Simply Surviving // [D9 Training Center]

Colgate O’Leary doesn’t have the heart to give a shit anymore.

He steels his lip at the Reaping, holding his chin up and standing morosely next to his parents. They look less haggard, almost twenty years on from his victory and well-fed, but on Reaping days he knows they feel the memories in their bones. Something like that doesn’t exactly leave you.

But for Colgate, it has. The memories are there, of course, but he’s gone through so many drinks and cigarettes and naps that everything’s permanently numb. It’s better this way.

The memories can’t hurt him anymore. Not memories of the Games, of Siren, of the dozens of tributes who have lost their lives under his care. Not of Cordelia, who he pushed away. Not Hannah, who deserved better than she got. Would she still be alive if he hadn’t volunteered?

Unfortunately, he’s too numb to care about the answer.

It’s better this way. He knows it as he stands beside his parents at the Reaping. He knows it when the names are called and his mother gives him a comforting pat on the shoulder. He knows it as he waits in the Justice Building for the tributes to say their farewells, then as he boards the train.

He doesn’t talk to the tributes on the way to the Capitol. If they notice him and try to speak, he shakes his head and retreats back to his quarters. There he more-or-less naps fitfully, until he finally gives in and downs three or four shots of something strong to make himself stay asleep. It works, and he uses the same strategy until they arrive at the Capitol. He procrastinates on his duties as mentor, instead letting the tributes flounder through snacks and awkwardness until he can’t physically avoid them anymore.

It’s that first night, just before dinner. He’s less numb than before, probably because he hadn’t been able to nap any longer and didn’t want to give himself a headache by downing more booze. He waits impatiently by the dinner table -- not for the tributes, but for the food to be served -- and peeks at a clipboard on a side table.

Pisces Gem and Kestrel Volant.

He doesn't recognize the names. But how could he? He doesn't fucking talk to anyone.

For a fleeting moment, he thinks of going to knock on their bedroom doors and calling them to dinner early to chat, but decides otherwise. Instead, he sits down at the table and waits.

He could really use a nap.