Living Lies ✜ Hunger Games x Reader

Volunteer

The day of the reaping dawns early—to your disappointment. The one day out of the year that everyone, you included, dreads more than anything else has arrived yet again, inexorable. Yet the sun still has the audacity to shine, however dimly, over the misty grounds of District 12 as if today is nothing different than the last, or the next. As if it isn't terrifying.

You sigh heavily, arms folded in pointless defiance, as you wait in the forest beyond the district fence. They're late, and though a few minutes doesn't mean much in the long run, it's Reaping day, and one can never be too wary. It's always harder to sell food at the Hob with more Peacekeepers than usual sniffing around, and wasting time doesn't help any. Just as you're about to turn your back to the fence and take off into the woods alone, you hear a rustle behind you. Of course, both Katniss and Gale are very quiet when they walk, being hunters, but the fence always rattles a little bit when somebody touches it, no matter who.

Katniss emerges first, soft, dark hair in its usual side-braid, looking enviously energetic despite the early hour. Unlike your friend, you've never been good at adapting to rising at the same time as the sun. You stifle a yawn and pull out a knife, fiddling with the blade absentmindedly. Possibly not the best idea, seeing as you're so tired.

Gale follows suit soon after, marvelously, unintentionally handsome as always. It'd be a lie to say you don't find him attractive – most people agree there – but you also know his personality inside and out. And that's the catch, isn't it? Relationships are foreign territory for you, and you have never been able to tell if he holds any special affection for you, or Katniss for that matter. He treats you both the same, and trying to determine what how he feels is like reading a book in a language you don't understand. Besides, your tolerance for crushes is minimal, and it isn't as if you have the time to worry about such things.

"Y/n, you're up early," he comments, and he doesn't mask the surprise in his voice. Your friends continually remind you that you've never been an early riser.

You shrug. "Wanted a good start. A little practice never hurts."

Your calm is a lie, and the tree in front of you cut with the marks of your blades is proof of that. Today your name will be in the Reaping ball twenty times, which may not seem like much comparatively, but fate is evil, and tempting it doesn't help any. There isn't much of a choice, though. You may not have younger siblings to feed, like your friends, but your father is seriously ill, and the medicine keeping him alive costs money just as food does. With your mother retired to care for him, you're left as the family breadwinner – quite literally.

This was how you and Katniss, friends since birth, the daughters of two best friends who had left a comfortable life for husbands in the Seam, met Gale Hawthorne. When Katniss' father died in the coal mines, and yours was debilitated not long after with a crippling disease, you both found yourselves in desperate need of help with no one to turn to. In the darkest days, you supported each other, but you would have died regardless if it hadn't been for the help of a few. Gale was one of the few. It was a rocky start, and your trio didn't always agree, but as the years passed and your friendship strengthened, it was undeniable that you all made a very good team. Gale, the trapper; Katniss, the archer; and you, Y/n Y/l/n, the expert of knives and blades – a gift of your father.

"You probably won't get picked, you know," Gale reminds you.

"20 entries out of, what, thousands? That's better odds than some," Katniss adds, and Gale snorts at her subtle acknowledgement of his own 42 slips of paper.

Ducking under a low-hanging branch, you struggle to portray a casual front, knowing they will not be convinced regardless of how well you do so. "It's not like I want my name to be called, but I would rather be prepared than blindsided. This is me being realistic, not pessimistic – I've almost died before, I don't want to do that again."