Chapter Text
ROOK & KING
♖♔
“Avoid the crowd. Do your own thinking independently. Be the chess player, not the chess piece.”
- Ralph Charell
“The chessboard is the world; the pieces are the phenomena of the universe; the rules of the game are what we call the laws of nature.”
- Thomas Huxley
PART ONE
THE OPENING
♖♔
i.
Every time the nightmare ends, Izuku jolts awake with the song—one he has not heard in a long time—still echoing through his head. The man who used to sing it has been dead for years, killed in the same mine explosion that took his father when he was ten-years-old. It feels like a lifetime ago, and also like it was only yesterday, all at once.
Whenever Izuku has nightmares, he dreams of wolfish monsters chasing him down, born out of the fear instilled within him by the vast wilderness that surrounds the borders of District 12. That was the worst thing that could come for him now in his dreams; back when his father was alive, the nightmares bled into his waking hours. It’s not much better even now that he’s gone, but his mother has always been a bit easier for Izuku to navigate. Unlike his father, who had been stoic and aloof, his mother is an open book, and Izuku has had a lifetime to learn how to interpret her emotions and analyze her next move, and stay forty moves ahead of it.
As Izuku waits for his heartbeat to slow down, he stares across the room, out at the dark gray sky of early morning, estimating it to be around three-thirty. Far too early to rise for most, especially today. With it being a public holiday, most people try to sleep in. Although, like Izuku, many of the children will also be haunted by the monsters chasing them down in their dreams. While they may be gently shushed and coaxed back into a somewhat fitful slumber, Izuku pulls the sheets off his body and drags himself out of bed. He gets dressed and slips downstairs on feet as quiet as he can make them (though three of the steps creak no matter what he does) and at the foot of the stairs, he cautiously opens the door of the bakery.
The coast is clear; the door to his mother’s office is open, and still empty, and the kitchen which adjoins the office is equally deserted. Inko is under no obligation to work today, after all, but Izuku has always found it foolish not to. While buying food might be the last thing on people’s minds this morning, things will reverse by late afternoon, for most of them, and there will be a spike in demand for bread, cake, and pie as the dread of the Reaping turns into the celebration of its passing. It’s one of the Midoriya family’s best days for business, one of the few days it’s easy for him and his mother to meet their quotas, even though they don’t even open for customers until the afternoon.
Securing an apron around his waist, Izuku gets started on tearing open sacks of flour, preparing bowls of dough, mixing and rolling and kneading until, two hours later, he has a tray of sugar cookies which he sticks in the fridge to cool, and several bowls of bread dough covered with damp cloths to rise. With the prep done, Izuku washes the flour from his hands and arms, removes his apron, and slips out of the house through the back door. He stands for a moment in the tiny square of their yard, with its rickety pig sty (empty since last year), and the gnarled old apple tree, leafy and familiar. Izuku stares at the tree for a time before he walks around the corner to the front of the bakery and towards the west side of the town square, which will be the heart of today's so-called festivities. The Capitol crews haven’t arrived yet, so the square is nearly deserted, just a lone labourer sweeping the steps of the Justice Building on the north side of the square.
Izuku passes by the shops, then through the neighbourhoods, up towards the school, going behind to the field in the back where he starts to run laps along the track there at a slow, steady pace. Running has always helped him clear his mind of any thoughts of the day, and for now works to empty his brain of the remnants of the nightmares. Somewhat, anyway. Since the track passes within the side of the northernmost fence of District 12, Izuku can see the outskirts of the thick woods. The place, they have been told, is so dangerous that their borders exist not to imprison but to protect them. There’s not only natural predators to be wary of—wild dogs and bears and the like—but also the mutts; genetically-enhanced creatures left behind from the Dark Days, bred specifically to contain, capture, and kill them, now roaming wild through the trees.
Yet it is also a lush place, fertile in the fall with apple trees near the edge of the woods, close enough that some people do go, furtively, to pick the fruit. Further in are berries, herbs, and wild vegetables, which Izuku knows from his own excursions in the past. Though he only ever dares to venture out to pick apples these days, because one of the most popular items they sell at the bakery is the apple and goat cheese tart—and it’s better to get the apples fresh and for free rather than get the ones from the vendor in the market, which are costly, or the cheap ones from the Capitol store, which are always sour. He is also unwilling to go past the edge of the woods because of what happened there three years ago.
But despite all restrictions, there were a few who did frequently venture deep into the wilderness, hunting game and gathering edible and medicinal plants to bring back to town to trade with shopkeepers, with Peacekeepers—who turn a blind eye to this illegal activity for the prospect of fresh meat or fruit—and quietly with Mayor Aizawa, which Izuku only knows because his daughter has told him so. One of these bold souls had been the man who always sang in Izuku’s dreams, Masaru Bakugou. These days, it’s Masaru’s son, Kacchan—well, Katsuki, actually—and his best friend, Eijirou Kirishima, who brave the woods together. Both of them were in Izuku’s class, and fatherless, but unlike Izuku, came from the Seam, so they had no choice in the matter but to face the twin dangers of the monsters and the law in order to survive.
Izuku leaves the track and walks over to the sagging chain link fence at the back of the school, gripping the metal rungs as he looks out at the woods, his feelings all twisted up in complicated strands of dread and longing, fear and curiosity. But the propaganda has worked on him all too well, as does the memory of what he witnessed that day, three years ago. He is terrified of the woods, and the creatures that stalk them. And the things that can apparate out of the clouds, making the birds fall silent, before—
“Are you thinking about running?”
Izuku startles from his thoughts and turns around. It’s Tsuyu Asui, one of his friends from school. A town kid, like him, who also comes from a family of merchants—the Asuis own the cobbler shop just a few doors down from the bakery.
“Hey, Tsu,” Izuku says, a little breathlessly.
Tsu tilts her head at him. “You only have six entries this year, the same as me,” she says, “So I don’t think you need to worry about running away. It’s not likely that you’re going to be reaped.”
She’s right of course, and while she’s blunt, she isn’t mean spirited about it, the way a lot of the other merchant children could be.
The silvery dawn has started to slowly illuminate the morning as the two of them head back towards the school and across the playing fields.
“It could be one of us,” Izuku says eventually, “What about when Ida’s older brother got picked?”
“That was fourteen years ago,” Tsu tells him. It still puts a damper on the conversation, though. Ida was a classmate of theirs, and a good friend. Even though they had all only been three when Ida’s big brother Tensei was reaped, it was still a looming shadow that Ida carried with him throughout his life, trying to live up to the memory of the brother he never got to know.
“There was Mineta, too,” Izuku continues, “Three or four years ago?”
“Five years,” Tsu clarifies, “Also very unexpected. And the last town kid who’s been picked since.”
It’s true that most of the kids picked are from the Seam, the neighbourhood on the east side of the district made up of rough shacks that line the road leading up to the coal mine that is the heart of District 12’s industry. Izuku and Tsu go to school with them, the sons and daughters of those miners, but live very separate lives from them. Not that there aren’t friendships—romances, even—between them, but those were rare, and marriages between the two groups even rarer. Not forbidden, just not exactly approved, similarly to those who were in same-sex relationships. Those were more so frowned upon, not out of taboo—though back in the day it used to get people fired from jobs, or even arrested—but because it didn’t result in children. And the Capitol cared far more about that than coal; and Izuku has a feeling it’s less about adding to their scarce population, but just about having more names to be entered into the Reaping, more children to be sent off to the Capitol each year.
And the Seam kids have the worst odds. The miners live on sparse wages, and in lean years when the coal quotas aren’t met and wages get withheld, people will literally drop dead of starvation. Izuku has watched it happen, the thin kids in school who turn gaunt and then simply disappear. Later, they hear of their passing, attend their funerals. It happens all the time. To them, anyway.
Which is why most Seam kids take out tesserae, which allows them a monthly allowance of grain and oil, for themselves and each member of their family, if they take out the maximum amount. In order to do so, they must add more chances into the Reaping. Most of the kids have one entry per year of eligibility, from ages 12 to 18, which goes up by one each year, which is how Izuku has six entries now at seventeen. Depending on the size of their families, the kids who take out tesserae can have much, much more. Take Kirishima for example, also seventeen but from the Seam, and with his mother, two younger brothers, and a little sister to feed. Izuku has watched him wheel home his rations each year, which earns him an additional six slips on top of his mandatory entry.
And this is how Izuku—and Tsu, and the other kids from town—know themselves to be safe. When someone like Kirishima has so many entries, the odds are definitely not in his favour. Every once in a while, a townie will beat the odds and be chosen. It is a random process, after all, left entirely up to chance. But Seam or town, winners of the Hunger Games don’t come from District 12—their participants barely last past the first few days. Five years ago, Mineta hid from the fighting for a couple of nights before he was killed by a pack of kids hunting together, and they slit his throat. And Izuku watched him die, just like he did for countless kids before, and since.
There’s always additional outrage among the merchants whenever a child from town is picked. They’ll start ranting about the unfairness of it all, the sport that was being made of all of them for the sake of keeping the Capitol entertained. How the Reaping must be rigged to have a townie get chosen occasionally, just to remind them all that even they are the playthings of the Capitol. Inko doesn’t allow for such treasonous talk under her roof, of course, so Izuku would never be stupid enough to say as much out loud, even if he did agree, somewhat. It was an unfair system, and maybe the Reaping was rigged, sometimes—an awful lot of children from the families of existing victors get chosen, after all—but what use was it to voice such dangerous ideas? It would either earn him a slap from his mother, or a bullet in the head from a Peacekeeper, at worst. So it was best to just keep his mouth shut. Besides, he was far too privileged to have any right to complain about how life in general is just kind of terrible for all of them.
“Well, I just hope it’s not Kirishima,” Izuku says, “And I’m sure plenty of the girls in our grade are thinking the same thing.”
“I think they’ll have to keep dreaming no matter what,” Tsu remarks, “He’s pretty exclusive to Bakugou.”
Izuku bristles a little. “What? No, they’re not—are they?”
“Well, the girls might have taken notice of Kirishima, but it certainly hasn’t gone both ways.” Tsu gives him a knowing look, and Izuku feels his cheeks burn. “Much like you. You could have had your pick of anyone to take to last year’s harvest dance, you know.”
Nearly anyone, Izuku thinks.
“Especially since you joined the wrestling team,” Tsu goes on, “Yet I practically had to beg you to go with Pony-chan.”
“You did not beg me,” Izuku retorts, “I said I would be happy to go with Tsunotori and I had a nice time.”
Tsu raises an eyebrow at him. “But you would have been thrilled and would have had a wonderful time if you’d gone with someone else.”
Izuku opens his mouth to retort, but they’ve reached the town square. There’s a few Capitol crew members occupying the square now, looking at clipboards and speaking into earpieces as they get started on preparations for that afternoon’s ceremony. The Justice Building is getting washed down, banners hung up, and there’s an equipment truck parked nearby being unloaded with supplies to set up the stage and screens and speakers. Izuku and Tsu make their way quietly through the square until they reach the front door of the cobbler shop.
“Some of the kids are going to the Victor’s Village tonight, while everyone is watching the recap,” Tsu says.
Curfew will be suspended tonight, at least for as long as the opening commentary of the Games is on. Half the district will be crowded in the town square, watching on the large screens set up there. Not enjoying the program itself, but rather the rare opportunity to be out in a crowd long after dark. And the Victor’s Village will be abandoned, with its sole occupant, Toshinori Yagi, on his way to the Capitol for the duration of the Games to serve as a mentor to the two poor kids who lose today’s lottery.
“Sero is bringing moonshine,” Tsu adds.
“Of course he is,” Izuku says with a sigh. “Are you going?”
“Only if you do.”
“I’ll think about it,” Izuku says, though it’s mostly a lie.
He really can’t think about tonight with the looming horror of the Reaping approaching.
Izuku is just pulling the first batch of rolls out of the oven when he hears the soft knock at the back door. He sets down the tray and heads over to the door to reveal Kirishima, who is holding a skinned squirrel. The open door lets out a waft of the scent of flour, fresh bread, and the sugar cookies Izuku currently has in the oven. Kirishima’s dark lashes flutter as the aroma strikes him in the face. Seeing him now reminds Izuku of the conversation he had earlier with Tsu. He hadn’t really given it much notice, but it was unquestionable that Kirishima was a good-looking boy—one of those guys who had matured early and was full of self-assurance. He had jet black hair that fell into his wide, piercing red eyes. He was tall and well-built—not muscular, per se, but sinewy and easy-limbed. Easy of expression, too—despite his hardships, he always carried a toothy grin on his face, as if he knew some secret the rest of them didn’t. Izuku supposes he could understand the appeal.
“Burnin’ the midnight oil, Midoriya?” Kirishima asks.
Izuku smiles a little. “Not exactly,” he says. He eyes the squirrel. “I’m sure you’ve been up much longer than me.”
“You could say that,” Kirishima says. And then, in a softer voice, he asks. “Your ma still sleepin’?”
Izuku nods. “Wait here.”
Izuku leaves the door somewhat ajar, allowing for the scent of the freshly-baked bread to still reach Kirishima as he heads to the counter and takes one of the fresh loaves of bread and wraps it up in some white cloth. He goes back to the door, and hands Kirishima the package, and Kirishima passes over the skinned squirrel. Fresh bread for a single squirrel is hardly an equitable trade, by any normal measure. But Izuku likes squirrel, and he’s known to be more of a pushover on Reaping Day. At least while Inko is still asleep and is none the wiser.
“Thanks very much. This will be great in a stew,” Izuku says, “Are you going back out again before the ceremony?”
“Yep. Got a few hours before showtime,” Kirishima says, “You were my last stop before I head out.” And then, in a tone of forced normalcy, he adds, “You, uh, got any plans this afternoon?”
Izuku nods. “Once I get the baking done, I’m going to visit Eri.”
A flicker of pain crosses Kirishima’s face. “Right,” he says, in a low voice, “The first year is always the hardest. But also the easiest. She’ll be alright.”
“Yeah,” Izuku says, “And so will you. Good luck today, Kirishima.”
“You, too,” he says, even though both of them know that out of the two of them, Izuku hardly needs it to get through today.
Kirishima heads off, and Izuku watches him go, then stays by the back door for a time to let in a bit of the summer breeze. He looks out to the east, where the sun is steadily climbing up the sky. The Seam is in that direction, and the meadow, which runs along a huge section of the fence. It’s been a wet enough spring that the wildflowers are still in full bloom there, the air fresh and fragrant.
Izuku takes in a deep pull of breath, trying to see if he can catch a whiff of it on the wind, but all he smells is the cookies, which seem like they’re just about done. He turns around and heads back inside.
Around lunchtime, Izuku heads over to Mayor Aizawa’s house with a basket of fresh rolls and a small white bag filled with sugar cookies. Under his arm is the latest of his sketchbooks, and tucked in his back pocket is a thin plastic box filled with pencils. These last two items are typically nobody’s business but Izuku’s own, but he always makes a special exception when it comes to Eri. They could certainly both use the distraction.
Mayor Aizawa accepts the bread with a muttered thanks and Izuku’s payment, flat-out cash that can be used in the Capitol store and merchant shops, instead of trading with goods. Then Izuku sits down with Eri at the table in the dining room, and lets her flip through his sketchbook. When Izuku was younger, he used to sketch animals, the coal train, the odd car that rolled in from the Capitol. Lately, though, he’s been making a more careful study of things; like trying to capture the delicate veins of a blade of grass, or the variegated shading of a snail shell. He’ll also occasionally draw people he knows—teammates and friends, his favourite teachers. But as Eri looks through the pages, the frequent subject of his studies becomes crystal clear.
“You draw Kacchan-san a lot,” Eri comments.
Izuku rubs his neck, which is feeling very warm. “I was…trying to get his eyes right.”
What was handsome on Kirishima’s face was also handsome on Kacchan’s, but it’s also more than that. Some folks from the Seam had that look about them, sure, a surface similarity of features: the shape of the eyes, the turn of the mouth. But Kacchan has an arresting quality that goes beyond that—intriguingly elusive, difficult to pin down. His cool self-possession, his natural grace, and his expressive eyes. They were the hardest part of Kacchan to draw. One line out of place, and suddenly it just wasn’t him anymore. They were at such a specific angle, had a certain sharpness to them, and a fire that was difficult to put down on paper. He still hasn’t been able to truly capture his essence.
Eri analyzes a recent sketch of the blond boy, where Izuku had captured him sitting in the grass in the school field during their lunch period. “He’s scowling in nearly every one of these,” she says.
“I think the sun was in his eyes,” Izuku supplies.
Izuku makes a mental note to bury his sketchbooks deep in his sock and underwear drawer when he gets back home. On the off chance that he’s reaped today, no one should be able to disturb the memories of his rapidly-disappearing childhood captured in these rough, often embarrassing drawings.
Just then, there’s a knock at the back door, the same familiar pattern Izuku had heard at his own back door earlier that morning. Mayor Aizawa heads over to greet the visitor, and Izuku listens to the sound of a distant, muted conversation. Then, Aizawa appears in the dining room. “Eri, we have some visitors. They’ve brought you a present. Come and say hello.”
Eri gets up and follows her father to the back door. After a minute or so, she returns, carrying a basket full of juicy red strawberries. Izuku makes an appreciative sound as Eri sets them on the table.
“Wow, Eri, who brought you those?”
“Kirishima-san and Kacchan-san did,” Eri says softly, staring at her strawberries. “They know they’re my favourite.”
Izuku smiles. “That was very nice of them. They sure picked a lot! Do you want to have some with the cookies I brought? Maybe with some tea?”
Eri’s eyes shimmer a little at the prospect of a tea party, an innocent and fun activity that Izuku wished didn’t have to be preceded by the grim festival that was awaiting them out in the square. But if it took her mind off of it for a few more minutes, that was fine by Izuku. They get up and head into the kitchen, where Izuku brings the basket of strawberries to the sink to rinse them off. In the window, he can see that the grim festival in question is in a flurry of activity, as engineers put the final touches on the lights and cameras and speakers, and workers mount the large screen above the front of the Justice Building. The camera crew runs checks on their sound systems and ensures they are able to capture every angle of the town square, so as not to miss a moment of the misery.
Izuku catches a glimpse of two retreating backs moving down the streets of the town centre. A telltale shock of ash blond hair catches the sunlight, and Izuku stares until the two figures have turned the corner and are out of sight.
An hour before the ceremony, Izuku heads home to freshen up and put on his best clothes, where he manages a few moments alone in his bedroom, a prey to the quiet panic unique to this dreadful holiday. He says a mental goodbye to his possessions, just in case. Not that he has a lot—old toys he’s outgrown but hasn’t yet passed down to the younger kids in town. Ribbons from school—mostly for gym and wrestling, although one year he won an essay contest and another time a teacher liked one of his sketches so much she had it framed. Speaking of which…Izuku pulls up his mattress, digs out his other sketchbooks, stacks them up with the one he brought to the Aizawas earlier, and then scribbles out a note on a scrap of paper. He sticks the note in the first book, puts them together in the top drawer of his dresser, buried under threadbare socks and boxer briefs.
Izuku is just closing the drawer when his mother walks into the room. The two of them share an initial moment of eye contact, and then avert their gaze. Izuku collects the money that Mayor Aizawa gave him earlier from his other pants, and hands it to Inko while mumbling out that he’ll see her after the ceremony, and then leaves the room.
Outside in the square, it’s hard to pinpoint where one emotion begins and the other ends—they all run together, like madness. There is a crowd shuffling in—the kids of District 12—all dressed in their best. The adults stake their positions in a ring around the square; parents with blank faces, neighbours shaking their heads, gamblers making bets in the shaded corners of shop awnings. The voices are despairing of indifferent, excited or stressed, and all blend together in a single, anxious cacophony. Izuku takes his place in the shuffling line to sign in, getting his finger pricked and his blood dotted onto a slip of paper with his name and district number. Then he finds his way to the roped-off line of seventeen-year-old boys, thinking about how close the stage seems this year. If he makes it through this Reaping, next year he’ll have a front row seat.
In the front row this year is Kacchan, since he turned eighteen back in April. That makes this his final year of eligibility for the Reaping. After today, if his name is not chosen, he’ll be safe. Izuku looks around and catches a glimpse of him, at the end of the front row of boys, right by the rope partition. His spikey blond hair and tall stature allows him to be picked out easily among the crowd. He’s wearing the same dark button-down that he wears every year to the Reaping. He probably smells like rosemary and lavender, too, the same way he always does today. If Izuku is lucky, maybe he’ll be able to pass by Kacchan as he makes his way back towards the Seam, and catch a trace of the scent he’ll leave in his trail. Then Izuku realizes how horrendously creepy that sounds, and hurls the thought right out of his brain.
Good luck, Kacchan, Izuku thinks to himself. This is an annual ritual of his. Because Kacchan needs it much more than he does, even though he would scoff at Izuku for saying as much. Not that he lets Izuku say so much as two words to him these days.
There’s a few rich kids around him, looking almost bored with the proceedings. They seem so relaxed, thinking nothing of the other kids with less favourable odds, kids who they have known to some degree for their entire lives, be it as friends, neighbours, classmates, or practically strangers. Sometimes, despite himself, Izuku has to admire the efficiency of this system that has so thoroughly cowed them. It is designed to discourage cooperation. Certainly, it is difficult to think in terms of anyone in the crowd besides himself—even Kacchan. Izuku just wants to be spared, and that is also what the Capitol wants, for him to hunger for his own life at the expense of all the other kids around him. It’s awful, and inescapable. And he might just be the only person to have these thoughts. And since they can’t go anywhere, they go nowhere, and trouble only him.
Then, all too soon, it’s 2 o’clock and the Reaping ceremony begins. Mayor Aizawa rises from his chair, and Izuku can see the sheer exhaustion and stress on his face. This is difficult for him under any circumstances, but with his daughter in the crowd this year, it must be weighing on him even harder.
He begins his usual speech, straight out of the history books. There was once a vast landmass—many times larger than their current country—that was known as Japan. Their ancestor’s greed for resources, short-sightedness and descent into barbarism doomed the land and its people to waste and ruin—along with the rest of the world, as far as they all knew. The air was choked with smoke, the icy seas melted and caused the oceans to rise up and engulf much of the land. Droughts choked rivers and farmland, massive storms wiped out the encampments where survivors gathered, and disease ran rampant. Old territorial disputes couldn’t be resolved peacefully, and multiple wars broke out.
Upon the resolution, the greatly-reduced population regrouped and formed a government, calling this new country Panem. Thirteen districts were formed, each one specializing in a single industry that would be needed by the Capitol, the seat of government located in a great city in the east, encircled by mountains. With all the power and wealth consolidated in the Capitol, district trade discrepancies and disagreements led into resentment.
The official story was that District 13, the northernmost district, grew greedy of its resources, wanted to collect on the profits of its graphite, and felt it should hold power over the other districts. Finally, 13 challenged the Capitol, involved the other 12 districts in a war known now as the Dark Days, and eventually, was destroyed by the Capitol. The other districts surrendered and, under the terms of the peace agreement called the Treaty of Treason, here they all were today, their lives forfeit because of the long-ago actions of their dead ancestors. The children of rebels—not that there’s much of that left in evidence these days—perpetually serving out the terms of their punishment. Instead of large-scale death, like what 13 suffered, they have this slow-dripping horror spread out over generations, so they will never forget their ingratitude or the Capitol's mercy.
“It is both a time for repentance and a time for thanks,” Mayor Aizawa’s concluding words of the litany remind them, the same as every year.
Up next steps the Capitol escort for District 12, a woman who goes by the name Midnight. She’s like a garish gemstone in this gray, gloomy setting with her typical provocative outfit that she tries to one-up every year with its outlandish lewdness. This year, it’s a skin-tight bodysuit that gives off the illusion she’s standing up on the stage wearing nothing but a corset around her waist, because it’s the exact colour as her skin. She has paired the corset with some matching lacy black underwear, black knee-high boots and elbow-length gloves made of the same stretchy, shiny material, and a red eye mask. She leans in close to the mic and slips into her usual, sultry greeting that doesn’t match the occasion at all.
“Welcome, welcome, welcome~” she sighs, “Happy Hunger Games, and…may the odds be ever in your favour!” This, as usual, is met with the same silence from the crowd as always, but Midnight never wavers. “Before we begin, we have a—”
Then Midnight is interrupted by the arrival of Toshinori, who stumbles out of the double doors of the Justice Building. He’s wearing the bright yellow pin-striped suit he typically wears for the Reaping, even though he’s swimming in it. Izuku isn’t sure if this suit had once fit a younger Toshinori at some point, but these days it hangs off his bony frame. He’s drunk, so much so that slowly staggering over to his seat seems to take everything he’s got. He was Izuku’s age when he won the 50th Hunger Games, which would make him forty-two now, but he looks like he could be twenty years older than that. There is a hollow look on his face, especially his sunken eyes, that never goes away no matter how drunk he gets. He always seems to be especially inebriated on Reaping Day. Izuku can’t say he blames him.
Midnight waits until Toshinori drops down into his seat before she returns to her speech. “...As I was saying, we have a very special film for all of you; a message straight from the Capitol and President Shigaraki himself!”
She means, of course, the same pre-recorded propaganda they play for the crowd every year, where President Shigaraki, looking a few years younger but no less disturbing with his vacant, pale eyes and peculiar smile, sits at his polished desk and recites his spiel before they’re shown clips of war-torn wastelands and fires and soldiers. Izuku doesn’t even look at any of the big screens playing the footage, keeping his eyes up on the stage, watching as Midnight mouths every word to herself quietly before saying the last part into the mic alongside their president.
“...’this is how we safeguard our future.’ Oh, I just love that part!” Midnight cries.
There’s a final swell of trumpets from the speakers, then the video fades out to the Capitol logo before it goes black momentarily, then cuts back to three separate camera angles of the audience, none of whom look nearly as moved.
“Now, without further ado, it is finally time to choose one courageous man and woman for the honour of representing District Twelve in the Seventy-fourth annual Hunger Games,” Midnight continues, “Now, I know the rule is typically ‘ladies first’, but…” She runs her tongue over her painted red lips before leaning into the mic. “How about I start with the men?”
This is what their escort does every year, of course. While all the other districts call the girl before the boy, Midnight always starts with the male tribute. Her heels clack loudly as she moves across to the bowl on the right side of the stage, and dips one of her shiny black gloves in, shuffling around the papers as she buries her arm down deep. She comes away with a single piece of folded paper, and then struts back to the microphone.
This is the moment, always the moment, when fear clutches at Izuku’s stomach. The entire square, the entire district, seems to choke on its own breath as they silently wait in this unbearable tension before Midnight calls out the name. Izuku looks to the boys around him, thinks of Kirishima a few bodies down, and then back to that shock of blond hair in the front row, and waits, and hopes, and prays that it’s not him, not Kirishima, and not Kacchan. He wishes it didn’t have to be any of them.
“...Kota Izumi!”
There’s a sharp gasp from over where the adults are gathered, no doubt from Kota’s parents, watching helplessly from the sidelines as their twelve-year-old son is reaped. It’s followed by a wail, a woman’s cry, most likely the boy’s mother. It’s Kota’s first reaping; he’s a Seam kid, who at most would have four slips in the bowl if he took out additional tesserae for himself and his mom and dad. Unless his parents were protective of him, in which case he would only have one. Of all the Seam kids who could possibly be picked, Kota was one of the few who was supposed to have the odds in his favour. But it didn't matter today. It only cemented Izuku’s point from before; it really could be any of them.
He’s dead, Izuku thinks to himself. He’s dead, that little boy. And there isn’t a thing any of them can do to stop it.
Except one thing. The one changeable thing about Reaping Day. One girl can volunteer for another girl, and one boy can do the same. There are districts where, although it’s technically against the rules, kids who have trained for the Games all their lives will volunteer when they turn eighteen, and one of them usually wins. But in District 12, this never happens. None of them, of course, will do it.
But then, one of them does.
Kota, his parents, Izuku, and the rest of District 12 barely have time to react to the news of the name that was called before there’s a flutter of movement from the front row of boys as someone ducks under the rope partition and out into the centre aisle.
“Oi,” Kacchan says, in a low but clear voice, “I volunteer as tribute.”
There’s a camera on Kacchan in an instant, broadcasting his image up on the big screen above the stage. He’s got his hands stuffed into his pockets, and his usual scowl on his face, though he looks uniquely determined in a way that Izuku has never seen before.
“O-oh my!” Midnight exclaims, “It would appear we have a volunteer!”
Izuku suddenly feels faint, as the events that are unfolding hit him all at once. He tries to remember what it feels like to breathe as his knees buckle, and he can feel a boy next to him grasp his arm to keep him upright. Everything recedes into the background as Izuku watches with blurry vision as Kacchan walks up to the stage and turns towards the crowd. Midnight asks for Kacchan to introduce himself, but even when hearing the sound of Kacchan’s voice amplified over the speakers as he says his name, Izuku’s mind refuses to accept what is happening. Not only did Kacchan not escape the net of the Capitol, he walked right into it. Willingly. On purpose. Izuku is filled with both incredible awe and unbearable heartache.
“Well, Katsuki, it’s very nice to meet you,” Midnight croons, “Normally I’d move right on to the ladies…but since this is such a big moment, why don’t you say a few words as representative of District Twelve’s first ever volunteer!”
Midnight steps back from the mic, giving Kacchan the stage. Kacchan takes a step close to the microphone stand, his hands still tucked away in his pockets. There’s an upturn to his chin, a set firmness to his jaw and mouth as he leans into the microphone and takes in a small breath.
“I just wanna say,” Kacchan begins, his voice echoing across the square, “I’m gonna win.”
The crowd is completely silent. Though Izuku doesn’t dare to tear his eyes away from Kacchan, he catches in his peripheral vision where the giant screen is showing some close-up reaction shots of the crowd. Some people’s mouths are hanging open in shock, other people look almost as devastated as Izuku feels. And with good reason. Kacchan is a pillar of the community. He and Kirishima have basically been keeping the Seam folk fed single-handedly for years. Even the people who found Kacchan to be abrasive still could not deny his tenacity, his bravery, his skill. And now it was all being torn away, by Kacchan’s own hand. Did he seriously not understand how integral he was to the people of 12, how much his loss would impact all of them?
Then, from the back of the stage, Toshinori lets out a cackle and pulls himself unsteadily to his feet. Kacchan and Midnight both turn to watch Toshinori stagger across the stage towards them. Then he drops one of his large, bony hands on top of Kacchan’s head and ruffles his hair. From the way Kacchan’s shoulders hike up and his face screws into a glare that’s trying not to turn into a wince, it’s clear that Toshinori is a lot stronger than he looks.
“Lookit this one! I like ‘im! He’s got…” Toshinori hiccups, and then he waggles a finger through the air, trying to come up with the word. Then he snaps his fingers. “Spunk! More’n you!”
Maybe he thinks they should all be applauding? He seems to be pointing vaguely towards the crowd, though over their heads. Then Toshinori walks towards the front of the stage, and points directly towards one of the cameras.
“More than you!”
Izuku still isn’t sure if Toshinori is berating the crowd, or the Capitol itself, but he doesn’t get time to consider it before Toshinori falls right off the stage. There’s a brief ruckus as the eighteen-year-olds up front step back and let some Peacekeepers come over to make sure District 12’s only living victor hasn’t killed himself in a drunken spill. But when they determine he’s only knocked himself out, Toshinori is carried off on a stretcher. District 12 is going to have a lot of airtime tonight, Izuku thinks dizzily.
Midnight is looking eager to move on, making her way over to the girl’s bowl as Kacchan moves off to the side. They’re probably already behind schedule as it is, and if Izuku knew anything about Midnight from her years on TV, it was that she worshiped punctuality. The crowd is still shuffling around, trying to get back its bearings when Midnight returns to the microphone with a slip of paper, calling out the name suddenly, almost as if it's an afterthought at this point.
“...Eri Aizawa!”
The words slowly detangle themselves in Izuku’s head and bounce around his skull as he watches Kacchan and the rest of District 12 simultaneously look towards the back of the stage, where Mayor Aizawa sits stiffly in his chair, looking utterly shell-shocked. Then, everyone turns to look as little Eri, clutching at the front of her red overall dress, steps out from the back row of the pen of girls, her large red eyes thick with tears.
This can’t possibly be right. Eri was one slip of paper in thousands! Her chances of being chosen were so remote, that Izuku hadn’t even bothered to worry about her. One slip. One slip in thousands.
None of the girls volunteer. And why would they? What Kacchan had done was radical, volunteering for a child who wasn’t even a younger sibling to him, which would be the only conceivable option for someone to volunteer, if it ever were to happen at all. Eri has no siblings to come to her aid, and no one else is saying anything. No one is coming to her rescue. It has to be the most unluckiest Reaping there’s ever been in Izuku’s known memory. Two twelve-year-olds called, and only one of them was spared. The other is doomed to die. She’s dead. If Eri goes into the arena, she is never coming out. It is an absolute certainty, as much as the sun rising in the east, as much as it rising on a Reaping.
Midnight calls out to her, too chipper, too sweetly, and Eri remains rooted in place, trembling as two Peacekeepers make their way towards her. No matter how afraid she is, no matter how small, or how hard she cries or how loudly she screams, Eri will be brought up onto that stage. Already, Shouta Aizawa’s heart must be breaking into tiny, jagged little pieces. And still, nobody says anything. Nobody is going to volunteer.
What is wrong with all of them? Why does no one in District 12 look out for each other? The only one who looked out for his own was Kacchan, feeding the district ever since he was twelve-years-old, and now volunteering for a boy he’s probably never even spoken to. He was the best of all of them, and there was nothing Izuku could do to prevent his fate. If Kacchan’s name had been called first, Izuku could have volunteered, sent himself into the arena knowing that next year, Kacchan would have slipped this noose. But now he can only watch helplessly as Kacchan and the little girl he’s loved like a sister are both taken away from him forever.
Izuku’s legs move on their own, as though propelled by some unseen force, and suddenly he’s pushing his way through the lineup of seventeen-year-old boys and dipping under the rope partition. He darts for Eri just as the Peacekeepers draw near. They startle somewhat at his approach, and then lunge for him, grabbing Izuku by the arms before he can reach Eri.
“I volunteer!” Izuku gasps out, struggling against the officer’s grip. And then, in a shout, “I VOLUNTEER!”
There’s some confusion from the Peacekeepers who grapple him. The rules state that only another eligible girl can volunteer if a girl’s name has been read. There hasn’t been a volunteer for District 12 in decades, until Kacchan volunteered for Kota, but even with protocol being as rusty as it is, what Izuku is trying to do right now is impossible. Undoubtedly, the Peacekeepers will simply drag him off, drive a baton into his gut, maybe even tase him, arrest him for causing a disturbance and delaying the ceremony, anything but allow him to do what he is trying to do. But when the officer’s hold on Izuku’s arms goes slightly slack, Izuku takes the opportunity to knock their hands away. His hands clench into fists at his sides as he looks up at the stage.
“I volunteer as tribute!”
He watches as Kacchan’s eyes go wide, and Midnight lets out a performative gasp. “Another volunteer!” she cries out, “And not only that, but a male volunteer, for a female tribute. I do believe that’s another Hunger Games first!”
It would appear that Midnight is so delighted by these unorthodox turn of events that she is willing to overlook the rules of the Reaping if it means the dreary, coal-dust coated district that she’s been saddled with for years is finally giving her a little action. Izuku watches as Midnight brings a hand up to her ear, where someone from the film crew must be uttering directions.
“In fact, we may need to deliberate on this for a brief moment,” Midnight says, “We’ll let you quiver in anticipation for just a moment, folks.”
Suddenly, the double doors of the Justice Building open up and two men dressed in lavish suits walk over to Midnight. She steps away from the microphone and the three of them talk conspiratorially amongst themselves too quietly for the mic to pick up. Izuku’s gaze flickers to Kacchan, who is watching this exchange as raptly as the rest of the people in the square.
Eventually, Midnight returns to the mic and her eyes land on Izuku. “Come on up, little boy…”
But before Izuku can take a step, Eri lets out a hysterical scream and throws her arms around Izuku’s legs like a vice. She bursts into tears and Izuku feels his heart crumpling into a withered husk in his chest.
“No, don’t go! Please don’t go!”
Izuku crouches down and grasps onto Eri’s shoulders, trying to gently pull her hands free when she grabs onto any part of him that she can reach. In the back of his mind, he knows the two of them are undoubtedly on camera. He is suddenly as aware of this fact as he is of his own mortality. His and Eri’s miserable faces are being beamed live to the Capitol. If he really is being allowed to take Eri’s place, then he is now a tribute in the Hunger Games. Other tributes and their mentors and oddsmakers will be weighing his abilities based on this moment. What he should do is try to wipe everything off of his face, and try to mirror Kacchan’s determination. To make it to the stage without breaking down. But he is simply not that strong, and seeing Eri like this upsets him. So even though they will be televising the replay of the reapings tonight, and even though everyone will take note of his tears and mark him as an easy target, as a weakling, Izuku is powerless to keep them from falling.
“Eri, I’m so sorry,” Izuku says, his voice trembling as he fights to keep it steady, “I’m sorry—”
“You can’t, you can’t—”
“E-Eri, please—” He’s fully sobbing now. “G-go find Togata, he’ll—”
“Noo! No!”
One of the Peacekeepers grabs Izuku by the elbow and tries to pull him away, but Eri throws herself at him again, only for the other Peacekeeper to grab her and pull her away. She’s lifted off the ground and thrashes in the Peacekeeper’s arms as she reaches out for Izuku.
“No, no! Don’t go, don’t go! Noooo!”
There’s a horrible, horrible moment where Izuku thinks he will have to watch helplessly as the little girl he tried to save is beaten by a Peacekeepers as Izuku is dragged up to the stage, but then there’s movement from the left and Mirio Togata comes running up to the officer and starts to plead with him to let him take Eri. The Peacekeeper hands the wailing girl over, and Togata spares Izuku the briefest of grief-stricken glances as he wraps his arms around Eri and carries her away. Eri continues to scream, tears rolling down her red cheeks as she looks back at Izuku. Izuku can only stare as the Peacekeeper takes him by the arm and starts to pull him towards the stage.
Midnight meets Izuku at the top of the stairs and places a hand on his back as they walk over to the microphone together. Izuku tries to scrub away the tears on his face before he takes his place in front of the microphone stand.
“Two volunteers in a single day!” Midnight exclaims excitedly, “District Twelve hasn’t given me this much excitement in…well, ever!” Izuku feels Midnight squeeze his shoulder, and she coaxes him closer towards the microphone. “Now, tell me, sweet thing. Who was that cute little girl to you?”
Izuku stares out at the sea of faces—he knows them, all of these people—but none of them look familiar to him. Something is wrong with his vision, and everything looks unbalanced and faint. “...she’s my friend,” he whispers.
“And what’s your name, dear?”
Izuku wipes away more of his tears before he mumbles out, “Izuku. Izuku Midoriya.”
“Izuku. Well, Izuku, I must say you really touched us all to the core today. Hasn’t he, ladies and gentlemen?”
To the everlasting credit of the people of District 12, not one person claps. Not even the ones holding betting slips, the ones who are usually beyond caring. Possibly because they know him from the bakery, or have encountered Eri, who no one can help loving. So instead of acknowledging applause, Izuku stands there unmoving while they take part in the boldest form of dissent they can manage. Silence. It is not the same appalled, shocked silence as when Kacchan had volunteered. This one screams that they all do not agree. They do not condone. All of this is wrong.
Then, at first one, then another, then almost every member of the crowd touches the three middle fingers of their left hand to their lips and holds it out towards the stage. It is an old and rarely used gesture of their district, occasionally seen at funerals. It means thanks, it means admiration, it means good-bye to someone you love.
Izuku’s throat clenches tight, and he begins to openly weep again at this solemn and real gesture that is also a protest of sorts. He can feel it, the frisson in the silent air.
“Ladies and gentlemen, our—first ever!—all male tributes from District Twelve!” Midnight announces, “Well, boys? Go ahead and shake hands!”
Midnight spins Izuku around and grabs Kacchan by the arm and pulls him closer. Mayor Aizawa comes over to them, his expression still pained when he briefly catches Izuku’s eye. While his daughter has been spared, there is still the recognition of the two boys on the stage now. The boy who brings the strawberries. The boy who brings the bread and cookies, who has loved Eri like she was his own blood. The boys who both stood huddled with their grieving mothers as, eight years ago, he presented each of them with a medal of valor. A medal for their fathers, vaporized in the mines.
Then Izuku looks to Kacchan, and is arrested by the fact that this may very well be the first time the two of them have made eye contact in years. In fact, he is certain of it. Izuku swallows the thick lump in his throat as he stares into those mesmerizing vermillion depths, suddenly awash in the strongest memory of Kacchan he has…
The sun was glowing everywhere that day, as if the day before—with its relentless curtain of hard, cold rain—was a million years ago. Every colour of the universe was illuminated, the blue sky infused with light, the green grass reflecting it, and the little yellow flowers—the first ones of spring—like droplets of sunshine. Izuku breathed in the light, fresh air of early spring, heady and fine, and was alive with it.
He looked across the blacktop to the playground, his eyes squinting against the brightness. The bruise on his face hurt, reminding him that he was not composed of light and springtime, but just an eleven-year-old boy, made of bones and flesh. And so was he—Kacchan. Too thin, too pale lately. Izuku had seen him the day before and the rain itself seemed close to beating his fragile body down into the earth. Both of their fathers died in January and when school finally let back in at the beginning of April, Kacchan seemed to be wasting away. Thin, yes, but more than that—something essential was draining from him. The light in his eyes, the strength in his gait.
And then Kacchan looked at him from across the playground, and it was automatic, the way Izuku’s eyes flicked away, even when he desperately begged in his mind for their eyes to meet. Izuku felt like Kacchan could read what was in his head, both the shame and the interest, and Izuku wasn’t ready to deal with either.
But in that second of eye contact, he noticed one thing: since yesterday, as if he had come back to life with the spring, Kacchan was surer-eyed, surer-footed.
It was odd, what a little bit of bread could accomplish.
Izuku glanced back, curiosity getting the better of him. Kacchan was no longer looking at him, but at one of the dandelions that had broken out of the ground. Izuku watched as Kacchan bent down and picked it, holding it up to his face.
After that day, Izuku stopped even contemplating approaching Kacchan. For whatever reason or combination of reasons, it was impossible for him. Even though all he wanted was to be forgiven, he accepted in that moment that would be their final interaction, the last fateful time that their lives would intersect. One transition from rain to sun, winter to spring, starvation to survival.
Kacchan certainly never looked back. It wasn’t too long after that when squirrels started appearing at the bakery. He had started hunting, the way his father had done when he had been alive. District 12’s malcontent spirit had moved beyond the fence.
And now, here he was again, going even further afield.
Izuku extends his hand towards Kacchan, wondering if he is already thinking ahead, to the arena, wondering which nameless, faceless tribute is waiting out there to try and cut him dead. The thought alone makes Izuku feel faint. Technically, that tribute could be Izuku, but that will never happen. If he can kill anyone—and he’s not convinced of it by any means—it will certainly not be Kacchan. He was the boy Izuku tried to save. And is still trying to save, even now.
Kacchan’s expression is hard, a model of stoicism and internal strength. Izuku is fairly certain he is a mess by comparison, all flushed cheeks and puffy red eyes. Kacchan still hasn’t accepted his hand, and for a moment Izuku thinks he isn’t going to, but when Midnight clears her throat loudly, Kacchan lets out a scoff of annoyance and reaches out to grasp Izuku’s hand.
Kacchan’s hand is slender, with long, elegant fingers. It feels small in Izuku’s clasp—and softer than he had expected—but firm, and Izuku gives it a little squeeze; for encouragement, for luck.
Then Kacchan jerks his hand away, and Izuku lets him go.