Quarter Chicken Dark // [Hitch/Rajas]

And love, we need it now, let's hope for some
Cause oh, we're bleeding out,
I belong with you you belong with me you're my sweetheart

The 64th Reaping Day had been one of the best and worst in recent memory for Rajas. On the one hand, the Wolfes had escaped further punishment. On the other, it was a reminder that their family had been gutted, defiled. And for what? So that all of Panem could watch his sister betray her brother? So that his sister could die at the hands of that undeserving snake? He had come away from the Reaping shaking with hatred, and only later found comfort in Jeyne's arms. It was hours later that he realized part of him had wanted to hear his name called. Part of him wanted to avenge Bran, to finally forgive Aria. And the only way to do that was to march through the arena. He'd stayed up all night, thinking about the feeling of a weapon in his hand, the deaths of other tributes - who had other siblings, parents, lives - playing over and over again in his mind.

He'd largely ignored the training and pomp leading up to the Games. It wasn't mandatory, and he still had school and some siblings to watch over. He thought of Bran and Aria constantly, even as he told Jon to watch his axe, corrected Sarita's homework, and sat with Caroline late into the nights. It did no one any good to dwell on their deaths, and for Rajas, it was enough to think on them. To talk of them brought about a certain pain, a certain rage, that derailed all other tasks. He knew his family thought he was being cruel when he told them to shut up on Aria's birthday. But there was no longer any time for grief, two longer years after they had buried the boy and the girl.

Rajas had a sinking suspicion, however, that each Reaping would bring the grief back afresh. Once the mandatory viewings started, he turned on the television, and then sat with a piece of wood, or a pipe, or a clock that needed fixing. He watched dispassionately, his focus in his hands. He'd managed to pass seven long days that way, but on the eighth, he couldn't take it any more. Instead of watching the finale with his family, Rajas grumbled an excuse and left, fleeing for the center of the district. Eight wasn't exactly known for its pubs, but if you knew the right people or if the right people took pity on you, there was toxic moonshine and bitter beer to be had.

He leaned on the post just outside of the unmarked door, pulling the last dregs from his cigarette. His fingertips twitched with each pull. Even though it was not Aria's finale, Aria's last day, he could not seem to calm his nerves. Rajas smashed the butt beneath his heavy work boot and caught the gaze of a stranger as he passed.

No, not a stranger. Another left-behind. "Hold on a second," Rajas said, coming halfway around the poll. "It's Hitch, right? You want a drink?" He jerked his head back towards the plain door, hoping the other boy would catch his drift.