ethan blaize brandt || district eight || fin

lance
Librarian

3,638 POSTS

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last seen Apr 18, 2024 16:39:20 GMT -5

gay and chaotic? call it gayos

ethan blaize brandt || district eight || fin Sept 2, 2016 0:25:58 GMT -5

Quote

Post by lance on Sept 2, 2016 0:25:58 GMT -5

because yanno, eveeryone needs a handful of sibtribs in their life

ethan blaize brandt
eighteen years old
male
district eight
lucky blue smith
even-tempered, thoughtful, cool and calculating, enigmatic, factory worker
half-brother to deceased tribute natalie brandt
lover of this cutie
#a5f2f3

Last Edit: Sept 11, 2016 17:49:35 GMT -5 by lance

credit to darsypoo uwu

credit to fireflyz!

credit to stare!

lance
Librarian

3,638 POSTS

Pronouns: He/Him/His
last seen Apr 18, 2024 16:39:20 GMT -5

gay and chaotic? call it gayos

ethan blaize brandt || district eight || fin Sept 3, 2016 18:06:22 GMT -5

Quote

Post by lance on Sept 3, 2016 18:06:22 GMT -5

You are a boy of three names.

Ethan, your given, the one you are - were - mostly known by. You are Ethan, the boy with a former prostitute for a mother and a lecherous drunk for a father. The boy who had the misfortune for weaving the white thread of Peacekeeper uniforms, the job where perfection was expected and anything else was a failure, for the Peacekeepers were the law, as they made a habit of reminding you, and they must look the part. The boy called Ethan the Enigma like Enigma Lane for your master poker face and quiet, mysterious demeanor.

Brandt, your surname, one of two things the man you never knew as father passed along to you, along with your white-blonde hair and sky blue eyes. Brandt, the surname no one cared about until Natalie Brandt, the half sibling you only barely knew you had, was selected as the latest lamb from your home for the Capitol to slaughter. Brandt, the only connection you had with the girl as she fought for five long days before getting her head caved in by a war hammer. Brandt, the name now heard in whispers wherever you go, giving voice to the fact that you had the blood of a tribute running through your veins, that even Ethan the Enigma had lost someone to the Games.

Blaize, your single middle name, given to you as a gift from your father as what he wished you to be named. Blaize, a compromise for your mother who had her own ideas for your name yet also wanted to honor the wishes of your father. Blaize, the name that few ask after and fewer know. Blaize, the name you are only known by to one, the one that matters more to you than any other in the District you call home. Blaize, the name whispered in moments of tender intimacy with him in the wee hours of the morning, as a sign of tranquility and peace.

You are a boy of three names, and yet behind the calls of Ethan and the whispers of Brandt and the murmurs of Blaize, lies the same singular boy just trying to live life one day at a time.

Growing up, your status as the child of a prostitute was one that cursed you to a rough life from the beginning.

Though the designation was former prostitute by the time you were born, that fact did little to erase the metaphorical stain that hung over your head, the knowledge of your mother instantly marking you as a child born out of wedlock.

It was a stain that earned you looks of disgust from the majority of adults in your home district, a stain that earned you the ire of many a playground bully, a stain that made itself known in the snow-white color of your hair and the six letter word that was legally your last name.

It was also a stain that you carried in ignorance for the first decade of your life.

Time after time, you listened in confusion as insults like "bastard" were hurled your way from the direction of your peers. You gazed back in wonder at the stares of disgust that more than one adult directed your way. And with each passing day, you grew more and more curious as to what, exactly, was the meaning of the world that others attempted to harm you with.

Finally, in a moment of youthful innocence and curiosity, you had asked your mother exactly what the word "bastard" meant.

You had seen the fear flash through her eyes, making you instantly regret the decision to ask. That fear had been followed quickly by worry, before settling into a heavy defeat.

You were ten years old when you learned the truth about your lineage.

Your mother explained that a bastard was a child born to a man and a woman that weren't married at the time of conception, one born out of passion rather than wedlock. You had asked naively why that was such a bad thing, and she had responded that society generally frowned upon those that had children outside of marriage. She further explained that it was such a sin in the eyes of society that the mother would garner a reputation of unfaithfulness, and the resulting child would be an abomination.

You had sat there wordlessly for a moment, absorbing what you had learned. Then, two and two were put together into four, and just like that, it clicked.

Suddenly, it all made sense. The glares in the classroom or on the street. The shoves in the hallway and the insults in the schoolyard. The disgruntled whispering of adults whenever you passed them.

There was a reason to all of that intolerance, all that hatred, all those names.

You weren't any ordinary kid.

You were an abomination.

Enlightened by your mother's revelation, you withdrew into yourself, adopting an introverted nature and cutting off much of your social interactions. You learned to deflect the names hurled at you, learned to ignore the judging stares and whispers sent your way from those who called themselves mature, learned to mask your emotions behind an expression of casual indifference.

At age fourteen, you decided to drop out of school and start working at one of the local factories full time. When your mother protested, you argued that the two of needed the extra income (which was true), and that school would take you nowhere anyway, not with the toxic environment that enveloped you whenever you went.

And besides, there was little that an education could get you in an outer district like Eight anyway, and she knew that.

Eventually, she relented, and shortly thereafter you landed a job at a factory that tailored Peacekeeper uniforms. It was not an easy job, especially in the beginning given your lack of knowledge when it came to sewing, but it brought in enough cash to sustain yourselves for a while.

The best part, however, was not the cash, but the environment. The factory was filled with people who had likewise fallen on hard luck, people who didn't give a shit about who's child you were or what your name was. The working conditions may have been tough, but the people who shared them with you were several steps above what you had experienced back at the school.

They became almost like a second family of sorts, men and women and boys and girls who all connected over hard times and white thread. It was there you picked up the nickname "Ethan the Enigma", a nickname that, for perhaps the first time ever, was given to you in affection instead of hatred. A nickname that ended up being the only one you never minded being called - after all, it did fit.

Despite the working conditions, despite the overbearing supervisors, you had taken to your job with much more gusto than you had ever taken to school. You learned that family was more than just blood, that it was who you ended up choosing, not your genetics.

You would find, however, that your co-workers would be far from the last people you would add to your own version of family.

You lie awake in the bed you've grown used to sharing, gazing absentmindedly at the sleeping form of the small dark haired boy you've grown to love and adore. Zac Fox is peaceful in slumber, at least for the moment, his face relaxed and serene.

You think back to how you first met, when one of your coworkers, one Mrs. Fox, had mentioned that she had a son about your age. How she had mentioned his night terrors, his constant fear of the living, to the point of being nearly crippling in nature. How she had appeared at work looking consistently more worn out stressed until finally you offered to watch over him for a couple of days, to ease her burden. She had looked at you skeptically, but you had assured her that between yourself and your mother that the younger Fox would be taken care of, and that she would have some time to rest and recuparate.

What you did not anticipate was becoming the boy's lifeline, his key to sanity, his lover.

And yet it had happened, and despite everything, you wouldn't have it any other way.

You smile slightly, before breaking your gaze from his sleeping form, mind wandering from the land of real life to the land of what-ifs and could-have-beens.

You wonder about Natalie, the sister you never knew you had, the girl who had gotten chosen for the Hunger Games and lost her life from them as a result. You wonder how she how she would fit in with your little family. Would you two have been close, like the twins that you work with? Would you have been like your mother, acknowledging that you had a sibling but never talking to or about them?

You wonder about your mother, and what life would have been like if she hadn't worked so damn hard to keep both you and herself alive when you were growing up, working for survival despite her past and her bleak situation. Would you have gotten adopted by some kind-hearted couple? Would you have become one of the many street urchins that lived off of the scraps of others to survive?

Would you even still be alive?

You are broken out of your philosophical daydream by the shifting of your lover. Your gaze returns to his form as he lets out a small moan of discomfort. Your name - the one reserved just for him - escapes from his lips in a whimper, confused and full of pain.

Having gone through the process many times before, you scooch your body over toward his, till skin comes into contact with skin, chest to back. One arm reaches over his body, finding his hand and interlacing with it.

Gradually, the smaller boy calms, settling back into your arms with a contented sigh, raising a small smile from you.

Your life has not been easy, that much is true.

But despite the hardships, the pain, the suffering, you wouldn't have it any other way.

Last Edit: Sept 11, 2016 17:49:07 GMT -5 by lance

credit to darsypoo uwu

credit to fireflyz!

credit to stare!

lance Librarian 3,638 POSTS Pronouns: He/Him/His last seen Apr 18, 2024 16:39:20 GMT -5 gay and chaotic? call it gayos	ethan blaize brandt \|\| district eight \|\| fin Sept 11, 2016 17:50:03 GMT -5 Quote Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by lance on Sept 11, 2016 17:50:03 GMT -5 this is trash tbh but he's done
	credit to darsypoo uwu credit to fireflyz! credit to stare!

ghosty
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ethan blaize brandt || district eight || fin Sept 11, 2016 18:31:03 GMT -5

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Post by ghosty on Sept 11, 2016 18:31:03 GMT -5

pfft you ever heard of one mans trash is another one's treasure cos istg this ain't trash fam <3 :hellmo:

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