Shattered Glass and Broken Beliefs [Hop/Jam]

Hopper’s face was igniting like fireworks. It was evident by the gaping jaw and glistening eyes that he was overwhelmed with joy at the sight of his brother reaching victory, and honestly, Jamarion hadn’t expected any different. Compared to the rest of them, Hopper was the one who maintained the closest relationships to Klaus. The two spent a lot of time together - almost too much time - even when they were younger, when Hopper would sit by his brother’s bedside and read him stories before tucking him in to bed. The two had been practically inseparable before the Reaping had torn them apart, like somebody ripping a piece of paper in half; they would still fit with each other when placed together, but separate, they were lost and worthless. One couldn’t live without the other, it seemed, because even Klaus had shouted for his brother during the Games before slaying his own ally. ”Hopper, I’m coming. I’m coming back.” It didn’t surprise him at all to see his brother mentioning Hopper at such a crucial moment in the Games - he was the emotional type, after all. The one who always expressed how he felt whether through tears or smiles. The complete opposite of Jamarion, who caged everything within himself as if selfishly bottling it up for others never to see or touch.

After illuminating the dim-lit room with his cheerful grin, Hopper finally spoke to him. ”Of course he did it. Did you ever doubt him?” Wasn’t it obvious from the start? Judging by his nonchalantly watching the television as if already aware of the outcome, or by his complete lack of faith or devotion, could Hopper not see that he had not predicted Klaus surviving the week-long torture? Did Hopper even understand who he was talking about? This was Klaus. Klaus, the one Jamarion kicked and punched because he was timid little nerd who couldn’t stand up for himself. The one who stuttered whenever he spoke, because socializing was just too difficult. Nobody could’ve predicted him even possessing the capability of wielding a weapon properly. It shocked Jamarion that he would even go as far as to kill a person with it. It still stunned him, even at this moment as he listened to his brother speak as if Klaus had been the obvious champion from the start. An invisible kid from three? Not champion material. Not even close. ”Of course he did it. He’s Klaus, he always had the ability to do it. He’d never let us down.”

Jamarion cleared his throat.

To his surprise, Hopper snapped at him in retort - something very few possessed the courage and foolishness to do. He defended their crowned brother by mentioning his intelligence, and of course rubbing it in that Jamarion has been outsmarted by him too many times to count. But what happened when Klaus bested him with his intellect and clever comebacks? Well, he received a fist to the face or a foot to the shin. So, really, who was the victor in those situations? The one who couldn’t stand up against intelligence that was out of his league, or the one who walked away with a limp or a bloody nose? In the Hunger Games, it was the one least damaged that left the arena alive, not the one who used his intelligence to get his ass kicked. Both intelligence and raw strength proved to be advantages in the Games, but sometimes, the strong ones didn’t win, and other times, neither did the clever ones. It wasn’t even these skills that followed tributes to victory; it was luck. Stark Harper had been highly trained and far more advanced than her killer, Fitz Ripley, yet he had managed to strike her down suffering only a wound to the gut. Luck and chance, that’s what determined the victor.

Then after rudely addressing his bullying, Hopper raised the question; ”Do you think you could’ve done any better?” To live with guilt branded in his heart and blood staining his hands? That was an easy question to answer. At least, that’s what his pride was telling him.

What started as a few comments and a small discussion had quickly escalated into a ferocious argument. As soon as Jamarion was on his feet - emphasizing his large, threatening form of course - Hopper copied his actions and stood boldly to face him, warning him that what was about to happen would not end painlessly. He snarled at him, insisting that he had no doubt Jamarion was capable of murder, and for some odd reason that struck him like a vicious blow to the stomach. Was he implying that murder would come easy to him? He had no idea how simple or complicated killing another human being would be, but of course when he imagined himself in the Games he pictured himself drawing the most blood. He had no doubt in his mind that he could do it and handle it, but when the way Hopper had spit it so bluntly at him secretly bothered him. Struggling to stifle his anger and keep his arms motionless, he grinded his teeth and squeezed his two fists until his knuckles turned white, listening to Hopper snarl at him confidently as if he could stand a chance against him.

”If you had been paying any attention at all you would have known that I was terrified.” This was not news. Jamarion knew all along that Klaus was the source of his tears and moping because if he died, Hopper would be lost. But the concept of fear completely whizzed past Jamarion’s skull like a breath of wind ruffling his hair. He considered himself fearless - unafraid of anything and everything that stood as obstacles in his path - and immune to the core as if fear was merely a disease people allowed themselves to catch. Hopper had been terrified. Klaus, surely, had been terrified. Marina, Lyana, and especially Tacara had been terrified. But not Jamarion. He will hesitantly admit he felt nerves jingling in his stomach when the gong had rang and the tributes had all bolted in one giant frenzy, but nothing in the form of terror or fear had even remotely tried to plague him. In the end, he would never relate to his cry-baby older brother, even if they did share Goravich blood.

A foolish influx of bravery was obviously swaying Hopper’s heart and mind to make the wrong choices. He took a courageous step toward Jamarion, acting as if he were going to pounce or try to “out-intimidate” him (like that would happen), and shouted at him. ”Because crying is what you do when you miss someone you love!” “Love” was another foreign word that could be used in too many ways to name. In this case, Jamarion had hoped he was referring to what people called “brotherly love”, or the love for a sibling stemming from a need to care for them. He could grasp the caring concept, because while he pretended to be a sheet of ice he honestly did care that his brother had been reaped and sent to be murdered on national television. The vibe radiating from Hopper’s facial expression did not match his assumptions, however. Brotherly love was casual and not at all shameful, right? So why did Hopper suddenly avoid his gaze and let panic flash across his features? Had he meant something completely different? Jamarion mentally shook his head. No, no way. If he didn’t mean brotherly love, then that meant…

By this point, with a bundle of cloth captured in the bully’s hands and his face mere inches away - his heavy breathing the only sounds disturbing the silence in the air - many victims were too frightened to continue. It was as if once the bully had them in his clutches they had reached their limits. Many times before he couldn’t even land a punch before they reduced themselves to pathetic heaps of pleading and tears, begging him to spare them and their delicate bones. Jamarion would merely glower at them until his decision was made whether or not to ignore their cries or finish the job chuckling. It all came down to how far his anger was pushed, how much his patience was tested, and how irritating the victim was - especially considering what they had done to him to make him angry, which in most cases didn’t require much effort at all. In the eyes of the average victim, Hopper was courageous, even foolish to threaten his boulder of a brother by latching onto his shirt and forcefully grasping his wrist, for anyone could guess that he would not respond kindly to the act.

Hopper had a firm grip, but not one strong enough to cut his circulation or break his bones. It could leave a bruise, possibly, if he wasn’t careful, but it was a dull ache that could not faze the powerful boy. It was instinct for his brother to grab the wrist that was trying to lift him from the floor, obviously, but when he bundled up Jamarion’s shirt in his own hand it only fueled the wildfire that glittered in his menacing eyes and his rapidly pacing heart. Hopper was asking for a beating by using his brother’s tactics against him, and if he continued to avoid his question, that was exactly what he would do.

”It’s none of your fucking business, Jamarion.” That was the final straw. A curse was the equivalent to a slap to the face, and working off of fire and impulse he released his brother and shoved him toward the wall. Then in a single, swift motion he sent the back of his hand soaring toward his brother’s face, demanding that the answers literally be backhanded out of him.

Jamarion registered the shock that flickered across Hopper’s features. Of course he would be shocked - the lash at him had been a result of a random flare of anger racing through Jamarion’s veins. Even he hadn’t planned on backhanding Hopper after shoving him away so harshly - it had just happened. What was done was done, however, and there was no taking it back now. Whether the fight escalated into a physical brawl was completely up to Hopper. He knew his older brother could sneak in a few mediocre hits if he was lucky and careful, but Jamarion knew from past experience and his own pride that it was in his brother’s best interest not to trifle with him, especially now that he had reached the point of smacking him. The strike didn’t seem to knock any sense into him, though, for he returned to his previous position with his eyes smoldering and his fists clenched at his sides. Jamarion anticipated either an attack or a verbal retort - both of which he figured he would not like coming from an angry, foolish Hopper.

”Why does it matter to you who I’m in love with? Fuck, Jamarion, you don’t even know what love is!” Jamarion turned stiff at the venomous insult. You don’t know what love is. Was that true? Was he incapable of understanding the seemingly complex concept that everyone tripped over themselves for? People always accused him of being heartless. A boy with no feelings. A boy incapable of empathy or any human emotion other than raw anger. Normally, the accusations never bothered him because he knew who he was back then; a badass bully that nobody should cross. But now, with his brother cheating death to win the games and other strange events altering his life he wasn’t sure whether or not he was the same person he was several weeks ago. Did this mean that he cared about his brother? Did this mean anything at all, this change? Or was it just another part of life trying to deceive him?

Jamarion suddenly regretted doubting his suspicions. He had hoped - he had begged - for his prediction to be wrong. For Hopper to abruptly deny this as being the truth and revealing it as a ridiculous and sick joke. For him to deny wanting to fucking sleep with their younger brother. But unfortunately, that didn’t happen. Hopper, instead, was agreeing that he did. ”So what if I do?!” He could hear the anger rising into steam threatening to overheat Hopper’s system, and he couldn’t help but spot his left arm’s movement as he repeated himself. ”So what if I do?!” Jamarion avoided the uppercut only by a few centimeters, and only because he had suspiciously watched Hopper’s arm shift as he shouted at him. A new wave of fury struck him then - his brother’s attempt at harming him was foolish, but it was a challenge Jamarion would accept without a second thought. Nobody simply attacked him and abandoned the scene unscathed; he would never allow it.

Swift as a snake preying in the tall grasses, he grabbed the arm that had previously attempted to punch him in the jaw and tried to jerk his brother forward, simultaneously lifting his right leg to bury his knee deep within his exposed abdomen. The wildfire blazing within his eyes were without question at its highest strength, keeping his irises alight with unimaginable rage and disbelief.