penfold_x | Fic: Ever in Your Favor (The Hunger Games)

A gift for

lorataprose

Title: Ever in Your Favor
Characters: Brutus, Lyme (Gen)
Rating: PG
Warnings: The usual Hunger Games warnings for extreme violence to children (referenced but not explicitly depicted), plus a little bad language
Summary: “Lyme! What in the—” She chucks the ball at Brutus's head. He gets his hands up in time to catch it before she breaks his face.

Before Brutus has time to finish his question, Lyme barks out “Come with me.”

Brutus’s hands flex around the ball several times as his eyes try to bore past her defenses. Lyme waits, immovable as the mountains surrounding them, until Brutus throws the ball back.

“Lemme get my court shoes.”

A/N: This ficlet is intended to fill

lorataprose's prompt in The Odds are Never in Our Favor ficathon, "Brutus and Lyme being bro-friends." It references OCs and follows the timeline created by

lorataprose for her District Two 'verse. No character actions, thoughts, or other elements of this story are binding on

lorataprose's 'verse.

Lyme stands shoulder to shoulder with her fellow Victors, assembled eldest to youngest on the platform of District Two’s central station. The sun beats down mercilessly, causing sweat to bead up underneath her black suit, but like the others, she remains still and silent. It’s uncomfortable, but there is not one among them who would not bear this, and much more, to pay proper respect to Two’s tributes to the 58th Hunger Games.

At length, the official train halts its slow, solemn roll into the station. Lyme and the other Victors who will assist this year’s mentors in carrying the tributes through this last portion of their journey make their way to the cargo car at the end. Only three years out herself, Lyme would not normally be chosen for this honor, but she made the request and the elders agreed: extraordinary circumstances warrant a change in protocol.

Extraordinary is certainly one word for it. Since his resounding, crowd-pleasing victory ten years ago, Brutus has become the most sought-after Victor of their generation. Bringing his own Victor out of the arena on his first attempt just two years later made a strong impression on the Gamemakers and Games enthusiasts. Tutoring Lyme through her first mentorship last year, helping her pull out another victory for Two, despite a strong challenge from a deeply sympathetic outer district dark horse, elevated his profile even further. Perhaps too much.

Two has a deep bench. The Capitol always permits them to rest successful mentors for two years, so the mentor can help the new Victor make a healthy adjustment to post-Arena life. Technically, Lyme was Misha’s mentor of record, but Brutus was very much Lyme’s partner in bringing Misha out of the Arena. He didn’t put his name in for the 58th, but someone in the Games organization—maybe even above it—insisted.

No one, not even the most loyal citizen of Two, wants the Capitol to take that much notice of him.

Yet, no matter how daunting the challenge, Brutus doesn’t know how to give anything but his best. And Halldis was an amazing candidate, a deadly combination of beauty and strength that, in any other year, the Captiol would have coveted. Lyme had hoped the pair’s earnest dedication to the ideals of the Games would be enough.

Now Lyme hopes her presence will lend Brutus some of her strength, but he seems to take no notice of her or the other Victors as they step into the cargo car. Brutus doesn’t remove his eyes from the casket as he rises from the folding chair next to his tribute, the seat he has undoubtedly not moved from during the entire journey. Instead, Brutus runs his hand along the side of the casket until he reaches the front, ready to bear his tribute’s weight. There’s no option but to follow his lead.

Even at their reverential pace, the distance from the train to the automobile is brief and soon, Brutus is speaking with Halldis’s mother and father. Most of the parents don’t make the trip, but Halldis’s family is old and powerful. They had no need for the stipend families receive when their children are accepted into the Program; giving their daughter to the Capitol is an honor, so, of course, they are here to receive her back.

Halldis’s parents are stoic; only the redness in her father’s eyes and the tremors in her mother’s hands reveal the depth of their grief. Brutus greets them with the utmost respect, thanking them for their sacrifice, and praising their daughter’s courage and strength. “Thank you,” her father says, offering his hand, “we know you did everything it was possible to do.”

Brutus takes Halldis’s father’s hand and nods, but his eyes slide back to the narrow box that holds his girl.

After the ceremony, Brutus disappears into his house, and Lyme doesn’t see him again for two weeks. She goes about her usual business in the Village, at the Athletics and Personal Growth Center and the Games-liaison office. Their lives run on the same tracks, so Lyme expects several opportunities to get a level-set on how Brutus is dealing, but she doesn’t see him except for the occasion she passes his house and spots him opening his front door to Odin. She’s glad to see Brutus talking to his mentor, and hopes this means he’ll be rejoining them soon.

Seven days later, for the first time, Brutus misses the monthly Village business meeting. They’re not required to attend, but Brutus is a fixture of the front row. Lyme stares at the empty seat and tries not to lose track of what the others are saying, in case Brutus wants a read-out.

After four weeks, she catches a glimpse of Brutus as she pulls up to the Games-liaison office. He has a face like a quarry wall and moves stiffly, almost a parody of his normal self. Lyme tries to catch his attention, but he’s either so focused on his errand or so determined to shut out the world around him that he’s in his truck and backing out of the lot before Lyme can get her seatbelt off. When Lyme gets home that evening, she calls his number twice, but he doesn’t pick up.

After six weeks, Lyme breaks down and leaves a message. She’s been avoiding doing so because all things she wants to say—I’m worried about you, tell me how you’re feeling, let me help—couldn’t be more calibrated to drive Brutus away. In the end, she settles for, hey, it’s me, call me back.

Lyme’s phone is stubbornly silent.

After eight weeks, Lyme grabs her basketball and strides out onto the narrow dirt path that runs through the patch of woodland separating her home from Brutus’s. The trail ends at his backyard. Through the shallow basement window, Lyme catches a glimpse of Brutus moving through sword training exercises. Lyme walks around to the front yard to the foot of his porch stairs, takes a few measured steps back, then, hard as she can throw, chucks the basketball at his door.

The ball makes a satisfying thunk against the thick wood before returning to her hands. She counts the number of throws she makes (five) before she hears Brutus’s thundering tread across the floor of his front room, and the door flies open.

“Lyme! What in the—” She chucks the ball at Brutus's head. He gets his hands up in time to catch it before she breaks his face.

Before Brutus has time to finish his question, Lyme barks out “Come with me.”

Brutus’s hands flex around the ball several times as his eyes try to bore past her defenses. Lyme waits, immovable as the mountains surrounding them, until Brutus throws the ball back.

“Lemme get my court shoes.”

Basketball is a good game for them. Lyme’s tall enough she can block effectively, and it’s one of the few games in which Brutus’s bulk works against him, so what she lacks in (comparative) height and reach, she can make up in speed. They’re about evenly matched—the best way to keep it fun.

Lyme doesn’t try to make Brutus talk about the Games, or anything else, as they play standard rules one-on-one on the outdoor court. She could have brought him to the indoor court at the gymnasium, but there’s a greater chance of running into other Victors there. If anything’s clear from the last two months, it’s that Brutus doesn’t want to spend any more time with them than necessary. Lyme doesn’t want to force any more company on him than he’s already permitted, and she suspects time out of doors would do him good.

Lyme suspects Brutus has taken it into his head that the marring of his otherwise perfect record, as both a tribute and a mentor, makes him unworthy, or some similar bullshit. She doubts there’s any way to talk him out of that headspace—the inner voice that drove Brutus to excel all his peers is the same one that chastises his every mistake—but she hopes the sight of flame-red leaves and feel of cool October wind will start to heal the damage. The sun is still shining, the mountains are still standing, and maybe a little of the pride Brutus brought to District Two will flow back into him.

Unfortunately, Brutus’s body is on the court, but his mind is elsewhere. Lyme’s up twelve to three in a game that only goes to twenty-one. Unable to coordinate himself and move past her blocking, Brutus takes a desperation shot from behind the three-point line, and growls in frustration when the ball bounces off the rim and flies out of bounds. It’s his fourth unsuccessful offensive run in a row.

Lyme collects the ball, takes it back past the key, then swiftly starts her next attack. Brutus steps into her space, pressing right up against her as he moves his hands in the way of her shot. Technically, it’s a foul, but all the Victors play physical; provided there’s no pushing or holding, no one wants to interrupt the flow.

Lyme falls back, then quickly pivots to start the attack again from a new direction. Brutus rushes to counter, but underestimates his stride or moves his hand up too soon, and instead of blocking the shot, hits Lyme hard and catches her completely off her guard, sending her flying. Her back strikes the rough concrete and the momentum is such she can’t stop her head from smacking it, too.

Black swims up into Lyme’s vision. She shuts her eyes while her body tries to decide whether it’s going to puke. Her ears are filled with a rushing sound and Brutus’s muttered ‘fuck.’

Lyme waits until the sound recedes before opening her eyes. “Foul, I think.”

Brutus steps into Lyme’s line of sight, kneeling next to her. “Yeah, fuck, yeah… Are you okay to sit up?”

‘Yeah, slowly.” Brutus grips Lyme’s arm at the elbow and helps her into a sitting position, then checks the back of her head for cuts.

Brutus’s prodding fingers cause sharp pains within the throbbing, but come away clean. He rises, and extends an arm to help Lyme to her feet. “I’m sorry.”

Lyme takes the hand and swings up easily. “You’ve hit me in the head with a dodgeball twice and still not managed to knock me out. A little full-contact basketball is nothing.”

Brutus’s hand stays locked around hers, and he looks her in squarely in the eye for the first time since returning from the Capitol. “No, I can play the game better than that. I’m sorry.”

Lyme may have just taken a blow to the head, but she’s certain Brutus is not talking about basketball. But the fact is, there’s no way Brutus could have played a game good enough to win the 58th. Since his victory, Two has won five times. If the Games were truly a pageant of courage and sacrifice, it wouldn’t matter if a Two won every year. But after seeing the Games from the mentor’s seat for the first time, Lyme suspects no matter how they started, the degree of entertainment for the Capitol citizens is now a critical factor in the Games. And recent viewers have seen one too many episodes where the strong, noble child of a quarry miner valiantly slays her foes.

The 58th arena was a completely artificial environment; dark, with lots of places to hide. Designed in every way to give advantage to the smaller, usually healthy but baffled-by-wilderness tributes of the urban middle districts. Even if Halldis managed to overcome those disadvantages, the Gamemakers would have sprung a trap, released a mutt, collapsed a wall; anything to prevent another Two from taking the crown.

However, telling Brutus he shouldn’t feel bad because the Games were rigged would be like kicking him in the balls; it’d take his mind off his tribute for a little while, but he’d hardly thank her for it.

The pain in the back of Lyme’s skull reminds her of another truth; a truth that might more closely resonate with where Brutus’s head it at. “When I was fourteen, at the top of my candidate class and feeling pretty damned unbeatable, the trainers had me fight that year’s volunteer, just so she could kick my ass.” She tightens her hand in his. “So I’d remember why things are the way they are.”

Brutus searches Lyme’s eyes with an almost uncomfortable intensity. Among all the Victors, he’s her closest friend. After all the hours they’ve spent together, he must at least suspect she doesn’t support the present order in the same way he does, or at least, that she doesn’t think the Games are necessary to prevent a return to the Dark Days.

Whatever Brutus sees—Lyme’s commitment to Two, or to the Program, or even just her longing for her friend to be present with her—apparently it’s enough. His back straightens almost imperceptibly as he gives her hand one last, tight squeeze, then withdraws. “A lot of the games at the Center were like that,” Brutus recalls. “Took me a couple of goes to realize that what the trainers were looking at was how I reacted.”

Lyme waits until Brutus turns to chase down the ball before permitting herself a relieved breath. “Yeah, well, let’s finish this one before we lose the light.” Brutus passes the ball, and Lyme sinks the free throw that takes her tally up to thirteen.

Though Brutus is now more attuned to the game, the ten-point deficit is too much to make up before Lyme climbs to twenty-one. Despite the loss, Brutus looks much more relaxed than when he stepped on the court, even offering to cook as Lyme’s victory prize.

“Dinner would be great, but I promised Misha I’d let her try out her new recipe on me tonight.” Lyme tries to keep her tone as casual as she offers, “Why don’t you join us. It’s just pasta; I don’t think even Misha could mangle that.” Lyme may have been Misha’s mentor of record, but as Lyme’s apprentice-master, Brutus was a big part of Misha’s win. Lyme’s certain the girl’s missing him, and seeing the living, breathing evidence of his past success wouldn’t hurt Brutus, either.

Brutus walks over to fetch their jackets from where they’d hung them atop of the chain-link fence surrounding the court. Lyme hangs back to give him some space to consider the offer, not moving to join him until he turns back to her and says, “Not so sure you’re right about that, but I’ll take the risk. Let’s stop at my place and get some beers, though. Knowing you, the only thing Misha’s got at her house is your snooty whiskey.”

Lyme can’t help the wicked grin that takes over her expression. “Ooh, beer and pasta. Classy. I’m stunned the Capitol hasn’t picked you for Celebrity Cook-Off yet.”

Brutus gives a derisive snort and tosses Lyme’s jacket in her face.

Lyme opens the manila folder. A picture of next year’s volunteer—strong, aloof, confident—is stapled to the top of the package of records and reports. Lyme lifts the current photo to reveal the intake shot of a scruffy seven-year-old with wild hair and a gap-toothed grin. Hector N., orphaned, suspected abuse by foster parents. Overly praise-seeking with the trainers, but otherwise thriving in the Program. Mentor selection won’t be made for at least a few more months, but yes, this one is for her.

If this is the boy going into the Arena, Lyme is his best shot at coming out. She many not have as many Games under her belt as some of the others, but she knows what it’s like to be betrayed by the people who were supposed to care for you, knows what it is to find your first home at the Center. They’ll sense that in each other without even having to speak about it, and have a solid foundation of trust to work from. And with her own victory fresh in the sponsors’ minds, she’ll be in a good position to win every coin possible to support him.

But will it make any difference? The Gamemakers built the last Arena to advantage the middle districts, looking for a underdog the Capitol could root for, but if there’s anything less entertaining that another ‘standard’ Two victory, it’s watching tributes convulse until their hearts stop because a crazy-eyed girl exploited the artificial setting to commit mass electrocution. Quick, bloodless, and worst of all, boring. Lyme’s certain the Gamemakers didn’t anticipate that outcome, and this year they’ll see a new senior staff, with orders to take a more competent pass at finding a sympathetic non-career Victor. Is there anything she and Hector can show them that will make them believe he’s what they want?

Lyme’s mind cycles through the endless possibilities. A headache seeps across her brain, and Lyme works a hand at her temples, trying to force it into retreat. She’s so lost inside her thoughts, the knock at her door is startling, and the file folder slips out of her hands and on to the floor, spilling paper across her front room. She sighs, steps over the mess, and opens the door.

Lyme is surprised to find Brutus on her porch. Since that night at Misha’s he’s been better, no longer appearing to go out of his way to avoid contact. But even at the best of times, Brutus doesn’t have a lot to say that isn’t work-related, one way or another, and drop-in socializing definitely isn’t his style.

“You heard.” Lyme steps back and waves Brutus in.

“Was up at the Games-liaison office and ran into the head trainer. She didn’t say anything about possible mentor matches, but I know if they’re going with Hector, they’ll go with you.” Brutus takes in the papers scattered around the floor, but withholds comment and instead, draws a stack of folders from his bag. “I thought it might be helpful to go through the numbers from last year’s sponsorship agreements.”

A bloom of warmth flows up into Lyme’s chest as Brutus places his files on her coffee table, then kneels to scoop up the tribute folder, carefully arranging the records back into order. Once satisfied that all is in its proper place, Brutus drops himself into her sofa and says, “Now, if you’ll get me a glass of your pretentious whiskey, we can get to work.”