Hunger Games: Valentine's Day
To make up for yesterday (sorry!), and in honour of Everybody is Saccharine, Sneering, Smug, Sad, Sarcastic, Sickening or Snide Day, have some ridiculousness.
This is
kawuli and
xanify's faults, for talking about Misha and Devon trolling Brutus and Lyme by sending them fake love notes 'from' each other.
Title: It's Either That or Malaria
Rating: PG
Warnings: uh, foul language?
Pairings: Brutus/Lyme, Misha/Devon
Summary: After years of teasing Lyme and Brutus for their horror at the Capitol thinking they're a couple, their Victors start to wonder if maybe the rumours aren't true after all.
Misha has just oozed out of bed into the kitchen to put on a pot of tea when Devon bangs on her door. She knows it’s him because only he or Emory ever bother knocking, and even if the entire Village were on fire Emory would still be polite about it instead of rapid-fire hammering with both hands. This is not what she needs in the morning before the water has even finished heating, and Misha sighs and pulls open the door to glare.
“What?” she demands. “It’s early, get a grip.”
“No, I’m not getting a grip, there is no grip to be gotten,” Devon babbles, and Misha raises her eyebrows. “Do you remember the time we joked about all the different ways scientists could secretly be mind controlling us?”
Now she blinks at him, wandering back into the kitchen as Devon bounces after her like an agitated puppy nipping at her heels. “Vaguely. Something something birth control, radio waves something. Weren’t we drunk?”
“I’m just thinking that maybe it might not all be bullshit,” Devon says, eyes wide, and Misha gives him another funny look as she tosses a handful of beans in the grinder. (See, she got rid of the instant stuff after he made a face, don’t say she never did anything for him.) He’s only twenty years old and looks it right now, hair mussed from pulling at it and brown eyes big and sincere. Snow on a hilltop she is robbing the cradle with this kid, but oh well.
“Did you fall asleep eating ice cream again?” Misha accuses, and Devon shoots her an exasperated, thin-lipped stare. “Okay, sorry, sorry, who’s being mind controlled and why?”
“Brutus. And Lyme. Brutus-and-Lyme. I think they’re being brainwashed, or possibly replaced with mutts. Or super hyper-intelligent AIs, can we do that yet?”
On second thought, Misha takes the now-ground beans and dumps them straight into the trash. “Chamomile vanilla for you,” she says mildly, fishing around in the cupboard for her calming blends.
“I don’t need your witchdoctery,” Devon snaps, which is funny since he comes from the quarries and is the only other person Misha knows who corroborates Emory’s weird folk remedies. Chew tree bark for a headache, okay, but apparently herbal tea is hippie and weird. “I’m not freaking out - well okay I am freaking out - but I don’t need tea, okay, I don’t need to calm down, I need you to listen.”
Misha frowns, because this is Devon’s ‘this is serious’ voice, not his bullshitting voice, and Misha takes his hand and leads him over to the couch. He curls up against her side, face mashed in her shoulder, and Misha scrubs her fingers through his hair. “What happened?”
“I think maybe we should stop making fun of Brutus and Lyme for everyone thinking they’re a couple and everything,” he says in a rush. “You know, with the sending fake love notes and writing fake entertainment articles to put in their mail and all that. It’s not funny anymore.”
Misha rears back. “It’s totally funny!” she protests. “And you can imitate those stupid tabloids better than anyone. It’s one of my favourite things about you! Why should we stop?”
“I was out for my morning run,” Devon says. “You know, the one I do the same time every day as part of my routine, because Brutus says exercise and routine are both really important for a full recovery -“
“He does,” Misha says, very generously, and Devon will never know how hard it is not to make fun of him for being precious because really.
“Well and I went past Brutus’ house, and Lyme was leaving. Like, leaving Brutus’ house. In the morning. As in she’d been there overnight.”
Misha waits, patiently, but Devon only stares at her as though expecting her to scream and leap out the window. “Babe, I hate to tell you, but adults have sleepovers, too. I crashed at Callista’s after the time Augustus threw up all over his clothing drawer and we had an emergency sewing party to make new cat outfits. It doesn’t mean we were fucking.” She sighs, wistfully. “Unfortunately.”
“Callista is scary and your turn-ons are weird,” Devon says in a flat voice, but then he grabs her arm. “But no it wasn’t like that, it was - look, they kissed, all right?”
Misha stops, turns around and opens the curtains to check that it’s still her backyard outside and not an icy hell-scape full of winged pigs. “They did not.”
“No, they did!”
“No, you fell during your very important routinely exercise and hit your head on a rock and you’re out in the woods bleeding to death in a pile of pine needles and I need to go find you before you die.”
“I’m not hallucinating!” Devon pushes a hand through his hair. “I saw Lyme leave the house and I stopped behind a tree so they wouldn’t catch me and I saw them. She turned back and he held her face and he kissed her, like this.”
He cups the side of her face in one hand and kisses her, rough and tender at the same time, and Misha recoils because okay, yes, that is exactly how she can imagine it would be like to be kissed by Brutus, which is something she has imagined precisely never and would like to imagine never again. “Devon, the fuck?”
“Well, see!” Devon says, dropping his hand. “I’m not making this up! He kissed her and then she punched him in the arm and then she left and then I ran here. What if they are secretly together? It’s the perfect cover, right? Let everyone gossip about it and laugh at the rumours but really it’s actually true.”
Misha pushes herself off the couch and into a round of pacing as Devon stares at her from the sofa. “That’s ridiculous,” she says. “They don’t kiss, I tried it one time when we played Forfeit and they both took four penalty shots instead and ended up puking in the bathroom. I told Lyme she was being ridiculous and she just croaked ‘worth it’ to me with her head over the toilet.”
“Well, no, exactly, they don’t because if they did they wouldn’t be able to keep the act up anymore, don’t you get it?” Devon insists.
Maybe there are mind-control satellites or nanites in her contraceptive shot because it actually is starting to crystallize into something that makes a small amount of sense. What does Misha know about her mentor’s love life, anyway? She knows Lyme goes out on the prowl - the only time she ever leaves the Village with her tattoo uncovered - and comes back the next day looking pleased, but that doesn’t mean anything.
Just last week Misha went home with two girls who’d always wanted to try a threesome, but that doesn’t mean she likes Devon any less. She’s not into guys and Devon isn’t into girls but they’re together because that’s not what it’s about. Sex and feelings aren’t always the same thing, especially for Victors, and Lyme and Brutus have been around even longer. They’ll have had even more time to separate it out.
“No, this is crazy,” Misha says, but this time Devon doesn’t argue, he just keeps staring, wide-eyed. “Isn’t it?”
The only thing to do, naturally, is to spy on them.
Brutus and Lyme act exactly the same as they always do in public. They play one-on-one on the basketball court and spend the entire time cussing and trash-talking and fouling each other and laughing at the other’s pain. They mock and egg each other on at the gym, competing at weights and repetitions until both their arms shake and they can barely put the equipment away. They punch each other in the arm and grin with too much teeth and use extremely offensive gendered insults that even Misha raises her eyebrows at.
It’s all hyper-aggression and testosterone and posturing the same as it always was, except now Misha can’t watch it without the uncomfortable feeling that maybe it’s also flirting.
“I hate you,” Misha tells Devon one night, biting his shoulder and ignoring his yelp of protest. “I’m losing sleep over this. It’s crawled into my brain and is eating all my thought processes. This is all your fault.”
“I’m just glad you see it too, now,” Devon says, earnest as always, and what is Misha even doing with her life. “I thought I was going to go crazy.”
“Yeah, well, I’m still going crazy, and I blame you.”
“But what do we do?”
“Nothing,” Misha says firmly. “We do nothing. It’s not our business.”
Devon falls silent, though his breathing doesn’t even out so he’s still awake, and finally he says, “Do you think they actually -“
“Out!” Misha thunders, but then she sighs and crawls over him instead because no she is not going to boot Devon to the couch in his own house, she’s not a horrible person. She does steal his pillow and the blanket on her way out to the living room, though, because she’s also not a saint.
Misha stays jumpy for almost two weeks, leaping out of her skin every time Lyme says her name in case her mentor can read her mind, and Lyme is basically the best thing next to an actual psychic as far as Misha is concerned so she may damn well. Once Misha comes over and finds Lyme and Brutus sitting around the kitchen table, going through the Centre files and sponsor information for Lyme’s new boy this summer, and this is the Games and this is serious and there’s absolutely nothing romantic about it but Misha still can’t shake the thought and this is insane.
If she and Devon break up over this because Misha snaps and runs into traffic, this is going to top the universe’s list of ironies.
In the end it’s Devon who cracks, the next time all four of them get together for dinner. Brutus and Lyme are the same as always and that’s the worst part about all of this. They haven’t done anything different and meanwhile Misha is losing her mind.
Brutus asks Lyme to pass him a beer, Lyme snorts and asks if his arms are broken, and finally Devon loses it. “If you were together you would tell us, right?” he blurts out, and Misha gawks at him, horrified, with a forkful of mashed potatoes halfway to her mouth. “Because you’re our mentors and we would support you and not make fun if you really liked each other, I’m sorry, I didn’t know -“
“Devon,” Misha hisses. “Shut up!”
It’s too late. Devon vomits the whole thing out right there while Misha buries her face in her hands. It’s hard to believe this is the boy who had the whole Arena and Gamemakers and sponsors fooled for two whole weeks when faced with him spewing up honesty at his mentor like he’ll die if he doesn’t.
Lyme gives them a long, serious look while Brutus peels the label of his beer with his thumbnail, and then they turn to each other and Lyme takes a deep breath and Brutus wets his lips and holy shit is this happening is it actually real -
And then they both crack up so hard that Lyme nearly falls out of her chair and Brutus has to put his head down on the table.
“You fucking liars!” Misha bursts out, pushing her chair back and pointing at them in accusation to cover the relief that nearly knocks her over. “You played us!”
Devon gapes at both of them before grabbing his napkin and throwing it in a completely ineffectual ball at Brutus’ head. “You’re my mentor, you’re not supposed to lie to me, what if you give me trust issues!”
“Kid, if you believed any of that for a second, you have worse issues to worry about,” Brutus says, sitting up and grinning without a shred of apology. “And serves you right, sending me a fucking ‘love Lyme’ letter last Harvest Festival.”
Devon’s expression goes shifty. “You said pranks were part of the Village community.”
“They are, but you’re still an amateur so watch your ass, boy,” Brutus says, reaching over to cuff the back of his head.
“But you did kiss,” Misha says. “You didn’t, I don’t know, drug Devon’s food and make him think he saw that.”
“Oh, no, we did,” Lyme drawls, and both she and Brutus shudder with identical revulsion. “I went home and washed out my mouth with bourbon, then drank the rest to forget.”
“I ate soap,” Brutus says with smug satisfaction at having one-upped Lyme again, even when the contest is how much they detest the idea of kissing each other. “Chewed it up, spat it out, then went back to work. More efficient.”
Lyme rolls her eyes. “Show off.”
Devon’s still sitting there with a betrayed expression on his face. “I can’t believe you did that.”
The whole thing is ridiculous, and stupid, and insane, and Misha can’t help it. She cracks up laughing too, worse when Lyme glances at her and tosses her a wink. “Okay, okay, you’re the masters and we’re not worthy,” she says, sitting back down and tugging her plate back toward her. “It’s actually pretty impressive. All you had to do is let Devon see you that one time and we totally made everything else up in our heads.”
“Best way to lie is to let the other person do it for you,” Brutus says, and he taps Devon’s plate with his fork. “Eat your vegetables, they’re good for you.”
“Yes sir,” Devon says, entirely without sarcasm, and shovels in a mouthful of green beans.
Lyme catches Misha’s eye, and they both grin and roll their eyes at the same time.
“Next time,” Misha says. “We’ll get you back.”
“You can try,” Brutus and Lyme say in unison.
“It’s a good thing you’re not together, because I think you’d take over the world,” Devon says, a little in awe, and Misha snickers into her glass. At least everything is back to normal.
This is
kawuli and
xanify's faults, for talking about Misha and Devon trolling Brutus and Lyme by sending them fake love notes 'from' each other.
Title: It's Either That or Malaria
Rating: PG
Warnings: uh, foul language?
Pairings: Brutus/Lyme, Misha/Devon
Summary: After years of teasing Lyme and Brutus for their horror at the Capitol thinking they're a couple, their Victors start to wonder if maybe the rumours aren't true after all.
Misha has just oozed out of bed into the kitchen to put on a pot of tea when Devon bangs on her door. She knows it’s him because only he or Emory ever bother knocking, and even if the entire Village were on fire Emory would still be polite about it instead of rapid-fire hammering with both hands. This is not what she needs in the morning before the water has even finished heating, and Misha sighs and pulls open the door to glare.
“What?” she demands. “It’s early, get a grip.”
“No, I’m not getting a grip, there is no grip to be gotten,” Devon babbles, and Misha raises her eyebrows. “Do you remember the time we joked about all the different ways scientists could secretly be mind controlling us?”
Now she blinks at him, wandering back into the kitchen as Devon bounces after her like an agitated puppy nipping at her heels. “Vaguely. Something something birth control, radio waves something. Weren’t we drunk?”
“I’m just thinking that maybe it might not all be bullshit,” Devon says, eyes wide, and Misha gives him another funny look as she tosses a handful of beans in the grinder. (See, she got rid of the instant stuff after he made a face, don’t say she never did anything for him.) He’s only twenty years old and looks it right now, hair mussed from pulling at it and brown eyes big and sincere. Snow on a hilltop she is robbing the cradle with this kid, but oh well.
“Did you fall asleep eating ice cream again?” Misha accuses, and Devon shoots her an exasperated, thin-lipped stare. “Okay, sorry, sorry, who’s being mind controlled and why?”
“Brutus. And Lyme. Brutus-and-Lyme. I think they’re being brainwashed, or possibly replaced with mutts. Or super hyper-intelligent AIs, can we do that yet?”
On second thought, Misha takes the now-ground beans and dumps them straight into the trash. “Chamomile vanilla for you,” she says mildly, fishing around in the cupboard for her calming blends.
“I don’t need your witchdoctery,” Devon snaps, which is funny since he comes from the quarries and is the only other person Misha knows who corroborates Emory’s weird folk remedies. Chew tree bark for a headache, okay, but apparently herbal tea is hippie and weird. “I’m not freaking out - well okay I am freaking out - but I don’t need tea, okay, I don’t need to calm down, I need you to listen.”
Misha frowns, because this is Devon’s ‘this is serious’ voice, not his bullshitting voice, and Misha takes his hand and leads him over to the couch. He curls up against her side, face mashed in her shoulder, and Misha scrubs her fingers through his hair. “What happened?”
“I think maybe we should stop making fun of Brutus and Lyme for everyone thinking they’re a couple and everything,” he says in a rush. “You know, with the sending fake love notes and writing fake entertainment articles to put in their mail and all that. It’s not funny anymore.”
Misha rears back. “It’s totally funny!” she protests. “And you can imitate those stupid tabloids better than anyone. It’s one of my favourite things about you! Why should we stop?”
“I was out for my morning run,” Devon says. “You know, the one I do the same time every day as part of my routine, because Brutus says exercise and routine are both really important for a full recovery -“
“He does,” Misha says, very generously, and Devon will never know how hard it is not to make fun of him for being precious because really.
“Well and I went past Brutus’ house, and Lyme was leaving. Like, leaving Brutus’ house. In the morning. As in she’d been there overnight.”
Misha waits, patiently, but Devon only stares at her as though expecting her to scream and leap out the window. “Babe, I hate to tell you, but adults have sleepovers, too. I crashed at Callista’s after the time Augustus threw up all over his clothing drawer and we had an emergency sewing party to make new cat outfits. It doesn’t mean we were fucking.” She sighs, wistfully. “Unfortunately.”
“Callista is scary and your turn-ons are weird,” Devon says in a flat voice, but then he grabs her arm. “But no it wasn’t like that, it was - look, they kissed, all right?”
Misha stops, turns around and opens the curtains to check that it’s still her backyard outside and not an icy hell-scape full of winged pigs. “They did not.”
“No, they did!”
“No, you fell during your very important routinely exercise and hit your head on a rock and you’re out in the woods bleeding to death in a pile of pine needles and I need to go find you before you die.”
“I’m not hallucinating!” Devon pushes a hand through his hair. “I saw Lyme leave the house and I stopped behind a tree so they wouldn’t catch me and I saw them. She turned back and he held her face and he kissed her, like this.”
He cups the side of her face in one hand and kisses her, rough and tender at the same time, and Misha recoils because okay, yes, that is exactly how she can imagine it would be like to be kissed by Brutus, which is something she has imagined precisely never and would like to imagine never again. “Devon, the fuck?”
“Well, see!” Devon says, dropping his hand. “I’m not making this up! He kissed her and then she punched him in the arm and then she left and then I ran here. What if they are secretly together? It’s the perfect cover, right? Let everyone gossip about it and laugh at the rumours but really it’s actually true.”
Misha pushes herself off the couch and into a round of pacing as Devon stares at her from the sofa. “That’s ridiculous,” she says. “They don’t kiss, I tried it one time when we played Forfeit and they both took four penalty shots instead and ended up puking in the bathroom. I told Lyme she was being ridiculous and she just croaked ‘worth it’ to me with her head over the toilet.”
“Well, no, exactly, they don’t because if they did they wouldn’t be able to keep the act up anymore, don’t you get it?” Devon insists.
Maybe there are mind-control satellites or nanites in her contraceptive shot because it actually is starting to crystallize into something that makes a small amount of sense. What does Misha know about her mentor’s love life, anyway? She knows Lyme goes out on the prowl - the only time she ever leaves the Village with her tattoo uncovered - and comes back the next day looking pleased, but that doesn’t mean anything.
Just last week Misha went home with two girls who’d always wanted to try a threesome, but that doesn’t mean she likes Devon any less. She’s not into guys and Devon isn’t into girls but they’re together because that’s not what it’s about. Sex and feelings aren’t always the same thing, especially for Victors, and Lyme and Brutus have been around even longer. They’ll have had even more time to separate it out.
“No, this is crazy,” Misha says, but this time Devon doesn’t argue, he just keeps staring, wide-eyed. “Isn’t it?”
The only thing to do, naturally, is to spy on them.
Brutus and Lyme act exactly the same as they always do in public. They play one-on-one on the basketball court and spend the entire time cussing and trash-talking and fouling each other and laughing at the other’s pain. They mock and egg each other on at the gym, competing at weights and repetitions until both their arms shake and they can barely put the equipment away. They punch each other in the arm and grin with too much teeth and use extremely offensive gendered insults that even Misha raises her eyebrows at.
It’s all hyper-aggression and testosterone and posturing the same as it always was, except now Misha can’t watch it without the uncomfortable feeling that maybe it’s also flirting.
“I hate you,” Misha tells Devon one night, biting his shoulder and ignoring his yelp of protest. “I’m losing sleep over this. It’s crawled into my brain and is eating all my thought processes. This is all your fault.”
“I’m just glad you see it too, now,” Devon says, earnest as always, and what is Misha even doing with her life. “I thought I was going to go crazy.”
“Yeah, well, I’m still going crazy, and I blame you.”
“But what do we do?”
“Nothing,” Misha says firmly. “We do nothing. It’s not our business.”
Devon falls silent, though his breathing doesn’t even out so he’s still awake, and finally he says, “Do you think they actually -“
“Out!” Misha thunders, but then she sighs and crawls over him instead because no she is not going to boot Devon to the couch in his own house, she’s not a horrible person. She does steal his pillow and the blanket on her way out to the living room, though, because she’s also not a saint.
Misha stays jumpy for almost two weeks, leaping out of her skin every time Lyme says her name in case her mentor can read her mind, and Lyme is basically the best thing next to an actual psychic as far as Misha is concerned so she may damn well. Once Misha comes over and finds Lyme and Brutus sitting around the kitchen table, going through the Centre files and sponsor information for Lyme’s new boy this summer, and this is the Games and this is serious and there’s absolutely nothing romantic about it but Misha still can’t shake the thought and this is insane.
If she and Devon break up over this because Misha snaps and runs into traffic, this is going to top the universe’s list of ironies.
In the end it’s Devon who cracks, the next time all four of them get together for dinner. Brutus and Lyme are the same as always and that’s the worst part about all of this. They haven’t done anything different and meanwhile Misha is losing her mind.
Brutus asks Lyme to pass him a beer, Lyme snorts and asks if his arms are broken, and finally Devon loses it. “If you were together you would tell us, right?” he blurts out, and Misha gawks at him, horrified, with a forkful of mashed potatoes halfway to her mouth. “Because you’re our mentors and we would support you and not make fun if you really liked each other, I’m sorry, I didn’t know -“
“Devon,” Misha hisses. “Shut up!”
It’s too late. Devon vomits the whole thing out right there while Misha buries her face in her hands. It’s hard to believe this is the boy who had the whole Arena and Gamemakers and sponsors fooled for two whole weeks when faced with him spewing up honesty at his mentor like he’ll die if he doesn’t.
Lyme gives them a long, serious look while Brutus peels the label of his beer with his thumbnail, and then they turn to each other and Lyme takes a deep breath and Brutus wets his lips and holy shit is this happening is it actually real -
And then they both crack up so hard that Lyme nearly falls out of her chair and Brutus has to put his head down on the table.
“You fucking liars!” Misha bursts out, pushing her chair back and pointing at them in accusation to cover the relief that nearly knocks her over. “You played us!”
Devon gapes at both of them before grabbing his napkin and throwing it in a completely ineffectual ball at Brutus’ head. “You’re my mentor, you’re not supposed to lie to me, what if you give me trust issues!”
“Kid, if you believed any of that for a second, you have worse issues to worry about,” Brutus says, sitting up and grinning without a shred of apology. “And serves you right, sending me a fucking ‘love Lyme’ letter last Harvest Festival.”
Devon’s expression goes shifty. “You said pranks were part of the Village community.”
“They are, but you’re still an amateur so watch your ass, boy,” Brutus says, reaching over to cuff the back of his head.
“But you did kiss,” Misha says. “You didn’t, I don’t know, drug Devon’s food and make him think he saw that.”
“Oh, no, we did,” Lyme drawls, and both she and Brutus shudder with identical revulsion. “I went home and washed out my mouth with bourbon, then drank the rest to forget.”
“I ate soap,” Brutus says with smug satisfaction at having one-upped Lyme again, even when the contest is how much they detest the idea of kissing each other. “Chewed it up, spat it out, then went back to work. More efficient.”
Lyme rolls her eyes. “Show off.”
Devon’s still sitting there with a betrayed expression on his face. “I can’t believe you did that.”
The whole thing is ridiculous, and stupid, and insane, and Misha can’t help it. She cracks up laughing too, worse when Lyme glances at her and tosses her a wink. “Okay, okay, you’re the masters and we’re not worthy,” she says, sitting back down and tugging her plate back toward her. “It’s actually pretty impressive. All you had to do is let Devon see you that one time and we totally made everything else up in our heads.”
“Best way to lie is to let the other person do it for you,” Brutus says, and he taps Devon’s plate with his fork. “Eat your vegetables, they’re good for you.”
“Yes sir,” Devon says, entirely without sarcasm, and shovels in a mouthful of green beans.
Lyme catches Misha’s eye, and they both grin and roll their eyes at the same time.
“Next time,” Misha says. “We’ll get you back.”
“You can try,” Brutus and Lyme say in unison.
“It’s a good thing you’re not together, because I think you’d take over the world,” Devon says, a little in awe, and Misha snickers into her glass. At least everything is back to normal.