{ tenuousness || brig + leon

She read in a book once that grief follows five:

1. Denial. That Roger would be overcome by Justice Fray. That the things happening on the screen were happening. That somewhere in the world, the bloody, bearded mess broadcast across the nation was indeed her brother. That he'd only be coming home in a wooden box. Or four, maybe. Sourcing smaller boxes may be impractical, but shipping them was logistically preferable. It's a matter of degrees, and Brig isn't sure which will win out. She'll see, she supposes. If any of this is real.

2. Anger. That Roger would volunteer in the first place. That he wouldn't try a little fucking harder from the outset. That the name Krigel kept him pinned between the immovable object of the sympathetic deadweight younger cousin and the insatiable force that would be the victor's favor. That at every turn, Strangways-Teach the older was damned if he did and damned if he didn't. That there was something at play that was bigger than either tribute.

3. Bargaining. But there is no god.

4. Depression. This useless weight in her chest, on her back, that she can't seem to shed, no matter how she tries to rationalize it away. The dull throb that keeps her out of the house and out of the training center. She mills around the docks, counting ships and sails and cargo, entirely unable to keep her mind busy to her satisfaction with any of her usual focal points.

5. Acceptance. That nothing would ever be quite the same. And that that was supposed to be okay somehow.

She can count the stages over and over and over on her fingers in every permutation until she finds one that pleases her, but nothing thumb-to-pinky satisfies Brigadier Strangways-Teach more than one balled fist.

Fuck five. Grief follows one.

One knotted, twisted, complete clusterfuck of something gut-clenching, blood-boiling, head-exploding. It is an avalanche of everything, and all at once. She can't peel the layers apart. She can't name them. Can't count them, can't sort them, can't dissect them. All that Brig can do is feel it. To feel everything, all at once. The avalanche.

The weight of it is too much to scream, to yell, to breathe.

When she has to, she can shoulder it – for a time.

It's worse because she's clever — she may not be able to figure out everyone around her, but Brig has always been the first and foremost expert on Roger. And even though he dodged the question when she stopped by to see him off, she knows exactly why he volunteered.

Two years ago, she made a remark about Beretta Corléon — how replacing a victor's sibling would earn her a world of good fortune. And how the right tribute could sail that tide of favor straight to victory. Brig had forgotten she'd said so. But because he's her brother, and because he's stupid and thoughtful and always looking out for her, Roger never did.

Looked. Always looked out for her.

The worst part of it all is that he'd been right: Brig had started computing her chances the moment the district escort said Krigel.

The funny thing about it — the funny, horrible, heart-rending thing about it — was her mental math wasn't wrong. With her brother in the Games, it was the first time she had a point of reference for how she'd do. There was no doubt in her mind about it: Brigadier Strangways-Teach would have won.

But by her calculations, Roger should have won, too. It didn't add up. Something she didn't account for — something she didn't think she had to account for — had altered the outcome, and she couldn't put the numbers back together in her head until she had answers. She doesn't want to ask for them. But until the operative data point is accounted for, every odd in her odd head is entirely useless.

Brig needs to find out. She just can't unknot her stomach at the mere idea of needing something from someone named Krigel.

She stalks past the Victor's Village every day for a full week before the pressure built up behind her forehead lessened to the point that Brig is more than half certain she won't pop District Four's only victor of the last two decades square in the face the second he opens the door.

Forty percent chance of failure was still a better shot than Leon had given his tributes.

Roger could've won. Should've.

The door doesn't intimidate her. The victor doesn't intimidate her. But it's still eleven deep breaths before she can force herself to knock. Her fist stays clenched for the long ninety-three seconds it takes for a face to appear in the doorframe. She shoves it into her pocket as a precaution, and her left as well. Arms straight, shoulders rolled inward to hold position, Brig is at Leon's throat no-holds-bared otherwise.

[attr="id","bSpeech"]"What the fuck happened, Leon Krigel?" She had something calmer rehearsed, but — predictably — those words have failed her, have been superseded by something raw summoned right out of the void.

Too many thoughts try to force their way out of her throat. She flusters. Her teeth trip her tongue, and her face contorts in angry confusion as every word warps: [attr="id","bSpeech"]"There's — there's something — those mutts — and their legs — definitely they were singled out, had to be political, and..."

A hand reaches out of her pocket — to find Brig's face, not Leon's. She buries her face behind her palm, squeezes her eyes shut, as if this is the secret to gathering her thoughts. (It does help to have no faces to focus on.)

[attr="id","bSpeech"]"Why was District Four a target?" Even as her frustration with her own damn mouth grows, the anger does not abate. [attr="id","bSpeech"]"What did you do?"