Ficlet for raedbard: we are not traitors but the lights go out
This is for 
raedbard, on the occasion of his birthday, because apparently I'm just going to write fusions between The West Wing and literary dystopias until we share a fandom again.
I don't think this is spoilery for Catching Fire or Mockingjay, but it may refer to world-building there, and something within may make more sense once you read those two, if you haven't yet. Happy Birthday love, have some sad things... ♥
we are not traitors but the lights go out
The West Wing, Hunger Games AU, Sam/Toby, warnings apply
Title and cut text from Richard Siken - Saying Your Names.
*
Ten years ago, Sam Seaborn was the Victor of the Sixty-Third Hunger Games. District 3 has four living Victors, although Sam is the only one who goes out in public with any regularity now. Sam has mentored eighteen children since his victory, but there are still only four houses occupied in Victors’ Village.
He slips next door into Toby’s house. Toby startles at his desk, as he does every time, though Sam has been wearing that path thin for all of the ten years. Sam crosses the floor and pushes Toby’s glass back to safety. There has been enough alcohol spilled over this floor. “Tomorrow,” he says.
“I know what day it is.” Toby keeps writing. Sam has long-ceased being offended by this. Toby works better when he doesn’t have to meet people’s eyes.
“Will you come?”
“Do you want me to?”
Sam thinks about being brave, but he doesn’t have the reserves to spare tonight. “Yes,” Sam says. “Please.”
“All right,” Toby says. He always says yes, whatever Sam asks, which is why Sam has to be so careful. (Sam had whispered “Toby. Please,” near a microphone in the arena that he had not seen. He closed his eyes and a parachute fell down to him, like a star knocked from the sky by his wish. Sam had not known what Toby did to get that battery, and he had not wished out loud again.) He allows himself to ask for Toby’s shoulder next to his while they pull the names; he will not ask for anything more.
Sam sits at the foot of the desk; he leans against Toby’s leg. “Okay.”
Toby curls his shoulder over his notebook, not hiding it from Sam but from the shadows that manage to evade the circles of lamplight. District 3 builds electronics but neither Sam nor Toby makes much of light. They deal in whispers. Toby says, “You never ask me to go to the Capitol with you.”
“We don’t both need to be there.”
“Sam.”
“Yeah.”
Toby passes his glass down. “Sam.” Toby hadn’t asked, the first year after Sam won. The second, he touched Sam’s arm but didn’t stop him leaving. Someone needs to put the children through their paces, to wear them into shapes for the camera and then watch on the screens when they fall. Toby had known that, because it is what he did for every year until Sam. So he didn’t ask why the first year, or the second. But every year after, he asks a little more.
Sam takes a drink. “I can do this. You shouldn’t-.”
“Shouldn’t what?”
Sam shrugs. “You got me through. That should be enough. I’ll- When one of mine wins. Then I can stop.”
Toby rubs his hand over his beard. It has been graying for as long as Sam can remember; even in that oldest photograph of Toby in the games, fists bloodied, there was thick stubble on his cheeks. He was eighteen when he was reaped, name there too many times with tesserae for himself and his brother. They had underestimated the boy from the factory until it was too late. Toby had few sponsors, and fewer allies, but he had known how to survive.
Sam had been eighteen too, just unlucky in the draw, and everyone had said he looked younger than his age. Sam still remembers Toby arguing with the stylist, insisting on a white shirt under his black jacket, with a vehemence that Sam had thought him incapable of. Toby had barely spoken more than a murmur to him before that. At the time, Sam hadn’t understood why the colour mattered. He knew he was going to die. He looks at the photographs now and sees himself impossibly young, tanned under the white shirt, and spattered in blood. His hair is falling into his eyes, and he is smiling. “You need to be smart,” Toby had said. “Make friends. You already know how to do that.” Sam had known a lot of things that he had never meant to use. He doesn’t remember any more why he had smiled.
Toby meets Sam’s eyes. “You should never have won,” he says. “Neither should I but you- you were a miracle. Don’t go looking for another one.”
Sam stares back. He is alive because Toby, who couldn’t win sponsors on his own account, won gift after gift for Sam. Sam is alive so he can do these things now for both of them. “I’ll go to the Capitol,” he says. “You stay here. Finish the book.” It’s written in a dead language that Sam doesn’t speak and Toby knows only by report. Toby is teaching it to him, slowly. This is their talent, which no one else knows.
“Come back after,” Toby says. Sam used to stay there longer, when he was younger and more in demand.
This time, he nods. “Yes.”
Some nights, he walks back across that path between their houses. Tonight is the night before the Reaping, and neither of them will sleep. Sam slides between Toby’s leg and the desk; he uses his finger to trace words on the floor that he doesn’t yet fully understand. Toby is his mentor, and one day he will explain everything. Until then, Sam is going to watch children die, two a year every year, and wait for a miracle.
This entry was originally posted at Dreamwidth: http://blackeyedgirl.dreamwidth.org/161515.html |
comments. Please comment there using OpenID or signed anon.
raedbard, on the occasion of his birthday, because apparently I'm just going to write fusions between The West Wing and literary dystopias until we share a fandom again.
I don't think this is spoilery for Catching Fire or Mockingjay, but it may refer to world-building there, and something within may make more sense once you read those two, if you haven't yet. Happy Birthday love, have some sad things... ♥
we are not traitors but the lights go out
The West Wing, Hunger Games AU, Sam/Toby, warnings apply
Title and cut text from Richard Siken - Saying Your Names.
*
Ten years ago, Sam Seaborn was the Victor of the Sixty-Third Hunger Games. District 3 has four living Victors, although Sam is the only one who goes out in public with any regularity now. Sam has mentored eighteen children since his victory, but there are still only four houses occupied in Victors’ Village.
He slips next door into Toby’s house. Toby startles at his desk, as he does every time, though Sam has been wearing that path thin for all of the ten years. Sam crosses the floor and pushes Toby’s glass back to safety. There has been enough alcohol spilled over this floor. “Tomorrow,” he says.
“I know what day it is.” Toby keeps writing. Sam has long-ceased being offended by this. Toby works better when he doesn’t have to meet people’s eyes.
“Will you come?”
“Do you want me to?”
Sam thinks about being brave, but he doesn’t have the reserves to spare tonight. “Yes,” Sam says. “Please.”
“All right,” Toby says. He always says yes, whatever Sam asks, which is why Sam has to be so careful. (Sam had whispered “Toby. Please,” near a microphone in the arena that he had not seen. He closed his eyes and a parachute fell down to him, like a star knocked from the sky by his wish. Sam had not known what Toby did to get that battery, and he had not wished out loud again.) He allows himself to ask for Toby’s shoulder next to his while they pull the names; he will not ask for anything more.
Sam sits at the foot of the desk; he leans against Toby’s leg. “Okay.”
Toby curls his shoulder over his notebook, not hiding it from Sam but from the shadows that manage to evade the circles of lamplight. District 3 builds electronics but neither Sam nor Toby makes much of light. They deal in whispers. Toby says, “You never ask me to go to the Capitol with you.”
“We don’t both need to be there.”
“Sam.”
“Yeah.”
Toby passes his glass down. “Sam.” Toby hadn’t asked, the first year after Sam won. The second, he touched Sam’s arm but didn’t stop him leaving. Someone needs to put the children through their paces, to wear them into shapes for the camera and then watch on the screens when they fall. Toby had known that, because it is what he did for every year until Sam. So he didn’t ask why the first year, or the second. But every year after, he asks a little more.
Sam takes a drink. “I can do this. You shouldn’t-.”
“Shouldn’t what?”
Sam shrugs. “You got me through. That should be enough. I’ll- When one of mine wins. Then I can stop.”
Toby rubs his hand over his beard. It has been graying for as long as Sam can remember; even in that oldest photograph of Toby in the games, fists bloodied, there was thick stubble on his cheeks. He was eighteen when he was reaped, name there too many times with tesserae for himself and his brother. They had underestimated the boy from the factory until it was too late. Toby had few sponsors, and fewer allies, but he had known how to survive.
Sam had been eighteen too, just unlucky in the draw, and everyone had said he looked younger than his age. Sam still remembers Toby arguing with the stylist, insisting on a white shirt under his black jacket, with a vehemence that Sam had thought him incapable of. Toby had barely spoken more than a murmur to him before that. At the time, Sam hadn’t understood why the colour mattered. He knew he was going to die. He looks at the photographs now and sees himself impossibly young, tanned under the white shirt, and spattered in blood. His hair is falling into his eyes, and he is smiling. “You need to be smart,” Toby had said. “Make friends. You already know how to do that.” Sam had known a lot of things that he had never meant to use. He doesn’t remember any more why he had smiled.
Toby meets Sam’s eyes. “You should never have won,” he says. “Neither should I but you- you were a miracle. Don’t go looking for another one.”
Sam stares back. He is alive because Toby, who couldn’t win sponsors on his own account, won gift after gift for Sam. Sam is alive so he can do these things now for both of them. “I’ll go to the Capitol,” he says. “You stay here. Finish the book.” It’s written in a dead language that Sam doesn’t speak and Toby knows only by report. Toby is teaching it to him, slowly. This is their talent, which no one else knows.
“Come back after,” Toby says. Sam used to stay there longer, when he was younger and more in demand.
This time, he nods. “Yes.”
Some nights, he walks back across that path between their houses. Tonight is the night before the Reaping, and neither of them will sleep. Sam slides between Toby’s leg and the desk; he uses his finger to trace words on the floor that he doesn’t yet fully understand. Toby is his mentor, and one day he will explain everything. Until then, Sam is going to watch children die, two a year every year, and wait for a miracle.
This entry was originally posted at Dreamwidth: http://blackeyedgirl.dreamwidth.org/161515.html |
comments. Please comment there using OpenID or signed anon.