sis the carbs | [bill and tris]

little bill cubs

He’s never eaten as much as he has here in the capitol, but the ever-filled dining hall tables are constantly beckoning him back to their myriad trays of biscuits and roasts, savory breaded chicken wings and vegetables coated in zesty cheeses and chunks of herbs. The avox attendants must think him ravenously greedy, for they’ve restocked dishes of mashed potatoes and boats of gravy countless times just from his own appetite; but back in eight he’d never been treated to such extravagancies, never had the ability to choose between different dishes. The decision was made for him by there only being one option any given day, usually one option a week, and if nothing else Little Bill wants to feast before his early death. He’s gone through the soups, the salads, the sandwiches, the pies - today he’s chosen breads, and there are literally dozens of potential candidates for his doughy consumption.

Someone beats him to the punch.

She’s thin and frail, but Little Bill watches the other tribute toss rolls into her open mouth while stacking her own plate high with grease-soaked buttered breads and cheese-crusted baguettes. Her sheer hunger intimidates him; he’s spent days worrying what the avoxes think about him, when next to her he’s probably an afterthought. Tall boys are expected to be well-fed and nourished, but this carb-loaded lady defies all expectations.

When she turns and sees him, his eye wide with wonder, she greets him like everything’s completely commonplace, and he’s immediately enamored with her lack of shame. She tries to speak, but words are obstructed by globs of dough sticking to her teeth and blocking her tongue. In one hand she holds more bread than he’s eaten in his entire life. “You sure are a sight,” he says, a rare smile inching across his face. “I don’t know what you said, but I love it.”

Days in the training center and he’s never seen someone whose energy so closely matches his own. He imagines most all of the tributes feel the same, anxious and uncertain and restless, but the rest are better equipped to mask it, to shove it ten feet beneath where their graves soon will be instead of wearing it above ground for all to see. This girl, with her mouthful of bread and her cheeks like chipmunks, is realer than the rest, and he smiles even bigger as her wide eyes glance around before settling on her mini-feast and dropping half-chewed dough into her pool of gravy. She apologizes and Little Bill laughs, for what feels like the first time in his life, and he knows he won’t forget Tristitia till he dies. A flick of her tongue and she asks, “you’re from seven right?”

“I’m not,” he answers, reaching beside him and taking a garlic roll from the dining table. “But if you want me to be, sure.” He dips the bread into her gravy, unphased by her partially chewed food - back home in eight seven, he’d never been able to waste food even if it was spat up or undercooked. They didn’t have the resources to be concerned with cleanliness or germs. (He nursed from a ewe for fuck’s sake.) Quickly, he shoves the roll into his mouth and grins around it.

“Ahhnoor fuhm wuhn?”