Chapter Text
Ten Years Ago, One Night Prior to the Reaping: District One
Shoto’s hiding in his sister Fuyumi’s closet again. His parents are in the middle of another fight. They always seem to be fighting these days. He feels bad, really, since they are usually fighting about him. He sniffs a little, doing his best to stay quiet. Fuyumi holds him tighter. She leans over and whispers in his ear.
“They’ll be done in a bit, you know they will.” They both flinch as they hear something smash in the foyer downstairs. Fuyumi and Shoto’s rooms are right at the top of the staircase and in the giant, quiet house, they can hear everything, even buried deep in the closet. Shoto closes his eyes and covers his ears as the shouting picks up again. Eventually, Fuyumi taps his shoulder lightly.
“He left, Sho, they are done for now. You’re okay. You’re safe.” She nudges him a bit, expecting him to leave now, and go back to his own room, but he doesn’t want to leave. He shakes his head no. Fuyumi gives him that horrible look that he hates, it’s not exactly sad but he doesn’t have another word for it, and he sniffs again, scrunching his nose and rubbing his eyes. He can’t look like he’s been crying; it will only make them more mad. Once he’s scrubbed his face of any emotion, he pushes open the closet door, glancing back at Fuyumi. Her face is bright, lit by the little sliver of light from her bedroom, and she shakes her head in a quick, encouraging nod, and he slips out of the closet, into her room, and hurries back down the hall to his own.
Before he can make it there, he hears noise coming from the kitchen, which is odd, their cook has already left for the day, no one should be in the kitchen. He sneaks down the stairs, quiet, careful, making sure that he is neither seen nor heard. He knows the tension in these stairs like his favorite stuffed toy, easily stepping around the creaks. His sock is a little damp once he steps onto the landing, and he spots the source of the crashing noise from earlier. A shattered vase lies there, shards of the pottery strewn about the room. The flowers are in the middle of the main pile. Shoto takes a shuddering breath; they look so sad just lying there without the pretty structure to support them. He wants to bundle them up, but he’s afraid of getting cut by one of the sharp pieces, and his sock is only getting more wet and uncomfortable as he stands in the puddle of water, so instead he jumps over the water, and continues his trek down the long hallway to the kitchen.
As he creeps closer, he can hear that it’s his mother. He doesn’t want to interrupt; instead he huddles down in the hallway outside the kitchen door. She’s crying, talking on the phone to someone.
“I can’t do this anymore,” she sobs, leaning over the sink. Something she’s holding clinks against the side of the sink, and the noise frightens him. He quickly ducks back out of sight. “He’s always been violent with me, but now he’s hurting the children and I can’t-” she cuts off with a sharp intake of breath. “I know but the training he does with them, it never started this young,” she pauses again. Shoto holds his hands over his mouth, desperately trying not to make a sound as he listens. He hears her shift about the kitchen, putting something on the stove with a loud sound, and then the click of the stove turning on. “Every day they act more like him, especially Touya, who wants to be just like his father. And Shoto…” His name. The hairs on his arms raise and he holds his breath waiting for her to continue. “Shoto’s left side looks so much like his father's, it’s that eye. That awful blue eye and I just can’t take it. I don’t want him to be like Enji. He cannot turn into Enji.”
The front door slams and Shoto jumps, but it’s dark in the hallway. Shoto tries to figure out what would be safer - to stay here, or to hurry back to his room. He decides to stay put; he’s hidden in the dark and he would have to sneak past his father to get back to his room anyway.
“I don’t think I can raise them anymore,” his mother starts again, whispering now. She must have heard the front door too, as she starts talking in a loud whisper. Then he hears his father’s footsteps on the tile floor, heading toward him, and he can’t wait any longer. Fear takes over, and he rushes into the kitchen.
“Mom, dad’s coming, I’m sorry, I won’t be bad,” blubbers out of his mouth in terror. She doesn’t notice him at first, listening to someone on the phone. The tea kettle whistles loudly, but Shoto can still hear him walking toward them, and then she turns, and she notices Shoto and for a moment he thinks he might be safe. His mom has always protected him from his father’s rage before, she’ll do it this time as well.
Then her eyes go wide with terror, and she’s still crying, and the tea kettle won’t stop whistling.
“Mom?” Shoto asks, quietly, afraid that he’s already making things worse. He wants to run back to his room. He could make it, probably, he’s very good at being sneaky. Touya taught him all the tricks. He doesn’t run though, instead inching closer to her, and he pulls on her skirt, and she glances down at him again with those wide unseeing eyes. This happens sometimes when they are playing. Those times aren’t scary though, and he usually can get her to come back. Now, he’s not so sure, the feeling of inchworms working through his body. He tries anyway.
“Mom, it’s me, it’s Shoto, please,” he doesn’t even know what he’s asking for exactly, but he knows he needs to be polite. She drops the phone, and lifts the kettle that is still screaming and throws it and Shoto isn’t exactly sure what happens but his face is on fire and now he is screaming and then his father is there, and he’s yelling, and Shoto’s face is still on fire, it hurts, it hurts so much more than anything has ever hurt.
“Your eye boy, can you still open it?” He hears his father say, and he obeys, trying to open his eyes. It hurts, but he can open them. He blinks a few times, before squeezing them shut again.
“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I don’t know what came over me,” Rei repeats over and over again. She dropped the phone a while ago, instead hurrying to the refrigerator to get a bundle of ice in a rag.
“You can’t use ice, woman, this is a burn! It will kill the skin. Wet it with tap water,” Enji shouts, and Rei nods, shaking, as she drops the ice in the sink and wets the towel with water. Shoto flinches violently as the ice cubes crash into the metal sink. Then she rushes over in an attempt to hold it to his face, but Enji rips the towel from her grasp. “You did this, you will stay away from him!” He orders, and no one disobeys an order from Enji so she nods again and steps back a few feet, rubbing her arm idly with her hand. Enji holds the rag to Shoto’s face. “Hold that to your face, and go to Fuyumi. She will help you. I will deal with your mother.”
Shoto opens his good eye, taking hold of the wet cloth and pressing it tightly to the hot side of his face. He looks over at his mother who’s shivering in fear, and back at his father. He wants to stay, to protect her from his rage, but he can’t.
“Go now, boy, I won’t say it again.” His father says, in that calm, even tone that is even more frightening than when he’s yelling. Shoto wishes he would yell now, but he doesn’t. He just glares at Shoto until the small boy moves. He sends one last desperate glance at his mother, who reaches her arm out to him, taking a small step forward, and then he runs back upstairs. He bangs on Fuyumi’s door.
“Shoto, you should be in-” she pauses, dropping to the floor at the sight of him, “dear god, Sho, what happened? You should be in bed. What happened?” She says again with a quick glance in the hallway. She doesn’t see anyone around, so she bundles Shoto back into her room. She’s in her nightgown, hair mussed a bit, with tight eyes. She must have been asleep. Shoto is always an annoyance. Touya tells him as much all the time. Fuyumi doesn’t say it, but he can see it now, in her tired eyes. Sometimes he wishes he could run away. He can’t run away now, though, not with his face hurting this badly. He needs help. Fuyumi takes the rag from him, dabbing at his eye a bit where it’s been leaking.
“God, Shoto, this must hurt, what happened?” She asks again, fresh horror crossing her face at the sight of the wound. She lifts him into her arms and carries him to her bathroom, sitting him on the side of the sink.
…
The next day is Reaping Day, and while the family is busy getting the kids ready for the Reaping, servants quickly move Rei’s things to the other side of the house. Once they return, Enji orders the servants to keep her locked in her rooms until he says otherwise, and no one disobeys an order from Enji in this house.
The Day of the Reaping: District One
The capital city of District One is a mess of action. Everyone is getting ready, looking their best, puffing up chests and inflating egos. It is without question one of Shoto’s least favorite days of the year. His mother calls him her sensitive boy (when she’s allowed to talk) but his father and older brothers always scoff at his affectations. Reaping Day is even worse than normal; the reminder of violence contrasted with pomp and grandeur settles in Shoto’s stomach somewhere between disgust and rage. He’s getting dressed as slowly as possible, trying to delay the inevitable, and Enji notices.
“It is our duty to represent the governing body of the Capitol. We’ve been given power, Shoto, and you should display it with pride.”
Enji makes a comment under his breath about Shoto’s scar, and how could that woman have done this to his face of all places . Shoto rolls his eyes while Enji’s back is turned before forcing his body into the image of perfection. He doesn’t want to be on display, and he knows there are many pieces of him which Enji would rather hide, especially today, when they’ll be on display for everyone in Panem. As he dresses, he feels the bruises and cuts from his training session only yesterday. Shoto has spent many years being the main punching bag when Enji is frustrated or forced to respond to the Capitol and it is always worse during the week leading up to Reaping Day. This year was no exception. Shoto suspects that’s why Enji comes to ‘help’ him get dressed rather than Rei or Fuyumi who would both be more sensible and attentive. Enji is the one with an image to uphold. He scrutinizes Shoto’s collar, buttoning the top button so that it closes tight around his neck, concealing the edges of a small bruise.
“Pride seems to be all this family cares about,” Shoto mutters to the mirror, words carefully chosen to incite but not ignite.
“Pride is all we that we truly own, Shoto. You would do well to remember that.” Enji looks once more at the crisp white suit that Shoto’s been dressed in, dusting off an imaginary piece of lint before smoothing out the shoulders. Shoto freezes at the touch involuntarily, his mind screaming fear. He keeps his face neutral and waits for the scrutiny to end. He’s given a merciful reprieve when Touya dips his head into the room.
“It’s time little brother!” Touya sings out, faking joviality, head cocked sharply to the side. Shoto suspects the light tone is intentional, meant to tease him. All his siblings know how much Shoto detests reaping day. The rest of them are adults now, Touya the only one who still lives in their large house. He’s being prepped to take over the governorship when Enji retires. Natsuo left the minute he turned 18, living in a small apartment in the downtown area. Fuyumi married and left too. Shoto remembers fondly the day of her wedding; she gave him a small kiss on the cheek but her eyes were so sad. I’m sorry for leaving you, one day I’ll come back to take you with me she whispered in his ear before her and her husband were off to their new life together. An empty promise, they both knew, but Shoto appreciated the sentiment all the same. Touya clears his throat and throws the door open wide, gesturing for Shoto to follow. Shoto blinks a few times in a row, pulling himself out of the pool of memory and back to the present moment.
“We’ll be on the stage, watching you. Behave yourself,” Enji calls out after them, a warning that Shoto hardly needs to hear but it chills him to the bone all the same.
The march to the main square is more like a parade, with people lining the streets and cheering at the children of District One all dressed in brilliant whites and golds - not the silks or satins of the Capitol clothing, but clean cotton and fresh pressed linens that appear just as impressive. Each child joins as the parade passes down the main street, some waving and smiling, others with more focus and fire in their demeanor. Shoto takes his spot at the back, before they split into four lines to get their fingers pricked and their blood registered, filing into the final square. Shoto waits for them all to be in place before striding to the front of the rows to stand in the centermost spot saved just for him. It used to be all of his siblings together up there, and now it’s only him, all alone. The air has a chill to it despite the bright summer sun. It’s angled behind the building, casting a shadow that lands right on Shoto all alone. He lifts his chin to stare at the stage, waiting for Hawks to make his entrance.
A Capitol man, through and through, Hawks had altered his appearance over the years to come across more birdlike - hence the nickname. In fact, he had been going by Hawks for so long no one even remembers his government name. Shoto often wonders if Hawks himself knows his given name or if he’s lost it too. This year he is wearing a cape with shiny gold stitching creating the appearance of red feathered wings. Shoto struggles not to gag at the ridiculous display, aware of his face on the large screen. The man is beloved by District One. Filled with charisma and jokes, Hawks has a way of transforming the Reaping into an exciting occasion rather than the sad, sordid affair it had been before Hawks took over. With a gentle swirl that flares the cape out behind him in a showy display, Hawks grabs the microphone. In that swirl, Shoto catches sight of actual feathers sewn on the outside.
“Welcome, one and all, to the Reaping! I’m joined on stage, as always, by our glorious former victors -” a pause for the applause and cheers “- and I stand before our brilliant children primed to be the next victor!” The cheers are deafening now, some parents even calling out their children’s names. Shoto doesn't move, doesn't even blink, for fear his face will betray the sickening feeling in his gut. All of this is wrong; children sent to a battlefield to make up for a war their parents barely remembered. Children trained from a young age to fight and kill. People who revel in it, and parents who look to the games as a place to win honor, instead of as a graveyard. He watches his family clap politely on stage, smiling at the crowd, every inch as complicit as the rest of them in this sick charade.
The video that they watch every year starts to play, ringing out over a now silent crowd. Capitol music plays behind the President’s voice explaining the history of the Hunger Games and why they are so important. Shoto knows his family will have their bodies turned to see the screen, ever conscious of their image, so he allows himself this moment to breathe and relax and close his own eyes. He taps gently on his chest, a little trick Fuyumi taught him years ago to help stay calm. It works, and he is able to tune out the video and ignore the crowd. He lets his mind wander, trying to recall the lyrics to his mother’s favorite song. As the final chords of the film ring out, he puts himself back together, a perfect pool of still and calm. He knows that the chorus lyrics change the second time, but he can’t recall the change right now. He’ll ask her later.
“As all of you know, this year is the 75th annual Hunger Games which makes it a what?” Hawks holds the microphone out to the audience, and they shout back A QUARTER QUELL. His face lights up as if the crowd were students answering a test question correctly. “Yes! And this year’s special rule is particularly delightful: all contestants will be the same age - 16. A perfect year, in my opinion, full of training and vigor. This does, of course, mean we have to pull names instead of taking volunteers this year.” The crowd boos halfheartedly, still enjoying the show. “If my assistants could please bring out the bowls with names…” two men come out carrying the large glass bowls which contain the names. One has many pieces of folded paper filling it, about half full. The other only has one piece. Shoto’s stomach drops. He turned sixteen this year. Instinct takes over and he looks at his father, locking eyes for one moment of pure terror. He is shocked to see that terror reflected back at him. He stops breathing.
“As a true gentleman, I always say ladies first!” Hawks drops his hand into the fuller bowl, rifling around, before pulling out a name. “Camie Utsushimi!” A cheer rings out, but Shoto can’t hear anything over the blood pounding in his ears. The edges of his vision are starting to fade. His hands are going numb. It’s his name in that bowl. His is the only name in that bowl. A girl with long straight brown hair bounces up to the stage but Shoto barely sees her. She gives a short speech like always but he doesn’t hear it. His tongue is too thick. His mouth is dry. Time stretches around him.
“Well, well, well!” Hawks shouts with glee as he reaches slowly into the other bowl, “looks like just one lucky boy of honor. This year’s District One male tribute is… Shoto Todoroki!”
Shoto is frozen in place for a beat too long, willing his body to move, he has to move. Eventually his brain and body collide back into working order and he makes his way to the stage. The crowd is roaring.
“The governor’s son, eh? I bet you’ve trained harder than anyone in the district! Why don’t you say a few words to the crowd?” Hawks leans the microphone over to Shoto who blinks, mind blank.
“I will win.” He says before his mind catches up to the words falling out of his mouth, “I have no choice.” Regret fills his body, followed by waves of dread as the crowd murmurs, then someone cheers, and a few others clap, resulting in a modest, polite applause. He said the wrong thing, he knows it, oh what will Enji do to him when they get back to the house?
“Thank you Shoto! We’re all looking forward to seeing your skills in the arena!” Hawks smiles at him again.
The word arena hits him like a punch. Shoto won’t be going back home. He’ll be taken to the tribute waiting room. Given one last chance to say goodbye. Then he’ll take the short train ride into the Capitol. He might not ever see his home again. Relief and terror flood him in equal measure.
Shoto loses all sense of time. Hawks says a few more words, they perform some quick ceremony rites, and then it’s all over. The crowds are going home, and a pair of peacekeepers are ushering Shoto away into the District Municipal Building to wait in a room Shoto never thought he’d see. They close the door behind him and Shoto melts in a quick moment of panic. He falls to the floor, breathing heavily, creasing his suit he knows but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters right now. All he knows is that he has to get control of himself before his family comes. He can’t break down like this, he has to be strong and stoic and all the things they had trained him to be. Deep gasping breaths shake his body as he tenses every muscle before releasing them. He can hear shouting in the hallway which brings him back to the present, back to his body for long enough to creep to the door to listen.
“I was assured that my children would be safe from the reaping! That was the whole reason I took this position!” the booming voice of Enji stretches down the corridor.
“Sir, he was the only male who turned 16 this year. The quarter quell must take priority over any handshake agreements-”
“The only one? In the entire district? Count again. Someone’s lying about their age I’m sure. Look into it.”
“Sir, our orders are direct and explicit. The reaping must conclude today, there isn’t time to go into all this.” Shoto finally places the other voice - it’s Hawks. Somehow he sounds entirely different right now than when he’s on stage. Deeper in tone, more serious. Something crashes. Shoto flinches but he doesn’t leave the door.
“There must be something-”
“Respectfully, Governor Todoroki, there is nothing to be done. The President has already been given the names. Your son is a tribute, and you had better start acting like the parent of a tribute from District One should.”
Shoto doesn’t move until he hears footsteps coming down the hallway, then he’s a flurry of motion hurrying to sit in the chair placed in one corner near the window. He smooths his pants out and sits up straight just as the door bursts open.
“You have a lot of nerve,” Enji says, voice calm and deep and even. He closes the door slowly behind him, the very image of composure, before crossing the room. A loud thud rings out, as his fist connects, and Shoto falls to the side. He sits back up, rubbing his arm.
“I said I would win, I thought you’d be proud of me.”
“Oh, you will win. You were right. You have no choice. This is not about you anymore; this is about our entire family. If you lose, you get the release of death. But we will suffer for the rest of our lives.”
A hundred responses filter through Shoto’s mind. He says none of them.
“For once you’re quiet? No biting remark?” Enji lets out a dark chuckle. “We can’t protect you now boy. Let’s hope you remember your training.”
And then he turns on a heel and leaves. The door slams, shaking the frame a little, leaving Shoto in a painful, heavy silence, as he waits.
The door bursts open again, this time his siblings filter through. Fuyumi is crying. Natsuo hovers near the door, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. Touya stands tall, glowering down at Shoto from his imposing height. He’s thinner than Enji, but every inch the same intimidating presence.
“Shoto, oh baby brother, how could this be happening,” Fuyumi says quietly, wrapping her arms around him in a gentle hug. “You’ll be fine, right? Father trained you harder than any of us. He must have seen your promise. You’ll be okay.” Shoto lifts a hand that doesn’t feel like his own to touch Fuyumi’s face, trying to comfort her. It’s cold though, his hands are always too cold or too hot. Never comforting. He wants to say something, to calm her down, but the words turn to dust, and he just leaves his hand on her face, staring at her, hoping she feels it.
“Tch, of course he will be fine Fuyumi, stop crying. He’s a career after all. Trained by Enji - a former victor himself.” Natsuo says, and Fuyumi nods, drying her eyes on her sleeve after a warning glance at Natsuo. They don't talk about Enji’s games. Ever. All four of them fade into an awkward silence, remembering the last time one of them dared bring it up. Natsuo subconsciously rubs the part of his arm that Enji had broken in the fight.
“We don’t have much time. One more hug?” Fuyumi says immediately bundling Shoto up in her arms again, breathing in the scent of him, and he lets himself enjoy it, just this once. Then Fuyumi and Natsuo turn to leave, Natsuo out first with a tiny salute. Touya holds the door open to let them out, then closes it again, cutting off a sharp cry of surprise from Fuyumi.
“I didn’t expect it to be you.” Touya says. He doesn’t turn to look at Shoto, instead speaking to the door. “I thought it would be me who would uphold our father's legacy. But I guess it was always meant to be you, huh? The perfect child. Well go on, pretty boy, go die on television. Show them all how perfectly fucking beautiful you are. If you’re smart, you won’t come back.” His fist clenches and unclenches at his side. Shoto expects him to punch the wall but nothing happens. The tension just continues to build into an uncomfortable silence that doesn’t break, even after Touya leaves, closing the door firmly behind him. Shoto sits again buckling under the weight of it all. He counts through a breathing exercise in his mind, tapping his leg along with the breath. He has to stay in control. All eyes are on him now. All eyes will be on him for the rest of his life. Though he can't remember a time when he wasn't being watched-
The door pushes open one last time, and his mother strides in. She’s the opposite of Enji in every way; hair white as snow, face calm and gentle, movements graceful and kind. They all know that Enji calls her the Ice Queen when he’s mad at her but Shoto’s always found comfort in her quiet, chilly demeanor, especially after facing Enji’s fiery rage.
“Oh my son, my sensitive, beautiful child. What have you gotten yourself into?” She says, pulling him out of the chair and into a tight hug.
“It’s hardly my fault,” Shoto mumbles into her shoulder.
“What? Speak up dear, you won’t be allowed to mumble like that in the Capitol.”
“This isn’t my fault.” He repeats, lifting his head so the words are clear.
“No, of course not,” her face clouds over for just a moment. “But it’s your responsibility to make it out of there alive now. Please come home to me, Shoto, to us. He won’t say it but… he needs you here. We all do.”
It’s not an expression of love, exactly, but it’s the closest Shoto has ever heard, and it shakes him like the last leaf falling from a tree in a large gust of wind. They stand for a moment, her arms wrapped around him, until there’s a knock at the door. No, screams Shoto’s mind, no this can’t be it, this can’t be all that I get before I go. He says nothing.
“Chin up, lovely boy, they will all be watching you. Give them something worth watching.” She plants a kiss on his forehead before opening the door and then she’s gone. There’s a peacekeeper standing at the door, ready to escort Shoto to the train. He looks almost bored as he walks down the hall, guiding Shoto to a train platform at the back of the District Municipal Building. Even as hidden as they made it, there are still crowds waving and cheering and shouting his name as he leaves behind the only world he’s ever known to head into the Capitol.
Seated on the train, he realizes he forgot to ask his mother about the second chorus to her favorite song. Something deep down knows he’ll never get another chance.