60th Reaping [D1]

The morning of the Reaping begins much like it has for the past six years. Riley’s alarm goes off at 5:30, the harsh screech pulling him out of a haze of nightmares and tangled sheets that cling stubbornly around his legs and refuse to let him leave the mattress – okay, so maybe he goes back to sleep by accident, he’s only been getting about three hours a night between Fenn and the twins and the nightmares and trying to keep his grades afloat – for another ten minutes until the snooze button uses up its allotted time and the clock wails in his ear yet again. He hears Avon stirring through the wall in the next room, probably already up and ready to go for a run before they set about getting the rest of the family ready. If it weren’t for the anxiety sitting heavy on his shoulders and clouding his mind, Riley might find solace in the normalcy of it all, but as it is, he can’t shake the feeling of impending doom that settles in the pit of his stomach as he pulls the freshly-pressed suit out of his closet and pads quietly down the hall for his shower.

Reaping days are never pleasant, but the eldest Lightwood has a really bad feeling about this one.

He sees Avon setting off down the driveway at a brisk jog through the big window in the entrance hall when he emerges from the bathroom fumbling clumsily with his tie, spindly fingers all tangled up in a knot he’s never quite mastered. Huffing in exasperation, he throws the convoluted mess of silk over his shoulder as he shuffles into the kitchen and gets breakfast started. He’ll get Antoinette to fix the stupid thing for him when he gets her out of bed. Breakfast is a simple fare this morning, just pancakes and bacon, something that Riley can make quickly and the others can bolt down before they realize they’re too nervous to eat, but for some reason his hands are shaking and his hold on the spatula isn’t what it should be, resulting in pancakes that aren’t the prettiest he’s ever made by a long shot and bacon that’s more on the burnt side of crispy. Pursing his lips, the guitarist shakes his head, shower-damp curls clinging to his forehead as a result of the action that he doesn’t bother brushing back into place.

Get it together, Lightwood. The others can’t see you like this. Keep your cool, for Ripred’s sake.

But it’s so hard to maintain his composure when he doesn’t have any in the first place; and this morning the front of superficial calmness and control is so hard to maintain that he barely manages to plaster on a smile as Avon ducks through the back door, a thin sheen of sweat on her brow from the run. Riley stalls the nervous tremors of his hands by gripping the plate he extends in her direction a little too hard and praying that she doesn’t notice the white-knuckled grip. “Happy Hunger Games, sis. May the odds be ever in your favor.”

He can’t understand why the familiar words make something icy and terrifying shoot up his spine.

The two elder triplets don’t say much over the pancakes they barely pick at and the hot chocolate they take in measured sips, identical sets of amberdark eyes leveled on each other across the table and saying everything they can’t find the words for. Outside the sun peeks measurably over the horizon, painting the District One sky an eerie pinkish-red, and Riley swallows hard, gripping his knees so his hands don’t start trembling again. The pull of lean muscles tensing beneath the skin of his arms irritates the freshest of a million crimson tallies, stretches them until he hears a pained hiss that takes him a few moments to realize came from his own mouth, feels liquid warmth plastering the crisp linen of his sleeve to the scarred flesh. Swearing softly under his breath, he pushes his chair back and all but flies out of the kitchen, muttering something about getting syrup on his jacket as he ducks into the hall bathroom and locks the door behind him.

The face that stares back at him from the mirror is the picture of terrified trepidation, already pale skin drained to a deathly pallor and overlarge pools of liquid chocolate hiding whole worlds of an unspoken fear that haunts him every year on this day but has never been quite so malicious and strong as it is now. Riley doesn’t realize how heavy his breaths are, how ragged, until he hears them bouncing off the white marble that comprises the small room, forgets what he’s even doing here until thick, hot liquid rolls over his wrist and travels in a river of scarlet over the expanse of his palm. His breath stops then, a harsh, gasping intake as the sight of blood on his hands opens up the door to a whole other realm of horror and his fingers fumble frantically against the knobs of the sink, washing the budding fear away on a torrent of pink-tinged water that he watches swirl down the drain with almost morbid fascination. As soon as his hands are clean Riley hurriedly shrugs his jacket off to avoid the red stain that clearly marks the white of his shirtsleeve from seeping into the darker fabric that he hangs carefully on the doorknob before rolling up his sleeve with a wince to inspect the damage.

Only two of perhaps five or six fresh cuts have reopened but are still bleeding freely, staining the damp washcloth that Riley presses to the abused skin of his forearm, trying to focus on the sharp sting to quell the frantic spinning of his mind as he teeters dangerously on the edge of the endless dark that threatens to consume him. Avon calls for him from the kitchen in a concerned tone and he responds with a stumbled excuse about the syrup leaving a really tough stain. The mild pain brings clarity but it’s not enough, not enough, not enough why can’t I think why can’t I breathe make it stop, and Riley’s whole frame shudders as he lunges blindly for one of the drawers in the vanity, pulling up the contact paper lining the bottom to reveal the hidden gleam of shinybright metal and carefully pulling the razorblade out to wink at him in the harsh light as he perches carefully on the edge of the bathtub, holding the cool edge to a patch of skin already covered with raised white lines of scar tissue. Muscles move and tendons flex and the hard line of the blade presses downdowndown until agony blooms up his arm in an exquisite flame that makes the darkness pulling at his frayed edges retreat back to the fringes of his consciousness. Even though he’s still trembling as he slides the blade back into its hiding place and reaches for the washcloth and a roll of bandages, Riley sighs in relief at the returned (temporary) control over his mind even as the too-bright river of red paints his hand again.

No one’s ever accused him of being altogether sane.

His arm throbs uncomfortably under the bandages and the added weight of his jacket when he slides it back on, but the lanky Lightwood brother is thankful to have the quiet hum of discomfort to keep him grounded as he paints false composure back onto his elegant features as he flicks the light switch in the bathroom off and heads back to the kitchen only to find that Avon has already washed up their dishes and set the table for everyone else. From up the stairs he can hear the shower running and the soft strains of a gently lulling melody, and Riley almost smiles as he takes the steps two at a time and barges into Antoinette’s room to roll her out of bed. Even when he falters, Avon is there, statue-steady and picking up after the countless failures that line his limbs like marks on a calendar. He really doesn’t know how he’d manage without her.

Antoinette fixes his tie for him (and ties the knot a little too tight with a malicious grin and mutinous grumbles about getting her up at such an ungodly hour) before he pokes his head into Keela’s room to wake her up, finds Edana asleep in the rocker in the nursery with Siobhan curled against her after what must have been one of her two-in-the-morning fussy spells. He sends Aris to Antoinette to get his tie put on properly and helps Chyba with the cuff links of the child-sized suit that Riley realizes after a minute is actually one of his own hand-me-downs. After sending everyone downstairs for breakfast with assurances that he’ll be down in just a minute, Riley ducks quickly into Avon’s room, picking up her discarded running clothes from the floor and placing them in the laundry hamper before pulling her favorite dress and shoes from the closet, laying them carefully across the rumpled bedspread that he purses his lips over and tucks back into place. Payback for her doing the dishes for him.

That’s just how they work. Neither one is good with words, so they simply let one good turn earn another in a silent dance that never seems to end.

Breakfast is a grim affair at best and unbearable at worst, Chyba’s bottom lip trembling and tears welling in his eyes when Antoinette makes an offhanded comment about how having one of them shipped off to the Arena would at least mean one less person to get her up at the crack of dawn. Riley silences the youngest triplet with a level, admonishing look that she returns with a flaming glare of her own, elegant lips curling back over her teeth when the rest of her siblings fawn over Chyba, try to console him and get him to finish his pancakes. Antoinette throws her fork down with a musical clatter and storms out of the room. Riley sighs and feels the tremors start in his hands again.

Whoever said that we put the fun back in dysfunctional should walk a mile in my shoes.

They’re all preparing to walk out the door when Riley gasps and lunges for the stairs, long legs scaling the ascension quickly as he flies down the hall to his room. “I forgot my lucky pick!”

The guitar pick in question is marbled black and orange, the colors faded with age and use. Riley can still remember his father pressing the smooth plastic into his six-year-old hand with a quiet smile (okay, son, now you try it) and pride in his eyes; and the pick has remained a talisman since then, tucked into his pocket at every Reaping since his first, and not having it as his last seems too much like tempting fate to allow him to leave it behind. Tucking the thin sliver into his breast pocket, Riley feels a tiny bit of relief.

The walk to the district square is not a long one but seems like an eternity because of the heavy silence that hangs in the air as the Lightwoods make their progress through the streets, making a slight detour as Riley dashes up to Fenn’s door, slips his fingers between hers and pulls her into the thickening throng of people funneling into the center of the District. She looks at him with concern gleaming over black-brown eyes when she feels how violently his hand shakes within her own comparatively steady grip, but he shuts her silent question down with a soft shake of his head, a gentle squeeze of her hand that does a little bit to calm the tremors in his body but nothing to ease the dark creeping back in a haze over his mind. Whatever happens, Riley hopes it’s over quickly. He can only hold his composure for so long in this state.

What happens once the family reaches the square is a ritual that feels as old as time but in reality can’t be more than six years in its existence. Riley leads the younger ones to their respective age groups, Aris with the thirteens, Keela with the sixteens, Edana in the group next to his and Avon’s and Nette’s, leaving each one with a hug and a quick kiss on the forehead. Chyba clings to Avon’s skirt with wide, frightened eyes, but Riley wants to kick himself for not taking the time to comfort him as they pass the sixteens and he sees the sunshine smoulder of Bridgit’s eyes gleaming at him from within the crowd, turns around to say something, anything (I’m so sorry. You deserve better than me. I miss you more than anything. I can’t breathe without you. I want to make this right.) to erase the quiet heartbreak in her gaze but only managing to mumble out a quiet “May the odds be ever in your favor,” before he turns on his heel and heads back to the eighteens with his sisters and Fenn.

The mayor takes the stage and Riley shakes more forcefully than he has all morning, that deep-seated terror so all-consuming that it lodges in his throat and steals his breath, coagulates in his veins and drills icy-cold into the marrow of his bones. He’s never been religious but he starts praying then, one hand in his pocket rubbing the pick like prayer beads and eyelids fluttering shut as he wraps his arms around Fenn, feels the gentle swell of her stomach against his own and murmurs a quiet mantra into the lilac-scented haven of her hair. “Please, please, please, let them be safe. Not Fenn, not Bridge, not Aris or Edana or Keela or Antoinette or-“

“Avon Lightwood!”

It takes a few moments to sink in. Riley’s eyes rise to meet hers across the few yards of space between them, the world shrinking down to the empty air between their blank stares and his heartbeat pounding like a kick drum in his ears. This can’t be happening. It can’t, because it’s Avon and a few hours ago they were drinking hot chocolate and talking about the weather and she can’t be going into the Arena because… because she… she…

For the first time in four years, Riley gives himself over to the dark.

The only reason he’s aware of crumpling to the ground is because of the pain that shoots up from where the concrete drags across his palms, bringing a spike of clarity he doesn’t want because right now real life is far more terrifying than even the warped recesses of his own mind. But in that moment of clarity he sees white helmets and Avon being lead away from him (forever), and looking back, he’ll realize that that’s what made him completely lose it. The sound that rips its way out of his throat is something so visceral and full of agony that Riley could have never imagined a human being, much less himself producing it, lanky limbs flailing as he clambers back to his feet and lunges for the stage only to be held back by innumerable pairs of unyielding hands.

“No! No! AVON!” He doesn’t notice the clawing rasp of nails against his skin that try to hold him back, doesn’t notice how every cut from the past week tears open and stains his jacket sleeves beyond repair, doesn’t notice the echoed shouts of his siblings as they, too, cry out for their sister who has been so cruelly and quickly ripped from their side. All Riley is aware of is the raw screams of Avon, Avon, Avon rending his throat until it’s raw, the strain of his own damnable lack of strength against grasping hands that won’t let him move. Logic is a thing of the past and all he knows for sure in this world that has fallen down around is feet is that he has to get to that stage, get to his sister, and somehow everything will be all right.

Somewhere the male tribute's name is called, Peacekeepers pull a boy Riley knows from somewhere but can't identify from the audience, and something in the frantic rushing of his mind whispers a nubile hope to the fractured remnants of his sanity. He's already broken his final promise to his father a million times over, failed to keep his family safe despite his best effort and a selflessness that will one day turn against and consume him, and this is just another time that will haunt his mind and dreams and skin for the rest of his life, but if he could somehow get into the Arena with Avon... Riley knows in the very core of who he is that he'd throw his life away for hers in an instant. And he'd take dying protecting the one person who's always been there for him over sitting and watching his sister being murdered any day.

Maybe it's flawed logic, but he's flawed in more ways than one.

“I… I volunteer! I volunteer!” he tries to shout above the clamor but it only comes out as a weak croak from his wrecked vocal cords as the male tribute ascends to the stage and takes his place. The anthem plays as a funeral dirge from a million miles away, almost as if he’s hearing it from underwater, and Riley comes to a grim realization as he keeps screaming even after his voice fails him entirely.

The careful house of cards life he built for his siblings has finally crumbled, and nothing will ever be okay again.

How can I take care of everyone if one third of me is missing?