better, Parsley?"

I take a long time to answer. "I…I don't think so. I'm doing the best I can, but he still wakes up some nights asking where mom and dad are and I just can't…" My throat tightens. "And he always has these headaches and fevers, he'll think he sees mom baking bread or dad getting ready for work…some days he's so gone that he doesn't even remember me. It's my fault, though. It's the hunger that's causing it."

"No, no, sweetheart, it's not your fault. Hush now. You'll get through it, I promise. You'll get some food from tesserae soon, and now that you're older people will hire you more often. As a matter of fact," she says, handing me a small bag of cocoa beans. I stare at them, wondering how she could have gotten something so rare. "Take these. Come back down here after the Reaping, and I'll give you some work to do to pay it off. That sound alright?"

"But these are…Amelia, I can't-"

"Peacekeepers like their liquor the same as the rest of us. Now hurry up and finish your business here. Get back to your brother and get yourselves dressed for the Reaping. Find me when it's time and I'll stand with him during the ceremony again. Come back here once he's home safe and I'll give you some work. Got it?"

I nod mutely, the knot in my throat too large to talk around. Amelia seems to be done with me and turns to a new customer.

With this, I leave the Hob and find the baker in the cleaner part of district, and trade him the bag of nuts and half of the coca beans, hoping he can use them in his baking, for a loaf of bread. I'm amazed at the amount of food I'm able to come home with today, but then again, people are always more generous to starving children on the day of the Reaping.

When I decide I really need to be getting home, I pull off my jacket and wrap my spoils within it before running back to my house.

When I walk inside, Matthew is struggling to button up one of father's old shirts with his shaking fingers. I put my bundled jacket down on the table and smile at him, kneeling down in front of him.

"You're back," he says, relieved, but still dreamily. I press a small kiss to his nose.

"Of course I'm back. I told you I would be. And look at what I got for you."

I only let him see that I have half of the food I obtained. The rest I'll put away and store for later. I hand him a cocoa bean and he looks a it wearily.

"What is it?" he asks.

"Just eat it, Matthew. It's a special treat," I assure him.

He hesitantly puts the bean in his mouth and bites down. His face screws up at the strong flavor, but after a moment, he smiles.

"Yum," he whispers in awe like a small child, and the Reaping suddenly seems very far away.

I chuckle and hand him a small piece of bread and some dried fruit. "Breakfast. Eat quickly, and I'll find you a better shirt. That one's too big."

He takes the food and begins to eat hungrily before looking back up at me. "But Dad said I could wear this one today."

My heart sinks, and my small moment of happiness drowns with it. "No, Mattie, he didn't," I tell him soothingly.

"Yes he did. After you left, he said I could wear this shirt today. He left for work a little while ago."

I kneel down next to him and hold his hands in my own. "Remember, Mattie, Dad's not here."

"No, because he left for work. I told you." He is getting annoyed now.

"Try to remember," I plead quietly. I bring up the details, almost retelling the event like a story. This usually works to make him remember. "Three years ago, the mining accident? Do you remember how our teachers called us out of class? And they told us…? Remember? They pulled us out of class...because the mine had collapsed - think hard, Mattie."

That had been a terrible day. Our mother had already been gone for a few years, and Matthew was just starting to accept that she wasn't coming back. They pulled us out of school along with the children of six other men and told us that the mine had collapsed on top of our fathers as they were working. Most of the men had been either unscathed or received minor injuries, as they'd been further from the collapse, but our fathers had not been so lucky. They closed the mine for its instability, and when they retrieved my father's body, I covered Mattie's eyes to keep him from seeing what had become of him, but not before he got a glimpse of the mangled corpse. Matthew only got worse after that day.

After our father's death…I finally had to realize that there was something "wrong" with my little brother. Some say it was post-traumatic stress. Others think that he had gotten enough food neither in our starving mother's womb nor in his first few years of life, and that had led to his mental problems. And others still say he was just plain mentally unstable. I don't know what to believe, but unless knowing would help me fix him, I don't see the point in searching.

Recognition floods his eyes, and with it, salty tears. "Oh," he says quietly. "Right. I remember."

"It's alright, Mattie. Eat your food and you'll feel better, okay? I can give you some more cocoa beans after, if you want," I say, standing back up and eating a few pieces of dried fruit. I leave the bread for Matthew.

When he seems to have moved past his small episode, I search for clothes to wear to the Reaping.

Usually a girl can find an old dress to wear for the Reaping, but the best I can manage after selling mother's last dress is a tan skirt that reaches my knees and one of my mother's old, long shirts that could be considered a blouse to the untrained eye. There is one rather visible hole in the fabric, and I spend some time trying to cover it with the waist of the skirt. I pull on some flat shoes that are too small for me now and tie my hair in a braid to hang over my shoulder.

I find some decent clothes for Matthew, as even though he isn't eligible for the Reaping, he still needs to be well dressed. I lay them on the floor beside him as he finishes eating, and with some help he changes into the short brown pants and slightly large, white button-up shirt. His shoe selection is limited and he's not big enough to wear our father's, so I let him wear his ratty tennis shoes. I brush his hair with my fingers and rub a bit of dirt off his cheek.

He looks up at me with tears in his eyes. "I don't want to go."

I know. It's the same thing he says every year. I don't want to go either. "It's the law, Mattie. Now come on, cheer up. You can't get picked. You're not old enough yet. I'm going to leave you with Amelia, remember her? She's the one who gave us the cocoa beans, you know. She's going to stand with you an I'll come get you after the Reaping. It'll be over in a flash, okay?"

Matthew looks apprehensive, and I hug him tightly. "Come on," I say. "We have to get down to the Square."

I find Amelia after searching the growing crowd for a while. She waves me over and I pull Matthew along with me over to her. Her grey dress is in a slightly better state than the rest of us, and her brown hair is twisted up into a bun at her neck. Matthew clings on to my arm tighter when we reach her, but she takes no offense and smiles gently at him.

"Hey, kiddo."

"Hi," he replies meekly.

"Thank you," I tell her. "For all of this."

"No problem, sweetheart. I'll see you after the ceremony. The kiddo and I will be waiting for you. Go sign in, okay?"

I nod and give Matthew a gentle nudge towards Amelia. He resists and throws his arms around me. Amelia looks at me sympathetically as I assure him that I'll be back in just a little while. When he finally lets me go, Amelia puts a hand on his shoulder - comforting, but also restraining - and gives me a small wave. I wave back and head down towards the rest of the eligible residents.

I sign myself in with a prick of my finger and join the other sixteen year old girls in the crowd.

Soon, everyone is in place, and District Twelve's mayor steps forward to retell the history of Panem, and the Dark Days that followed. He speaks about the Treaty of Treason that put into motion new laws to assure no more uprisings occurred, including, of course, the Hunger Games. The mayor half-heartedly finishes his prescribed speech, "It is both a time for repentance and a time for thanks," and begins listing the few District Twelve victors in history.

It is a short list, and after our one living victor, a man named Garrick Keaton who won his Games seventeen years ago at the age of fifteen, receives a small moment of applause, District Twelve's escort, Pippa Vixen, ascends on to the stage in six inch high gold heels, which is somewhat impressive.

She's taken her last name to heart, and she quite literally looks like a fox, her nails an inch long, painted gold, and pointed at the tip, and her wig long and deep red in color. She's even donned on a tail. Her clothes match her hair, and her eyes are gold and cat-like. To us, she looks terrifying, but when her cherry red lips open, her bright, bubbly voice carries through the microphone.

"Happy Hunger Games!" she chirps. "And may the odds be _ever _in your favor!"

Everyone begins to hold their breath as she starts to speak. When she's through, two of us will be shipped off to our deaths. I remember Matthew standing behind me and feel relief that at least this year, he's safe.

"I'm so excited!" Pippa continues. "It's such an honor to be here, and what an honor for _you,_ to have this opportunity! Oh, oh, oh, I just can't wait! Let's get started, shall we? Ladies first, of course!"

She crosses to the glass ball of the two that holds the girl's names. Her claw-like fingers dive inside and rummage around the slips of paper for a moment before she plucks out a single one.

There is complete silence, and everyone around me is shaking. Finally, after a long pause for dramatic effect, Pippa calls out a name.

Through my shock, I hear my brother's scream ripple through the Square.


	2. Saying Goodbye

**_A/N: Hello all! So, I got a little bit of response from the last chapter. If I didn't already have this chapter and a few more already written, I probably wouldn't continue, but since they're just sitting here on my computer - hey, might as well. I hate when authors threaten that they need this many reviews before they'll consider posting a new chapter, so I'm not going to do that. But I will say that three or four reviews would be nice as far as giving me some indication of how many people want to see more of the story. If those people exist. It could be questions, constructive feedback, or just talking about how you feel about the chapter/characters/etc. Anyway, here's the next chapter, and then Parsley and Abel are off for the Capitol!  
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In shock, I slowly make my way through the crowd of relieved girls until I emerge into the pathway leading up to the stage.

"Oh there she is!" Pippa exclaims. "Come on now, up, up!"

I don't hear her. I only hear my brother calling my name from behind me, not daring to turn around. He screams at Amelia to let go of him, but I silently thank her. He cries and screams and Amelia tries to calm him, but only I know how to do that - she only manages to muffle his screams to keep the Peacekeepers from interfering. Feeling as if I've been walking for hours, I reach the stage and am finally forced see her with her hand over Matthew's mouth, her face a gruesome mixture of sympathy and sadness. Matthew's eyes catch mine, and I try to tell him with my steady gaze that it's alright, it's all okay.

He stops screaming, getting my message, but his sobs are almost just as loud. Two Peacekeepers come to escort him away, but Amelia convinces them somehow to let her come with him. She gives me one last look. I get the message behind it, and I nod thankfully.

_I'll keep him safe_.

They are out of my sight quickly, and the Square is silent once again. Painfully silent.

Pippa doesn't miss a beat. "Well, then. Ahem. Any volunteers?"

No one speaks. No one moves. My heart sinks, though I'd expected nothing less. I knew almost no one in the crowd before me – no one I would sacrifice for, and no one I would expect to sacrifice for me. I try to hold my head high, though my eyes, filled with barely disguised fear and shock, give me away. I'm suddenly thankful that the Peacekeepers took Matthew away.

"Very well then! Congratulations, Parsley! Everyone, a round of applause please for District Twelve's female tribute!"

The applause is obligatory, unnecessary, and half-hearted. Everyone knows this this is nothing to cheer for, but the cameras are on – for now, we're all part of the show.

Pippa isn't interested in getting the crowd more excited in the festivities, and carries on without a hitch. "Now, now, now, on to the boys!" she trills.

She crosses over to the other glass ball and swirls her hand around inside, humming a light little tune into the microphone and giggling. Between her long, claw-like nails, she pulls out a single slip of paper, and I see all of the boys tense the same way the girls had.

"Let's see…Abel Rosen!"

After a moment of still silence similar to my own, a boy from the sixteen year old section steps into the pathway and makes his way up to the stage. All those still standing in the square's shoulders relax, and I remember the feeling. They have another year. For some of them, they're free now. Some of them will never have to participate in the Hunger Games. But I do. And so does Abel Rosen.

Abel climbs the stairs and takes his place beside me. I recognize him. I don't know him very well, but I know he's from one of the 'middle' families in the District - too rich to be considered a Seam family but just poor enough that they buy things from the Hob. His father often buys my mother's jewelry for his wife and Matthew's old baby clothes for his three year old son.

He and I go…or I suppose, went, to school together, but the only interaction we'd ever really had was at my father's funeral, when he approached Matthew and I, gave Mattie a piece of rare candy with a kind smile, and told me he was sorry for my loss. From what I know of him, he's a kind and friendly guy. I suddenly wonder if I'd be able to kill anyone who would Matthew candy.

"Welcome, Abel! Do we have any volunteers?" Pippa asks, and after a moment of silence, she calls for more applause, congratulates us animatedly, and steps off to the side as the mayor steps to the microphone once again for the required reading of the Treaty of Treason. Instead of the dreary yet boring history lecture that it used to be, it is suddenly a battle. The longer the mayor goes on, the longer I have to come to terms with what just happened, and the more time I have to fight off the tears that threaten to explode from me. One look at Abel and I can tell he's doing the same. By the end, my jaw is sore from clenching it so long and there's a dull ache behind my stinging eyes.

The mayor finishes, finally, and tells Abel and I to shake hands.

We turn towards each other, eyes glassy, and do as we are told. Abel takes a deep breath and gives me a small, almost reassuring smile, squeezing my hand, and I wonder how he does it. We turn back towards the crowd, and the anthem plays. It ends, the cameras shut off, the façade of a celebration ends for everyone but Pippa, and the District is silent. Abel and I draw in shaky breaths, taking in the sympathetic faces surrounding us, before our arms are grabbed by fingers with golden nails and we are ushered inside the Justice Building by a giggling Pippa Vixen.

Abel and I are separated and placed in two different rooms for our hour of goodbyes. I prepare myself for the worst.

To my surprise, Amelia comes in first; alone. She catches my look and explains.

"He's outside. I told him he should think of what he's going to say, since there's limited time."

I nod my head, and Amelia takes a seat on the cushioned seat opposite me. We sit in silence for a moment before I speak. "I guess I won't be able to pay you back for those cocoa beans," I say softly.

She moves to sit beside me, her arm wrapped around my shoulders. "I guess you'll just have to pay them off with all your fancy victor money, then."

I can't take it anymore when I realize how absurd that statement is, and tears erupt from my eyes. Amelia pulls my head into her chest and lets me cry in silence. I try to regain my composure, because I _can't _cry when Matthew comes in.

"All you gotta do, sweetheart, is use what you know, and fake what you don't. Just win. You're the only one he's got," Amelia tells me, and I nod mutely, sniffing and rubbing my hands across my face.

"You know your way around a deal. You've got a good head on your shoulders. Learn how to use all the weapons you can. Find a knife on the train and just mess with it. You're not too big, either, so push comes to shove, you run and hide your way through it. I know you can do it, sweetheart. It'll be okay."

I clutch her like Mattie does to me, hanging on her every word. I need some reassurance. Even if I know I'm hopeless, I need someone to tell me how to pretend that I'm not. For Mattie.

"There's some food in our house," I tell her. "The cocoa beans, some dried fruit, and a loaf of bread. There's a little bit of money, too. Take that, and use it. Do whatever you want with it. Just keep him safe."

A Peacekeeper comes in, telling Amelia that her time is up. She stands, placing a kiss on my forehead, and tells me, "I'll do the best I can, Parsley. I'll keep him safe until you get home."

"Thank you," I tell her, and I mean it. Amelia is just as poor as everyone else in the Seam, but she's promised to feed another mouth, house another body, to protect someone else - someone very dear to me. I can't die on her and leave her alone with Mattie when she's given up so much. And I certainly can't leave _him_ alone so easily.

As if on cue, the door opens.

Matthew barrels into the room, already sobbing, before he falls into my arms. His grey eyes are puffy and red, and I wipe the tears away with my thumb, kissing him on his nose.

"Don't go," he pleads, and my heart clenches. "Don't go, Parsley, don't leave."

"Sh," I whisper, trying to soothe him though my voice is shaking. "It'll be okay. I'll be home soon. Just like before. I'll only be gone a little while, I promise."

I know I'm lying. I feel it in my heart that if I keep going, the last words I say to my brother will be a lie, and so I stop assuring him of my return and start telling him what he needs to know.

"Sh, sh, listen. Matthew, listen," I say, and he looks into my eyes, his face full of despair. "I love you - I love you _so much_, Mattie. There is nothing and no one in this world that can love you more than I do, you know that, right?"

He nods, sobbing harder, but I have to continue.

"You are the best little brother in the world, and I'm so lucky to have you. Everything I do, everything I've done, I'd do it a million times over for you. I love you more than anything, Mattie. I will do everything I can to come back to you. _Everything_. You understand?"

He nods again and buries his head in my chest. "I don't want you to go," he cries miserably. "They kill you when you go there! You don't come back! Parsie, I don't want you to die! I don't want you to leave. Please…stay. Just ask them if you can stay here," he begs me in a whimper, and I shake my head, ignoring the way his words stab through me like knives.

"I can't, Mattie. It's the law, remember? I promise I'll try to come back. Until then, Amelia will take care of you. I'll do everything I can to come back to you, I promise."

We sit in silence as I cradle Matthew back and forth like a small child, letting him cry and hold on to me like a lifeline. I think of what this might do to him, whether or not I make it back, and hug him harder.

When the Peacekeeper comes to take him away, he latches his arms around my neck and refuses to release me, even when I tell him he needs to go now. The Peacekeeper has to pry him off of me, fighting to control him as he struggles in his arms.

"No! No! Don't make me go! Parsley! PARSLEY!" he screams, and a tear escapes my eye. "Parsley, don't let them take me! Please, let me go with you! Let me go too!"

"I love you, Mattie," I call out to him as they reach the door.

All of a sudden, with what might just be the last words I say to my little brother, realization floods Matthew's eyes, and for one moment, he's completely aware. He knows exactly what has happened, and what _will_ almost certainly happen in these next few days. No matter what we say, the odds are not in either of our favors. He stops struggling, and the Peacekeeper simply pulls him along by his arm. Right now, tears streaming down his face and his feet getting jumbled as he's pulled backwards, his eyes searching mine for denial of his revelation and finding none, he looks older than I've ever seen him.

"I love you too, Parsley," he replies in a broken cry, before the door slams shut.


	3. En Route

**_A/N: Well, the only thing that came of last chapter was a decent amount of views, but honestly that doesn't tell me too much. I don't know if people are invested in this story at all, so really guys - reviews would be really nice right about now, or even just some follows or something. I have all the way up to the private training sessions with the Gamemakers written, but I won't guarantee that I'll write more beyond that or even post the chapters up to that point if I don't feel like I have reason to. So, please, if you guys like this story - honestly, even if you hate it, just let me know one way or another - please review or follow/favorite! I'd really appreciate it. Really really. _**

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My brother and Amelia are the only ones who come to see me, and the only ones I expected to. I don't understand why they won't let Mattie and Amelia stay with me for longer instead of making me sit in this room by myself for almost an hour, but I decide that it is a blessing in disguise, because by the end of the hour allotted for family and friends, I have had time to regain most of my composure. My eyes are still puffy and red, and my skin feels tight from the sticky tears dried to my cheeks. My nose is running, but it's subsided enough that I only have to sniffle every few minutes.

Eventually the same Peacekeeper that collected Matthew comes to tell me that it is time to go to the train station. I choose to ignore both the way he glares at me and the bruise forming on his jaw from Matthew's flailing fists, electing instead to stare straight ahead as he leads me to the car that's meant to take us to the train heading to the Capitol.

I've never been in a car before, and the unfamiliar motion makes me feel sick. Abel sits beside me, his eyes also glittering with tears, but we both manage to compose ourselves before we arrive at the station.

We make our way past the reporters and photographers that wait for us at the station, ducking our heads. Abel reaches for my hand as we walk and squeezes reassuringly. The cameramen catch this moment of affection and go into frenzy ("How sweet!" "Are you two good friends?" "Are you dating?" "How do you know each other?" "Oh bless their hearts!"). I wonder how they'd react if I told them Abel and I haven't spoken more than a few words to each other in our entire lives, but I just release my hand from Abel's grasp and leave it at that. From the corner of my eye I see my face on a television screen as they broadcast our arrival and quickly turn my head to avoid having to see myself do what other tributes have done year after year. My head is still reeling – I don't want to consider myself one of them just yet.

When we're finally allowed to enter the train after what feels like hours of idly standing in the limelight, we're jerked sideways by its sudden start, and the speed of it makes me feel queasy again. After a few moments of closing my eyes and breathing deeply, I get used to the motion and hesitantly continue on inside. Pippa Vixen is waiting for us in the car that's set with a table, a couch, and a television, sitting awkwardly beside our mentor, Garrick Keaton. Upon our arrival, she bounces up and offers to show us our rooms with a giggle, while Garrick doesn't seem to have noticed our presence, just staring at the glass of water in his hands as a drop of condensation runs down its side.

The tribute train is one of the most luxurious things I've ever seen, and in the hour Pippa allows me before supper, I take a long shower in the hot water - a privilege we don't have in the Seam - and then change my clothes into one of the silky dresses that fill the drawers in my small room. I can't say I much enjoy the Capitol clothes, as toned-down as they might be from the modern fashion, but without the stains of Matthew's tears on my clothes, I feel better prepared to watch the recaps of the Reapings.

When I walk down for supper, I have to try very hard not to gouge myself on all of the delicious Capitol food. I haven't had hot meat in months, and there's _so much _that I can't help but stuff myself. There is hot soup and juicy meat and fresh bread and fresh fruit and fresh vegetables. Things the people from the Seam can't even dream of eating. _Fresh _is a word almost non-existent in the Hob.

Abel and I sit next to each other to watch the Reapings. Garrick doesn't join us, and Pippa says he'll watch from his room. Abel shrugs and turns to the television.

I can't pay much attention, though I know I should. Even Pippa is jotting down notes on a small pink notebook, but I can't muster the resolve. I feel so incomplete without Matthew curled into my side. My mind is preoccupied imagining what he's doing now. I've never been so far from him. Even if I'd wanted to, I realize, we were well past District Twelve's limits now – farther than I could ever go before today.

Abel nudges my shoulder to make me pay attention, but gives me an understanding look. We haven't spoken at all, even during the Reaping, but he's given me many of those looks, those reassuring little gestures when I'm particularly lost. I don't like to admit it, but they have the desired effect, at least to some small degree.

I watch as volunteers dominate the stage in Districts One and Two. The boy from One – all muscle and confidence - smirks as he shakes his District partner's hand, and the girl from Two sways up to the stage seductively and giggles at the catcalls she receives. The boy from Four is also especially terrifying, volunteer or not, standing still and stoic, six foot something and weighing at least two hundred pounds of pure muscle. As the Districts rise in number, the "quality" of the tributes just gets worse. The children get weaker, the mood sobers, and volunteers are nonexistent. I try to size them all up, to search them for strengths and weaknesses as they walk up to the stages before them, but every person I see acts as a reminder of the fact that only one of us will be making it out alive.

Only one tribute really catches my attention - there is a twelve year old boy chosen from District Seven. The boy on the stage is small and thin, with bow legs and brittle-looking arms. He looks like he could be blown away by a gust of wind. Swallowing the knot in my throat, I have to look down at my clasped hands until they move on to District Eight. If I win, I think, Matthew will never have to worry about this. If I win, Matthew will be safe.

Finally, it's District Twelve's turn. We watch through the cameras' eyes as Pippa reaches into the girl's bowl ("Oh, I look hideous! I should have worn the other shoes," Pippa complains) and calls out my name. We watch in silence as Matthew screams, and I see his face of despair as the me on the screen walks towards the stage without looking at him. Amidst my brother's sobs, the commentators discuss who Matthew must be, deciding a little too late to be called intuitive that he must be my brother, and when Amelia restrains him, covering his mouth, they deliberate on who she is as well. Sister, they decide. Too young to be a mother. I almost want to laugh at the prospect.

I pay them little mind, and instead watch a second time as my brother and Amelia are escorted out by the Peacekeepers.

"I'm sorry about your brother," Abel says beside me, the first thing we have said to each other, and I nod, noticing that my eyes are glassy again. He takes my hand and squeezes. We watch his name being called, and the camera finds his family, his mother crying quietly, in the crowd of ineligible citizens. His father rubs her back as their daughter clings to his leg and their youngest son looks at his mother questioningly, wondering why she's crying. Now, it's my turn to give Abel's hand a squeeze, and he smiles sadly at me. The anthem plays, the commentators sign off, and Pippa sighs contentedly.

Just as we're about to head to bed, Garrick lumbers into the room and looks lazily between Abel and I. We both look to him, expecting perhaps for a sudden spurt of genius to spill from his pursed, chapped lips that will help us survive the Games.

"Tomorrow," he tells us in a bored voice, grabs a glass of water from the pitcher at the table, and departs back into his room. No genius. Nothing at all, really.

I decide that I don't like Garrick. With any luck, his mentoring will help either Abel or I to come back alive from this mess – but I can't imagine that happening if this is Garrick's idea of help.

I know that often times, after a victor comes home from the games, they turn to drink or morphling to ease their minds, but I've never seen Garrick as anything but sober. If anything, that only makes it worse. He's completely aware of what's going on around him, even as he sends us off to our deaths. He just doesn't care.

Abel seems to agree, judging by the way his face screws up.

Looking at him now, I try to see Abel as an enemy. He's taller than me, if only by a little, and he's stronger, though I don't know enough about him to tell exactly what he's done to become that way. He's better fed than the people from the Seam, much better fed than me. He's handsome, too, with his cropped, light brown hair, green eyes, and long frame, which I suppose might get him sponsors in the Capitol. If I had any potential to be pretty, it was ruined by my sickly appearance.

"What's wrong?" Abel asks me, catching my stare. I shake my head and sit back down on the couch with a heavy sigh.

"Do you have any idea what you're going to do?" I ask him after a long pause.

He's quiet for a minute, but seems to understand my meaning. He sits down beside me and sighs.

"Not one," he tells me softly. More silence.

"Are you scared?" I ask.

He doesn't answer, but instead wraps an arm around my shoulders. I'm surprised yet again by his friendly touch, and confused even more so.

"Why are you being so nice to me?" I ask. "You're going to be trying to kill me a few days from now." _And I you, _I add to myself, but stop my lips from voicing the thought. The truth of that sentence hits me like a thousand bricks. He will try to kill me, to get back to his family. And I _will _kill him to get back to Matthew. In just a little while, one of us, if not both, will be dead. Perhaps by the other's hand.

I break out of my reverie as he takes a long breath and tells me, "I just think we both need it, don't you? I don't really want a mentor, or an escort, or a stylist, or anything like that. I just need a friend. I figured you do, too, right?"

I nod hesitantly. After a moment, I relax - though it has less to do with feeling comfortable and more to do with being utterly emotionally exhausted - and my head finds his shoulder. He rests his head atop mine, and we sit in silence, staring at the black television screen. There's much to be done tomorrow, Pippa told us at supper, and the quiet between us is filled with thoughts of what tomorrow will hold for us - the two hopeless tributes of District Twelve.

After a while, we fall asleep like that - Abel's arms around me, my head on his shoulder, two soon-to-be enemies, curled into each other as if we'd been friends for years.

Garrick's rough voice wakes us. "Get up, lovebirds," he orders.

Abel groggily rubs his eyes and stretches his arms, one of them still wrapped around my shoulders. I'm much more embarrassed by our position - and what Garrick makes of it - than Abel seems to be, and I jump away from him as if he'd shocked me. Garrick smacks us on our heads and walks towards the table. "Get over here. Pippa won't let me eat until you two get up. Bitch is out to get me, I swear," he says, muttering the last bit to himself.

"Oh, hush, Garrick. I didn't want their food to get cold," Pippa calls from the table.

Abel and I glance at each other and follow a grumbling Garrick to the table, sitting down opposite each other with Garrick and Pippa at each end. Food is placed before us almost immediately, and it's a little bit easier for me to control myself this time, though I surely eat my fill. Garrick finishes before the rest of us, and just as I let myself think he's going to start helping us, he tells us he wants to take a nap and leaves before Abel and I can open our mouths to protest.

"Honestly, that man," Pippa mutters, and I'm surprised to find myself actually agreeing with a Capitol woman dressed like a fox.

"I'm going to go get him," I say, anger fueling my courage, but Abel shakes his head.

"We'll just do things our own way," he decides, looking at the door Garrick left through. "If he's not going to help…well it's not like we have time to wait for him. Pippa, do you still have paper in that notebook you had during the Reaping recaps?"

Pippa looks surprised, but she nods and rises from the table, disappearing behind the door.

"We're going to write down all of the things we can do. Our skills, things like that. Every asset we have that could help us in the Games," Abel explains. "If he won't mentor us, we'll mentor ourselves. I won't let us go into this thing blind."

My respect for Abel increases tenfold with his determination, and I watch as Pippa returns with her strawberry scented notepad and a neon green pen with feathers sprouting from the end. Abel looks a little ridiculous, writing on something so flamboyant so seriously, and I almost laugh.

"Okay," he says. "Parsley." He looks at me expectantly.

I honestly do try to think of something useful, but come up with nothing. I shake my head with a shrug and let out a mirthless laugh. "I'm hopeless. I'll be dead the second the gong rings."

"No, let's just think. You don't need to be some kind of master with a weapon to have a skill. Come on. Just think."

It takes me a moment, but I finally come up with something. "I…I'm okay with knots. And sewing, things like that. I can…build things, fix them, if I have to, and I'm alright with plants. What's edible and what's not, what parts you can eat and how to cook them, that sort of thing."

Those "skills" had kept Matthew and me alive quite a few times over the past few years. I don't think they were really worth mentioning, but Abel seems to think otherwise.

"Good," he says, scribbling down a note on the pad. "That can really help in the arena sometimes. You're small, too. A smaller target means a smaller chance of hitting it. Can you run?"

We go on with this for a long while, dissecting every aspect of our lives and searching it for something useful. When the page is almost full of little bullet points displaying our strengths and weaknesses, another voice interrupts Abel mid-sentence.

"He's better looking, so the Capitol will adore him, but the others will see him as a threat if there's any real skill behind that muscle. You, however, look like an easy kill. That could work for or against you with the tributes, but the way you are now, no Capitolite in their right mind would sponsor you. Too sickly. Too thin. Eat something."

Garrick sits down on a vacant chair and leans back lazily. We all stare at him, shocked, for a moment, before we regain our composure. He plucks Pippa's notebook from Abel's hands and glances at it. After a moment, he brings it to his nose, eyebrows furrowed, and draws in a breath.

"Strawberry. Hot damn," he mutters, and Pippa huffs. He rolls his eyes at her and tosses the book into the middle of the table.

"Your brother," he says to me. I look at him expectantly and nod my head. "Is he retarded?"

I'm slightly offended by his bluntness, but I don't let it show. "No. Nothing genetic. He's just…unaware sometimes. But what does that matter?"

"Pity," Garrick yawns. "People love to pity the weak ones. You've got a whole other thing going for you - starved, no parents, retard little brother. If you can't fix it, use it. Might get you sponsors."

I remain silent, suddenly wishing he _hadn't _decided to mentor us properly now. Garrick looks bored with me and turns to Abel.

"And you. Stop being so nice. Sure, in front of the Capitol, be sweet and polite and whatever else. But to the other tributes, look intimidating. Put some anger on that baby face. The Capitol just took you away from your home, from that cute little family of yours. They're going to cheer for your death, and for the death of a poor girl from your town with a retarded brother. And by god, they hope it's bloody. Stop being so goddamn cheery. It's sick. Get angry!"

Abel looks at him, shocked as our mentor gets increasingly animated. Pippa slaps a hand to her mouth, covering her gasp.

"You can't say things like that!" she whispers loudly. "That's treason!"

"Screw treason," Garrick sighs deeply, calm again as his eyes scan the strawberry scented paper. "Everything on this list is shit. Calder," he says. "Have you ever even _touched_ a weapon?"

"I've used knives before, but never as a weapon," I admitted defensively. "There aren't many opportunities to fight to the death in the Seam." Garrick doesn't miss a beat, ticking his finger at me.

"Ah-ah, no sarcasm. Be weak. Be a crying, sniveling little girl who just wants her poor little brother back."

I just glare at him. He's asking me to make myself an easy target? Isn't that what he just said _not _to do? Garrick rolls his eyes at me.

"You?" he asks Abel.

"A few times," Abel says. "I'd get in some fist fights at school, and I used to throw knives into an old wood slab we kept outside our house when I was bored."

The fighting part surprises me, but I keep my mouth shut.

"It'll do," Garrick decides. "Calder. Abel wrote that you know plants. That true?"

I notice that he only calls Abel by his first name. From the furrow of his brow, Abel notices, too. "Yeah, I guess. I'd trade in the Hob for food, and so I had to learn what was worth what."

"Good. Teach Abel what you know. Abel, teach her how to use a knife." He takes the knife from his plate and licks it clean before shoving it in my direction. "Take that. Just one rule - don't get caught. You're not supposed to train before you get into the Training Center, but you're going to need all the help you can get. And our little Vixen will do well to remember that she'll be fired immediately should her tributes be caught breaking the rules on her watch. Isn't that right, sweet cheeks?"

Pippa looks absolutely revolted by this idea, but she understands the clear message and slumps into her chair like a spoiled child who isn't given what they wanted.

"Damn you, Garrick Keaton," she huffs. Garrick smiles at her snidely, even a condescending smile seeming unnatural on his lips, and he laughs as Pippa shoves her chair away from the table and stomps off, the clicking of her heels somehow lessening the effect. Abel and I just look at each other. His face shows all of the worry I feel.

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**_Next Chapter, Parsley and Abel finally arrive in the Capitol. Please review!_**


	4. Conditioners and Chariots

**_A/N: Okay, so I'm just going to post what I've got. Feel free to review. I'll update on a MonWedFri basis until I run out of chapters, then we'll see where we are. Eh. Alright. Thanks for clicking._**

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The next day, the city comes into view.

"Look!" Abel says, grabbing my arm from where I sit fiddling with Garrick's dinner knife and dragging me to the window. "Gosh, it's huge."

Abel and I stare in awe through the windows at the sparkling white city. As we pass through, seeing our own faces in the glass windows of the colossal buildings as the train lumbers on, citizens start to recognize us and point at us wildly. The train slows now that people are nearby, giving us more time to look at the flamboyantly dressed creatures in front of us – or, probably more importantly, for them to look at us. Soon, the entire street is smiling and waving at us as if we're part of some parade.

"Better wave back," Garrick calls tiredly from behind us, taking a long draw of the water in his glass. "Those people might be potential sponsors. Whether or not they like your smile could mean life or death in the arena."

Abel and I immediately take his advice, and while Abel has already perfected his kind smile and polite wave, mine is much more awkward, and I hear Garrick laugh behind me, but choose to believe it's not at my flustered attempt to be appealing.

Though they don't look entirely appealing themselves - the people in the city look like something out of a drawing.

In District Twelve, the color palate for clothing (or anything else, really) is a fairly indisputable brown, black, grey, and maybe the occasional cream. Anything that doesn't fit that color scheme doesn't stay that way for long – dust and mud and coal make it almost impossible to maintain something in any other color. In the Capitol, they clearly do not have that problem. Women are dressed in neon green dresses, bright pink skirts, shimmering gold blouses, all decorated with sequins and glitter. Their hair flies in all directions, their own rainbow of colors (and some, even colored like an actual rainbow) that curls and crimps and sticks up straight at impossible angles. The men are dressed the same, all bright and shimmering, faces painted and filled with plastic until they hardly look human. Sure, I've seen Pippa trotting around year after year in her extreme outfits, but I never quite pictured a sea of a thousand Pippas – except maybe in my nightmares.

How can I ever make these people see _me _as appealing – as a tribute or anything else? Glancing at Abel, still smiling that wide, unassuming smile like he's incredibly happy to be here, I have to wonder: what about him? Yes, Abel is attractive, and even I can admit I'm not entirely hideous, but that's in District Twelve – these people are a whole new breed.

My smile long since faded into something more like a grimace, I see a boy in the sea of Pippas, no older than Matthew, sitting on his father's shoulders to see above the massive hairdo of the woman in front of him. He doesn't look much like my brother, his hair dyed orange and golden circles framing his eyes, but the innocence in those gold-encircled eyes is _very _similar, as is the joy that radiates from him as he beams at me.

I pretend that he's Mattie. I pretend the Games are over, and Matthew is standing there waiting for me as the train pulls in to District Twelve. I think of how he would look as I stepped off that train, and I imagine that his smile would look something like this Capitol boy's. So full of joy, surprise, and wonder. Relief would be there too. A lot of relief. The tears would come later, but at that moment, we'd have no room on our faces for anything but our grins.

I wave back at the boy, ignoring the way my eyes have gotten glassy, and he grins wider.

From behind me, Garrick's rough voice mutters, "Much better."

I detest the Remake Center.

All things considered, my prep team - the three Capitolites that are meant to make me attractive before I meet my stylist - are alright at first. They are complete idiots - that much is abundantly clear - and their skin tinted different colors; their hair neon and sparkly and blinding, but they seem like they actually care about getting me sponsors. Their ridiculous fashion and annoyingly cheery attitudes are bearable, at best - I've managed to get past their dumb accent - and they're a lot like Pippa, so I feel like I'm already used to them within minutes of our initial meeting.

But Pippa never once put hot wax and cloth on my legs and _ripped_.

For hours that seem to stretch on into years, my prep team rips and tears and plucks, buffs and conditions and exfoliates, and by the time I'm deemed "workable", my arms, legs, and underarms are void of all body hair, and my eyebrows have been plucked into a sleek, angular shape that the tall one with blindingly white hair, Phoenix, tells me bring out my eyes. My fingernails have been rounded off and painted with a clear liquid to make them shine. My black hair has been brushed, washed, and conditioned to fall in waves down my back, and my skin has been scrubbed until I feel bare and raw all over.

When they're finally through with me, after covering me in a series of lotions and oils that eventually bring back the feeling in my skin, they decide to go call my stylist. They take my robe with them, and I stand naked in the middle of an empty room, waiting for some stranger to come stare at me some more. With the prep team, I hardly had the chance to feel self-conscious before Phoenix had started plucking, Silver (a petite man with hair to match his name) had started washing, and Minx (a woman with orange skin and contacts that made her eyes look like they were all iris and colored a startling lime green) had started ripping.

But I surely have the time now. Crossing my arms over my exposed chest, I stare down at my feet to avoid looking at the mirrors placed throughout the room. _This is all so surreal,_ I think. _All so terrible and strange and terrifying - and very surreal._ I can't help but wonder why I'm even here, though of course I know the answer. Since the moment Pippa called my name back in District Twelve, all I've been able to do is stare wide-eyed and let myself get dragged around from place to place without completely acknowledging what's happening. This was never in my plans, and now I'm completely lost. Lost and naked and waiting for another strange new person I don't know to act like I won't probably die bloody and covered in mud as soon as they throw me in the arena.

I cough to dislodge the knot in my throat and lift my chin, staring at one of the mirrors head-on. No – I won't let myself act weak and pathetic. I am Parsley Calder, and a few lotions and powders will not be what breaks me.

I stare at my face in the mirror the rest of the time I'm alone as if I'm challenging myself. In the back of my mind, I notice that Phoenix wasn't entirely wrong – my eyes do seem brighter, but I don't think it's from the eyebrows.

Finally, a man walks in through the door, and I try not to let my discomfort shoot through the roof. Thankfully, he has my robe in his hands, but he doesn't give it to me right off the bat. He takes in every inch of me for a second, and I analyze him to take my mind off his searching eyes.

He's colorful, to say the least. His hair is a bright shade of blue and he has the makeup to match. I have to admit, he's not completely tasteless, though his fashion has all the flamboyance of the Capitol. His style is well put together enough to trick the eye into thinking it's something akin to elegant rather than utterly ridiculous. He doesn't look particularly happy to be here judging by the thin line of his lips and the disappointed sort of way he looks at me, but that's to be expected. New stylists, not to mention bad stylists, are always given District 12, and with a little more looking I recognize him as the stylist they brought in new last year – he had purple hair back then. He had put the tributes in formal attire – the girl in a black, floor-length gown and the boy in a sleek black tuxedo. They looked lovely, I remember, but there was much talk by the commentators about how it didn't "capture the essence" of the District. District Twelve is coal and dust to them – that's all it is, and it's all they care to see, even if they wouldn't say as much back then. Honestly, I don't much mind if the commentators disapprove of his choices again this year - I just hope he has a good brain under that blue hair.

After a moment, he tosses me the robe and I pull it on quickly.

"I'm Tobias," he drawls in his Capitol accent, "Your stylist. And what I need to do now, is figure out how to make coal look even moderately attractive for the parade tonight."

I stay silent. I get the feeling that he doesn't want me to respond.

"My partner Alphiba is your District partner's stylist. We can't very well have you dress up in some cliché coal miners outfit if you want any sponsors, but it's come to my attention that actually making you look _good _is just as undesirable. To be completely honest, I'd have you go naked, but you're much too thin and they did that already two years ago without much success."

I breathe a sigh of relief. I remember those Games, and District Twelve was the laughing stock of the parade, even more so than usual. The girl desperately tried to cover herself, and when the carriage veered slightly and hit a slight bump in the road too convenient not to have been planned, the boy tumbled into her, landing right on top of her. She was crying the rest of the carriage ride as the rest of the parade jeered and laughed, like their little monkey had just done something funny. She died in the bloodbath that year, and the boy only made it to the second day. Neither of them had gotten any sponsors.

"So we're going to take it up a notch. Only slightly," he says, and I'm suddenly worried again.

A while later (I find trying to keep time only makes it feel longer), I'm hardly what you'd call _dressed_. Thick black strips of fabric with silver swirls have been temporarily glued all over my skin to weave and circle around me like smoke, covering me in the necessary places, if only barely, and my breasts have been made to appear larger with padding and cloth, all hidden artfully by the black strip that covers them. As they wrap down my arms and legs, the fabric falls from my skin in thin strips, graying at the tips. The rest of my body has been covered in a black powder, and I have to admit that as skimpy as the outfit is, Tobias has carefully selected the design of the outfit to cover all obvious signs of my emaciation. My bony shoulders, my countable ribs, my knobby elbows - anything that looks skeletal even from a distance is masterfully hidden.

My makeup comes next. Black circles trace my eyes in a thin ring, and my Seam eyes jump out from the darkness. Tobias rubs my hair through with some kind of oil to make it shine a jet black, and he carefully places it around my shoulders in waves, making sure that the one strip of fabric wrapped around my forehead is still visible.

I feel very naked, and not very intimidating. Personal epiphany or not, I'd rather remain clothed in front of the cameras. But my prep team seems pleased, and Tobias nods his approval, so I suppose I must look alright. We make our way down to the chariots to meet with Abel and Alphiba.

Abel is dressed in a similar fashion, though his outfit requires less full-body coverage than mine. He, for one, didn't need to cover his chest, nor does he need to hide signs of hunger, as he has very little to cover himself besides the cloth wrapped around his lower half. It appears his light brown locks didn't seem to match the outfit, and so his hair is temporarily black for the Opening Ceremonies.

He gives me a small smile and strikes something akin to a seductive pose. "So, how many sponsors do you think we'll get for this?"

I think it's the first time I've really laughed since the Reaping day. "Loads, let's hope," I reply with a smile.

Tobias and Alphiba usher us onto the chariot. "We're going for mysterious with your costumes," Alphiba says in her tilting Capitol accent. "Garrick said to tell you he wants you to act just like you did on the train."

"But I just smiled. What did you do on the train? Tap dance?" Abel asks me.

I shrug. "I just smiled. One of the people on the street looked around the same age as Matthew. I pretended it was him."

Abel lets out a "huh" of acknowledgement but says no more, so I turn to my thoughts.

Sure, that's what I did, but how was that mysterious? I could get how Abel's polite wave and small smile may seem mysterious…but me?

I don't have time to ask before the opening music plays, the massive doors slide open, and the District One chariot takes off. Abel finds my hand and squeezes, holding on until the moment our chariot takes off, where he frees his hands to wave.

When we enter the city, the sound is so deafening that I have to stop myself from covering my ears. I wave to the crowd, trying to figure out what mystery means to Garrick. What does he want?

I watch Abel, and see that he knows exactly what to do. He's smiling at individuals and then at the general crowd, waving to them as if they're old friends. He's a star. The audience responds well, and District Twelve actually gets some recognition thanks to him.

Abel senses my struggle and pulls me to his side. The sudden movement catches me off guard, but I manage to stay afoot as if I had simply walked up to him. Abel smiles as some people cheer for us, and whispers in my ear, "Like the train. There are kids here. Like Matthew. Make them happy to see you."

The crowd of neon hairpieces loves the fact that he's whispering to me, and Abel smiles boyishly as he pulls away - like he's told me some grand secret. I think of Matthew and of the little boy I'd seen smiling from the train, and I try to wave and smile the same way I had then. Genuinely. Slightly teary-eyed, perhaps, but that was more pathetic than mysterious.

Is that what Garrick wanted? For me to be genuine? Abel, of course, has no problems with that (or at least appearing to be), blowing kisses into the crowd and smiling at everyone as if he's so grateful that they're there. He seems so honest in everything he does; I wonder if he doesn't really think that this is a blessing – that_ this_ is what Pippa means when she tells us "may the odds be forever in your favor".

I follow his example and smile at everyone with a sort of reserved admiration, waving kindly and finding specific people, especially children, to point out and wave to.

The ride takes about twenty minutes before we reach our destination: The City Circle. We come to a halt outside the President's mansion, and he greets us from his balcony.

The President has always scared me somewhat, with his bleach-white hair and calculating eyes, but I force myself to smile at him through clenched teeth because I know the cameras are taking turns filming short snippets of each of the chariots as the tributes listen to his welcoming speech. I don't think I've ever listened to the speech the whole way through, and I don't plan on starting now. I just focus my eyes on a spot behind President Snow's shoulder and grin at it until it's over.

When he's through, the anthem plays, booming and heroic-sounding as if we're off to save the world, and we parade around the circle once more before the chariots exit into the Training Center one by one.

When the sound of cheers and excited screams are snuffed out by the heavy door, I take a deep breath in relief. The festivities will continue on into the night for the cheering crowd outside, but our involvement is over.

At least for now.

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**_Next Time, Parsley and Abel settle into the training center - including a little talk on the roof. _**


	5. Late Night Chats

_**A/N: Okay, a little bit shorter of a chapter. We're getting to the end of what I've got (one or two more chapters), so after that I'm just going to let these hang here unless people suddenly express interest. So yeah. **_

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The Training center is far too extravagant for my tastes.

The Capitol's love for unnecessary gadgets and gizmos has always been a topic I never quite understood, never more so than now. Of course, it is neat that the elevator shoots upwards like a rocket and that I can choose my clothes with a keypad, but I can't help but feel nauseous after the elevator and I can easily pick out my clothes without a remote. This life of luxury seems only to me a life of unnecessary simpleness under the pretense of something more. The only invention I don't mind are the showers. I spend the time before dinner awkwardly sitting on the edge of the gigantic bed and staring at the confusing technology that surrounds me. For once, I'm relieved when Pippa's bird-like voice calls me from my room.

Abel seems to disagree with my distaste for the Capitol trinkets. He spends the majority of dinner gushing about all of the things he can do in his room, his eyes bright and his smile childish. He asks a few times if I can do the same thing, but I just shrug my shoulders and tell him honestly that I don't really care, taking long draws from my soup all the while. Garrick laughs at Abel's disheartened look and Pippa coos at him, chiding me as if I were a small child ("You really should appreciate all the Capitol has done in preparation for your arrival," she gushed at one point, "Only the best and brightest for our tributes!" To which I simply replied, "A noose of silk is still a noose." She doesn't much care to speak with me after that.). She assures him that the Capitol has many other interesting baubles and spends the rest of dinner describing them and their functions to Abel with excitement. Garrick chimes in a few times with snaky remarks that make me smirk, but he drinks a glass of some kind of fruity alcoholic beverage and falls asleep before we've left the table.

"He's so dull, one glass is enough to crash him," Pippa sighs disappointedly as if he's done something wrong. "It's a depressant, you know, it relaxes you! Try some!"

Abel and I hesitantly try the odd concoction, my eyes on my mentor's sleeping face that still somehow manages to look disturbed, but the fruity flavor sticks on my tongue like syrup and the alcohol burns down my throat. I cough into my sleeve and set down the glass with aversion. Abel does too, but upon trying another sip tells me it's not so bad once you get used to the burn. I shake my head - what's the point - and hand him my glass. He drinks them both, and Pippa drinks almost five. By the end of it, Abel and Pippa are laughing at nothing and discussing their prospects for pulling a prank on Garrick as he sleeps. For my own part, I sip quietly at my own water.

"There's some steps over there," Abel says suddenly, pointing in a rather general direction. "Where do they go?"

"The roof," Pippa breezily replies.

"Are we allowed up?"

"Sure it's alright," Pippa says with a wave of her gloved hand, seeming lenient after a few glasses of the fruity liquid, "Go on, go on!"

Abel stands and looks to me expectantly. I shake my head, scrunching up my nose.

"I don't like heights," I tell him.

"Oh hush, you just don't like the Capitol," he replies. I shrug - he's not wrong. But I _also_ don't like heights.

"Either way, I don't want to go."

"Then what are you going to do, stare at the wall all night playing with that old knife Garrick gave you?" Abel asks, seeming slightly dizzy as he grasps my wrist and pulls me along with him. I hear Pippa giggle as I'm dragged away, ignoring my protests in her drunken fog.

"That's exactly what I was planning to do, as a matter of fact - I've been getting better at it but I should keep working -" I'm still speaking when he throws the door to the roof open and I'm assaulted with a breeze that coaxes my hair in front of my eyes.

Abel laughs again. I don't know what's funny, but I think he's a bit buzzed from the alcohol. Lumbering over to the edge of the roof, he leans against the railing and looks down on the Capitol.

I can still hear the sirens and the music blaring from below, and as I join Abel near the rail I can see little, brightly colored figures, dancing and singing and enjoying the festivities. What exactly are they celebrating? Even for these people, seeing some people you want to watch die ride by in costumes can't be cause for such a party. I shake my head - I should stop trying to figure them out.

"I wonder what it would be like," Abel says suddenly.

"What what would be like?" I ask him, my eyes still fixed on the moving figures.

"Being one of them. Wearing those clothes, living in the city. Don't you ever wonder how they feel, how they think? I do, sometimes." His voice is in a faraway place, and I wonder if he even knows I'm here.

"I don't," I tell him. "I can't even begin to imagine what must go through their heads. Children our age are down there celebrating. And the parents of those children, too. How they can sit there and not even realize…how their brains work is a complete mystery to me. I don't even want to know, if they're sadistic enough to cheer for our deaths."

That's not entirely true. I want to know - I want nothing more than to understand. They don't see this as compensation for past misdeeds - that's how they play it to us, but to these people, it's a show. This isn't some grim and serious massacre for the good of the public, even if that's all President Snow would have us think. Could I ever rejoice in the death of children? Could I ever look so far down on someone else to take genuine enjoyment in their demise? Looking down at these creatures now, I realize I couldn't even do it for them. Even now, I couldn't watch that boy I saw while we were on the train, the one with the bright smile and neon hair, and cheer to watch him paraded around like a pig for the slaughter. The thought makes me feel sick. I couldn't even do it for them. The monsters.

"But are they?" Abel asks, and for a moment I think he somehow heard my thoughts before I remember my last comment. I give him a confused look - yes, of course they are, sadists and monsters both - and he looks strait into my eyes. "I can't tell. What is it…what is it that makes them cheer? Is it the losers or the winner? The game or the glory? Why do they get so excited about this event, like it's the Olympics or something?"

So he is thinking the same thing after all, I think, but at the mention of the "Olympics" all I can say is: "What?"

"That event, a long time ago, way before the Dark Days, don't you remember from school? A bunch of athletes would compete in it from all the different countries. Everyone, around the world, would get so excited about it. It was…like a big test to see which country was the greatest."

"Did people die?"

"Well…no, I don't think so."

I'm angered by this comment, and before I can stop myself I've snapped. "Then it's not the same, Abel. Hardly! There's no _glory_ in killing other kids. There's no _excitement_ to that. Just fear, and pain, and suffering. This is nothing like your ancient Olympics. You're not trying to win, you're trying to _survive_, whether or not they're one in the same." He just looks out at the celebration below, silent. I gawk at him, exasperated. "Damn it, Abel, are you even scared at all?"

That isn't the right thing to say. I know that, but I do it anyway. I'm fed up with his happy attitude and his reassuring gestures. I'm tired of him being so okay with this, and I'm jealous of it, too. Why should he be able to breeze by and leave me to think about just how miserable this all is? Abel immediately turns his head to stare at me.

"You think I'm not scared?" he bursts. I only blink, surprised. "You think I like knowing that if I die, which is more likely than not, I'll never see my family again, my friends? That I'm fine with never getting married, having kids, growing old? That's all I've ever wanted - a normal, happy life in District Twelve. I never even got to work in the _mines_, Parsley. I never even had the chance to _contribute _to anything." His voice starts breaking, though I can't tell if it's from anger or sadness. He looks down and I think he's done for a second, his knuckles white as he clutches the railing, but then he comes barreling back with more. "And do you think for one second that I don't hate knowing that if I live, you don't?"

I'm utterly shocked by this, but don't say anything. My tongue is glued to the roof of my mouth and my lips are sealed shut. I don't know if I could talk even if I wanted to.

"No matter way we look at this, both of us aren't making it out of this. And if I'm honest, I've thought about it - weighed the pros and cons of who between us should win if it came down to it. You'll never see your brother again, Parsley, and then Matthew will have no one! You have no idea how guilty I'd feel if I came back, yet if I have the choice, I want to live. And it's not just you, it's everyone! Each and every one of us has a life, and in a matter of days twenty three of them will just end, and no one even knows - no one down there knows - what we're leaving behind! And I've been trying so hard all this time to put all of that in the back of my head and think about the good food, the fancy toys, the glamour of the here and now so that I don't have to think of what comes after, but it's so hard, Parsley, and I honestly don't know how much longer I can keep it up! So don't you dare say I'm not scared. Because I'm so far beyond scared. I'm terrified. I don't want to do this. I don't want to."

By the end of his speech, I am floored by how much he sounds like Matthew. A small child, begging for something I can't give him. I realize, with a crushing weight, that I'm helpless once again. The only thing I can do for my brother, the only thing I've ever been good for, is wrap my arms around him and let him cry. And so I do the same for Abel.

It is well into the night that we retreat from the roof, exhausted. Abel calms his tears soon after they begin, leaving us in a long yet not uncomfortable silence we soak in for hours, the only sound being Abel's occasional sniffs as he composes himself. When the crowd below has almost quieted, Abel's shoulders shake with something else. Laughter.

"Never let me get near Capitol wine again, okay?" he comments, giving my hand a familiar squeeze. I nod silently, granting him a hesitant smile, if only to appease him.

* * *

**_Next Chapter, Training begins - Including a not-so-pleasant run-in between Parsley and District 1's male tribute, and a possible threat to Abel's health - especially his man parts. _**


End file.

Hunger Games, Drama, Family