strangers like me || justice x poppy

When I finally make it home, I don't feel very at home. In fact, it's worse here than it was anywhere else. In other districts I'm no more important than a speck of dust, paraded around like a king no one respects. Here I have interviews and autograph sessions and dinner parties and photo shoots—I feel like a puppet being strangled by his own strings.

More than anything I'd love to just crawl into my brand new king bed and sleep for a week. Exhaustion was crippling me before I even started this victory tour. Now the only thing keeping me awake is the occasional child prodding at my prosthetic and incessant waving of posters in my face. As if I hadn't been through enough bullshit already today, having to offer my condolences to a family whose district was rejoicing instead of mourning. I offered to visit her grave, but my escort said I had better things to do.

Apparently styling my hair so that the crown doesn't squish it flat is more important than a funeral.

I'd spent the last few days in the arena telling myself I'd be a new person when I got back here. I promised myself I'd be different, be the person I always wanted to be. Instead I managed to drink myself to sleep with a different girl in my bed nearly every single night. Same old shit from the same old guy.

I'm such a fucking liar.

Sweat rolls down my spine as the sun hits its peak in the sky. My head aches, pain shooting through my temples with every beat of my heart. I wince as another screeching teenager shoves a pen and paper in my face. And it reminds me so much of the mutts in the arena that I--

I grip the pen in my hand like a knife and close my eyes, grinding my teeth in frustration. It takes me a moment before I can compose myself. My escort places a hand on my shoulder and I shrug her off angrily, swishing the pen in a mess of scribbles that look nothing like my name and hand it back to her. It takes every bit of my self-control I possess not to leap across the table and choke her out.

'Fans.'

They praise me for killing off the Careers of District 4 like that's actually some great accomplishment. They slap me on the back because my total kill count exceeded that of Opal, Peridot, and Topaz. And they eagerly ask for my autograph because—'Someday I wanna be a victor just like you!' They're proud of everything I hate about myself, of everything I wish I could forget.

And so it doesn't matter that her voice is polite or that she's really pretty or that she's got a stuffed animal in her hand that makes her look something beyond innocent. All the shoving, pushing, poking, prodding, squealing, signing, smiling, pretending—I am so fucking done.

"Listen, princess, there's a whole fucking line you missed," I say, as I stand to tower over her.

My voice is riddled with irritation and hostility, and I can actually feel my prep team cringing and gasping behind me. My hand shoots out over her shoulder, gesturing at the snaking line of people holding papers, posters, and shirts behind her.

"Why don't you try standing in it?"

And I know. I know that this should be the point when I've finished yelling, finished ranting, blown off enough steam that I can continue until the end of the day in relative peace. But it's like I've got Iris hissing endlessly in my ear—'All you are is a fucking career!'—and I can't fight it any longer. I'm exactly what she told me I was because no one has yet to tell me otherwise. Everyone who had told me different? Yeah, there fucking dead. And I don't hear them in my head.

"Actually, do us all a favor and just go home," I snap, glancing at the stuffed rabbit in her hand.  "And tell your brother Victors don't play with baby toys."

And tell him that monsters don't have names; they can't sign autographs.

If I didn’t have such a soft spot for kids with dreams, I wouldn’t have regretted a single word. But clearly I broke someone's expectations of me—and not in the way I had promised myself I would. However, I've got no qualms about snapping this twig bitch in front of me in half. It'd be so fucking easy, snapping her spine like a toothpick.

"I am nobody's princess."

I'm not above hitting a girl. And according to the bloody crown on my head and throne made of shattered bones that I sit upon I'm not above murdering them either.

"Least of all yours."

I feel like a fucking child. A child deserving of a swift kick in the ass and a good scolding, but also a child too damn proud to admit his wrongs. I'm tired. My head is spinning and I'm feeling guilty because I can see the little boy over her shoulder with head slung low, the disappointment obvious in the slump of his shoulders. I used to look exactly like that kid, bouncing excitedly from toe to toe in the hopes that maybe one day I might be like Peridot Myler.

I remember looking up at my big brothers with an expectant look and an innocent blink of the eye. ("Did I do it right?") I don't remember a single time they ever told me I was good enough. Not that any of this is what I really wanted. But what I did want was someone to look up to, someone to look down on me and reassure me—('Don't worry kid. Someday you'll be the hero.') I should've been someone different, someone better. But everyone here has an ego that keeps their noses in the air. No one ever looked down.

Her finger jams into my chest and my memories fade. I remember the way Opal's eyes looked when I had brought up Potato that first day on the train. I remember the hiss of her voice and the sincerity of her threat. I remember losing that battle. And I suppose I'll lose this one, too.

"I don't care if the entire goddamn world shit in your cereal, you're not going to sit here and scare me into silence."

I smile because I don't know what else to do. I look away from her because I've never been a brave man and I don't want to see the fire in her eyes. And I snigger because I wish that the world had shit in my cereal because that's a nicer alternative to what it actually did to me. Plus, I mean—the idea of it is fucking hilarious. I'm not too prideful to admit it.

"Because I'm not scared of you, Fray. I don't idolize you and I don't think you're some kind of murderous monster come to ruin the world."

So I guess I'm over it. Still tired, still in need of a drink, and still sweating to death—but over it. And even though her voice is stern and fiery, the words really aren't.

("Your name isn't Fray, Justice.")

And in that moment it's like Scout is there in front of me. Blood, sweat, dirt, tears—Help me.—it's all happening in the blink of an eye. I can see her decaying in front of me, shriveling into nothing as her hand reaches for me...—Fuck.

I grab her wrist and to keep her from falling.

Except she isn't falling, I don't know her name, and she isn't smiling at me. This is my reality now. And it doesn't include Scout Krigel or anyone else who used to believe in me. Just a crestfallen little boy and an older sister who glares at me with eyes like bullets, ready to pierce my soul.

"So do us all a favor and stop throwing a fucking temper tantrum."

Except maybe it's less like bullets. It's more like staring into the barrel of a shotgun. It's a threat—that much is clear—but is the gun really loaded? Are there bullets meant to kill me hidden behind those eyes? Or is it all just a threat meant to soothe me, ease my mind, filter the rage out of my veins and replace it with common sense?

Because I'm not angry anymore. And I haven't heard the click of a trigger.

"Or sign the goddamn bunny because toddlers do play with baby toys."

I drop her wrist from my grip and take a step back, blinking away memories and shaking the demons from my head.

"Sorry."

I avert my eyes from her gaze to the rabbit hidden inside her jacket. I see a foot, an ear poking free. Right. So, I'm being ridiculous. I know he's a child and I'm supposed to be—an adult? A victor? A role model? I look over her head at the crowd of people that is being shoved away by my Capitol crew.

Didn't any of them watch? Didn't any of them see? There was an entire Games to show them that I'm nothing more than a little boy with a big, impossible dream and a broken, tattered soul. The boy playing with stuffed animals is a bigger man than I will ever be.

"He doesn't want my signature," I say in something just above a whisper, shaking my head. I grin looking at the boy in the distance, still on his way home.

"Look at him," I say, a sudden rush of guilt washing over me as my eyes catch on him. And I mean to say—(I don't want him turning out like me. Better to break his dreams early.)—but other words come out. Because I'm just a boy. I'm not big enough to do the right thing.

"Hey, kid!" I yell, my voice cracking rather obviously. "Want a tour of my mansion?"

I'm pretty sure there is an obvious twinkle in my eyes when I look back to the angry girl in front of me. Mostly I'm praying to every force of nature that she doesn't reach up and slap me. I smile a nervous smile at her, but I don't let my words falter.

"I suppose you're invited, too, sweetheart."

I raise an eyebrow at her only because I've never interacted with anyone without being a little shit.

"It's really just another opportunity to yell at me some more," I grin as I push past her. "Which clearly you have a lot of fun doing—"

"Princess."

If I were a stronger man, I would've told them to just go home. And if I were an invincible man, I would've ruined every single dream in this little boy's head before it was too late. I would've yelled louder, pushed harder, thrown my fists in the air and told them all just how awful it is to be a victor. But I've never been strong and though my prickly, hardened exterior seems indestructible, there are a thousand secret passages into my selfish, little heart.

So I'll show him the big, fancy mansion I live in. I'll let him wear my crown, hold my axe, and drink milk out of one of my fancy wine glasses. I'll keep the toxic dream alive just a bit longer. Because I am not strong enough to douse the aspirations whirling around in his head. I think I'll just let his sister take care of that later. Or the world. Whichever gets to him first.

The boy bounces behind me, eyes wide, with a toothy grin spreading from one ear to the other. I glance at him and smile, the earlier disdain and heartbreak wiped completely wiped away. Too eager to wait, he runs ahead of me, throwing an impatient glance over his shoulder a few times as he waits for me to catch up. I think if it weren't for his sister he'd have run all the way to my house by now.

"You're not special," she says, as I begin to follow. My leg clicks uncomfortably and I grimace as the circulation returns to my stump.

I laugh off the bit of pain and fix the limp in my step with a smile. Her words take on a tone much different from that of earlier, but both tones manage to make me grin. I raise an eyebrow in her direction—"Oh?"

"I yell at everyone because they're all fucking stupid."

I don't even bother holding back the laughter now. It comes so naturally it feels like it'd be a crime to hold it back. Ever since I got home it's been- "Smile for the camera!" and "Can I have your autograph?" It feels good to finally be able to talk like a real human being. To live free of the chains that the Capitol latches onto your wrists and ankles as soon as the crown touches your scalp.

I smile and turn to her, my lips already twisting to form a witty, flirtatious comment. But my eyes slip away from hers to the camera lurking over her shoulder. The response retreats, my eyes fall to the ground, and I can feel the genuineness in my smile fade. And just as I always do when Opal is the focus of attention, I step around her, moving so that I block her from the Capitol's ever watchful eye.

Who am I kidding?

Freedom is nothing more than an illusion.

When I look back to her she's looking me up and down—and not in the good undressing-me-with-her-eyes sort of way. More like--

"Or else they have secrets hidden beneath their bravado and I want to find them. Or both."

More like the who-are-you-for-real-though sort of way.

"You're the latter, I think. Princess."

I chuckle, shake my head, and roll my eyes. Because apparently giving a little boy the opportunity to take a peek inside a victor's mansion means letting his sister pick me apart like a vulture picks apart a corpse. Except the look in her eyes reminds me of the way someone looks at a jigsaw puzzle. They aren't destroying. They're merely looking to build, shifting around what's already there to create something beautiful.

The fact that she sees something other than a bunch of worthless, bitter, broken pieces makes me question her motives. No one is that good of a person.

"You know," I say with the beginnings of uncontrollable laughter at the corners of my lips. "If you're gonna drill my ass you could at least pull my hair. It's a common courtesy."

I continue before she can butt in.

"PLUS you haven't even introduced yourself properly," I say, feigning exasperation. "I only give secrets to the girls whose names I know."

I lean in close to whisper in her ear.

"My secrets work well as pillowtalk, too, if you're interested."

I pull away with a smirk, keeping my head forward and high, only taking the occassional glance in her direction. It's the same typical bullshit, the same conversation I've had with a thousand other people. It's what every girl wants to hear and it's what every guy wishes he could be.

Except this time there's someone on the receiving end who is willing to put the puzzle together.