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salutmonmec · 5 years

Text

EVEN THE DEAD DESERVE A SONG

an Elu Hunger Games AU

ao3 link

Lucas has been in love with the same boy since he was five years old.

Now, he will be forced to fight him to the death.

What a fucking nightmare.

CHAPTER 1: THINGS FALL APART

… He is underwater.

It’s cold.

He’s sinking.

The surface isn’t far, and he can make out a blurry figure. They lift their arms, draw their elbow back until their hand hits their jaw.

An arrow breaks the surface, clips his ear. A cloud of red erupts on his left side. He can’t swim, never learned how. The elbow draws back again.

He is sinking in a sea of blood.

His mouth opens in a silent scream.

Lucas wakes with a gasp, jerking upright, a hand against his chest where his heart is about to burst from his ribcage. What the hell was that? The bright afternoon sun is beaming down on his nap spot, lighting the grass up to neon green and forcing him to squint. Lucas could not have been asleep for more than a half hour, but the troubling nature of his dream made it feel like years. He stands with a groan, joints popping. He gathers up his make-shift bow and slings the quiver over his shoulder. Only two or three more hours of light left, have to make this quick. A stick breaks about twenty meters to the right, followed by the sound of frantic hooves. Before he can help himself, a smirk splits his face. Perfect.

----

The buck’s head lands on the booth counter with a hollow thud, still bleeding a bit through the new hole in its left eye. Lucas rests his head on his arms, gently poking the soft fur of the beast’s ribcage. The booth’s owner, Ben, slowly gets up from his chair, flashing a wide gap-filled smile. He is on the skinny side, just like everyone else in District 12, cheeks always smudged with some kind of dirt. Right now, his eyes are lit up like torches.

“How the hell did you manage this Lallemant? You are a crazy son of a bitch, I swear.”

Lucas shrugged casually, shooting Ben a grin. “I have my ways.”

“Well bud, I can give you… 26 ration cards, should almost last you the month.” He leans over the buck, bending to Lucas’ eye-level. “The capitol changed the color again, this time a nice, deep, I’m-richer-than-you purple. Go crazy kid.” Lucas reached over and slipped the small mountain of cards into his bag, mouthing Ben a silent thank you and giving him a quick wink.

He turns around, slamming right into the back of an asshole. Yann spins around, ready to curse out the offender, but Lucas gets there first, sticking a middle finger in between his eyes. Yann lets out a loud laugh, shoving Lucas away playfully. “Fuck you, you shithead!”

“Wanna walk me home honey bun?” Lucas wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, making Yann roll his eyes.

“Jesus Christ, I’ll be out in a minute,” he states with a half-hearted wave as he turns back to the person he was haggling with. Lucas grins at him, shouldering open the door to the warehouse. Cool air hits him like a wave, the breeze lifting his hair off his forehead, drying the budding sweat on his skin. Peacekeepers march past him, their white uniforms glowing in the twilight. Who the fuck wears white in a place like this? Lucas looks down at his own clothes, torn and tattered from years of use. No matter how many times he tries to wash them, the black coal dust in the air finds its way into the seams. It’s as if the land wants to brand him, making sure that everyone knows where he comes from. You come from the dark, dank depths of the Earth, where no one ventures besides those who were unfortunate enough to be born into it. Never forget that.

A laugh shakes him out of his thoughts, head snapping up to find the source of the sound. A small head of tawny curls bouncing, a gap-toothed smile on her round, freckled face. Madeline Demaury, sitting on the shoulders of her big brother, laughter bubbling its way out of her mouth as he dramatically pretends to drop her. Eliott spins in a quick circle, his face now fully towards Lucas. God, he is beautiful. His blue-grey eyes are curled up in half-moons, mouth open, catching the tail end of a chuckle. His happiness is contagious, and Lucas finds himself struggling to hold back a smile. The setting sun is lighting up the Demaurys’ hair to an infuriatingly gorgeous shade of auburn. He pushes a flyaway strand of his straight, boring brunette locks away from his eye, cursing his bad genetic luck. At least he was fortunate enough to be alive at this very moment, witnessing the striking beauty of Eliott Demaury’s cheekbones, his long legs, shoulders deceptively broad despite his lanky figure. Fuck, he is beautiful.

“So, are you ever actually going to talk to him, or are you just going to stand there drooling all over yourself for the rest of your life?”

Yann’s strong hand lands on the shoulder that isn’t leaning against the warehouse wall. Lucas doesn’t take his eyes off Eliott. “Fuck you.”

As Yann snickers next to him, Eliott and Madeline sit down on their front porch steps. The front door behind them opens, and out runs seven-year-old Camille, launching herself into the lap of her brother. Eliott scoops her up, whispering in her tiny ear, making her giggle and nod enthusiastically. He sets her down, grabs her hand, leading her and Madeline inside the house. As the door shuts behind them, Lucas’ chest twists with a feeling he can’t place. He slowly turns, shoves Yann playfully. “What the hell are you so cheery about? You know what’s tomorrow right?”

“I for one, am not going to let the threat of imminent death stop me from roasting my best friend. What kind of life would that be?” He says with an easy smile, slinging an arm around Lucas’ shoulders. “Let’s get the fuck out of here before the Keeps’ come back.”

Lucas shoots one last look at the Demaury’s porch. The sun is fully behind the trees now, casting long shadows that flutter across the closed door, which, much to Lucas’ amusement, is painted a bright shade of baby blue. In this light, the house could have been abandoned, the warmth of Eliott’s presence long gone. Turning back towards Yann, his chest twists again, heart rising in his throat, threatening to choke him. Why do I feel like this is the last time I’ll see this?

----

An alarm blares ridiculously too close to his face. Cracking one eye open, he flops his arm across his body, slamming his hand in the direction of the obnoxious dinging. The clock slides off the edge of the table, hitting the floor with a loud thud. Still ringing, of course. Fucking hell. Lucas rolls his half-asleep body into sitting position, squinting at the light breaking through the cracks in his blinds, stopping the alarm with a half-hearted kick.

It’s Reaping Day.

Pushing himself off the tattered mattress, he sees his Reaping shirt, a blue-denim button up that he never really grew into, laid out on the end of the bed. Its folded, freshly washed and pressed. His mom must have been up for a while now. Throwing on a pair of faded black pants, he tugs the shirt on, slowly buttoning the front, shaking his head as the sleeves drop past his wrists. Frustrated, he rolls them up to mid-forearm. As a kid, he always thought his Dad was larger than life. Now at sixteen, he is starting to think he may have actually been right.

Walking to the bedroom door, he stops in front of the broken mirror to its right. Eyes a little too big, hair a little too wild, shoulders a little too slim. He rubs at a small bit of dirt on his neck, spits in his hand and tries to push his hair back into something resembling a normal human. His Dad’s shirt is hanging loosely on his frame, but he doesn’t mind. Everyone wears the wrong size clothes to the Reaping, spending money on extra ration cards rather than fancy shirts that will only be worn seven times in their life.

A rattle in the kitchen grabs his attention. Mama. She is scrubbing aggressively at a pot, the edges clanking against the edges of the small sink. She sees him in her periphery, turns her head and flashes him a warm smile. “You ready to go?”

He purses his lips, shoulders moving in a small shrug, “as ready as I can be, I guess.”

She sets the pot down, walks over to gently press a kiss to his forehead. “Only two more years, then we can move past this whole mess.” Glancing over his face, she wets her thumb and starts rubbing at a spot above his eyebrow. A laugh bubbles its way out his mouth as he scrunches up his face, shaking his head. “Mama, stop its fine,” he shoots a pointed glance at the small television set in the corner, “want me to get it set up for you?”

She waves him off. “Oh no, I got it.” She looks at him with a small, sad smile. “You know I would go, I just think the crowds would be a bit much for me today…” Lucas glances at the dark circles marring the smooth skin under her eyes, and nods. “Are you sure you don’t need anything?”

“I’ll be fine darling,” she kisses him on the forehead for the second time, lips popping with a loud smack. “Say hello to Yann for me!”

Sliding into his shoes, he pushes through the front door, Yann leaning against the railing at the bottom of the steps. His shirt fits him perfectly. Asshole.

“Let’s get this fucking over with, shall we?”

----

A large bead of sweat makes it way slowly down the back of his neck, tickling his skin as it catches in his collar. It’s getting close to midday, the sun huge and deadly in the sky. The stage is in the middle of a giant dirt patch, no tree in sight to provide some semblance of shade. Everyone between the ages of 12 and 18 in the entire district are being herded into the stage space. The fine, dark dirt getting kicked up by hundreds of shoes, swirling in the air like smoke. Yann and him are stuck in the identification line, waiting for a finger prick and a drop of blood to confirm that yes, they are in fact, Lucas Lallemant and Yann Cazas. He is trying to distract himself by staring intensely at a rock on the ground that looks sort of like a fish, when someone trips into him. Not just someone, a big someone. Lucas puts out a hand to steady himself, his other one landing on the waist of the offender before he can stop it.

“SHIT I’m so sorry…” Eliott rushes out, head whipping frantically from side to side, “Camille still needs to learn that running through people’s legs is not proper Reaping Day etiquette.” His blue eyes finally settle on Lucas. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Say something. Anything. Oh God. He nods instead, not trusting his mouth. His left hand is still on Eliott’s waist, but he can’t seem to make it move. Eliott’s gaze is warm, softly flickering back and forth across Lucas’ face. His cheeks betray him then, flushing so intensely it’s almost painful. Eliott’s mouth breaks into a smirk, eyes playful as he gently backs away, turning in the direction of Camille’s giggles. Lucas’ arm settles back down at his side, hand tingling like a live wire. He watches until Eliott’s head disappears into the crowd, trying to settle the rapid beat of his heart.

“Oh wow, are you gonna be okay bud? Do you need me to give you CPR?” Yann snickers, clapping a hand hard in between Lucas’ shoulder blades. His cheeks are even warmer now. “If you don’t talk to him after this is over, then I will.”

His brain finally starts to register his surroundings again, and he turns to give Yann a hard shove, grinning despite himself. “If you go near him, I’ll shoot you in the foot, I swear to God.”

After the quick finger prick and a few more snide comments about his love life, they shuffle their way into the section marked “16”. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the top of a messy head of tawny hair, standing in the middle of the eighteen-year-old section that is marked off closest to the stage. His hand feels like it’s buzzing. Get it together Lucas.

At that moment, the crowd of teens were hushed, and the familiar dramatic tune of the national anthem blaring through the crackling speakers. Footage showing the war plays on the big screen, hard to see in the midst of the blinding sunlight. The president’s booming voice narrates, explaining the origin of the games, why it makes sense that they have been sending twenty-four kids to the fight to the death for twenty-seven years. Yann pokes his side, sending him an eye-roll. Lucas raises his eyebrows, a smirk dancing on his lips.

The film ends, and silence follows. A chair moves on stage, heels click on the hard surface. Hurried clacks echo through the space, and a woman hustles up to the microphone, one hand holding up the massive pile of blonde curls on top of her head. Daphné Lecomte. The Capitol representative for District 12 for the past few years, although she could not be older than twenty-five.

“Jesus, I swear her hair gets bigger every year,” Yann whispers in his ear with a breathy laugh. Lucas coughs to hide a chuckle, garnering looks from a boy and girl standing in front of them. He grins down at the ground while Yann elbows him in the ribs.

“Welcome everyone, to the Reaping for the 27th Annual Hunger Games!” Daphné says enthusiastically, her ridiculous Capitol accent extremely apparent. “As always, we are here to choose the two people who will have the historic honor of representing District 12 in- “ A strong wind gust sweeps up the stage, threatening to topple her hair tower. She steadies herself, tugging down on her neon pink skirt, “ i-in this year’s games!” She claps her hands together in excitement, gesturing over to someone on the side of the stage.

Emma Borgès saunters over to Daphné, clearly already wasted out of her mind. It isn’t even noon yet. She stumbles over her own feet, falling right into Daphné, who tries to gracefully push her upright. Emma gives the crowd a fumbling, slow salute, then takes her place next to the bowl of names at the center of the stage, swaying lightly on her feet.

The only District 12 champion in history. She won when she was just thirteen, outliving everyone thanks to her affinity for climbing trees. The spectators of the 20th games decided the killings weren’t going fast enough, so they flooded the area. Nineteen tributes had already been killed or died from the terrain, the last four drowned in the flood. Little Emma had been high up in a tree at the time, making her one of the youngest victors of all time. She was never really the same after that, spending most of her days getting drunk at the single district bar once she turned eighteen. Now every year, the two unlucky tributes not only have to fight to the death, but also deal with a drunk Emma Borgès as their mentor. What a fucking joke. Yann always had a massive crush on her though. He sneaks a glance over at Yann, who is openly staring at her with a dumb smile on his face. Idiot.

Daphné shuffles her way over to the glass bowl, struggling to drag the microphone with her. She smooths her skirt once more when she is settled. “Alright, let’s begin!”

She peers down into the large glass bowl, filled almost halfway with name cards. Every single person in this room has their name in there at least once. The twelve-year-olds are placed in only one time, and every year older is another slip added. When you are eighteen, your name is in the bowl seven times, making it more likely that an older tribute is picked. This ultimately makes the games more enjoyable for viewers, as a bunch of scared little kids running around would prove to be boring television after a while. You can add your name more times in exchange for ration cards, which is what most families end up doing in District 12. He had heard a rumor that Eliott’s name was in the bowl 32 times, but he hoped desperately that it was exaggerated.

Daphné’s pink-gloved hand reaches in slowly, swirling the cards around, trying to build anticipation. Lucas’ chest tightens, his forehead beading with sweat. Twelve cards with your name on it. That’s it. Only twelve. Daphné finally latches on to one, lifting her hand out of the bowl with a flourish. The crowd unconsciously leans forward, watching with wide eyes as she struggles to open the seal with her gloves on. The card rips open, and she clears her throat, lips approaching the microphone.

He knows before she even gets the words out. Her tongue pushes against her bottom teeth as her mouth opens, forming the beginning of the “L” sound.

Time slows down.

His chest heaves.

This can’t be happening.

He doesn’t even hear her say it, barely registers the echo of the ending syllable. He sees Yann’s shoulders collapse inward with a shuddering breath. His feet move before his mind catches up, walking with slow steps into the aisle leading up to the stage. Two peacekeepers walk up behind him, one placing a hard hand on his shoulder. They push him forward, his body refusing to move at anything above a glacial pace. He shoots a frantic glance back at Yann, who is staring at him with wide eyes, shoulders lifting up and down with the beginnings of hyperventilation. Lucas steels his eyes, desperately hoping Yann can read him. It’s okay... I’ll be okay. Yann nods imperceptibly, only for Lucas. A tiny pang of relief overshadows the crippling panic for a brief second.

His leaden feet move up the stage steps, and he moves to stand beside Daphné. She wraps her arms around him in a light hug, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “Lucas! Well, aren’t you a strapping young lad! Now, how old are you sweetie?”

She moves the microphone in front of his face.

He can’t breathe.

He clears his throat.

“Sixteen.”

Sixteen, and I am going to die in a week.

Daphné claps her hands together again, snapping Lucas out of his thoughts. “Let’s give a round of applause for the courageous Lucas! The first District 12 tribute of the 27th Hunger Games!”

No one in the crowd moves a muscle. Dead silence.

“O-Okay then!” She clears her throat. “On to the second tribute!”

As she reaches in the bowl again, Lucas lifts his chin high, surveying the sea of young faces staring back at him. His heart is in his throat. He lands last on a pair of blue-grey eyes, wide and stricken under dark eyebrows, mouth closed in a tight line. Eliott. The realization suddenly dawned on him, there is still one tribute left. Oh God please anyone but him, please… oh God ple-

“Madeline Demaury!”

And God decided to laugh in his face.

There were a few gasps from the crowd. It’s exceedingly rare for a twelve-year-old to get drawn. Even more so a girl. The kids in the “12” section start to murmur to themselves, parting to reveal Madeline, her curls braided away from her face at her temples, showcasing her wide eyes and rosy, freckled cheeks. She straightened her pale green dress as the Peacekeepers appeared on either side to bring her up to the stage, pushing her shoulders back, putting on a brave face. From his spot on stage, he could see that her right shoe was untied. She is so young.

Before she can take her first step, Eliott shoves his way out of his section, landing on his knees in the center aisle, a cloud of dirt huffing into the air as he scrambles to his feet. He moves toward Madeline, but Keepers jump into action, pulling his arms behind his back, keeping him rooted to the spot. Lucas watches, horrified, as Eliott struggles against their grip. He manages to rip one arm free before a third Peacekeeper latches on to him. “Let me go! Get tHE FUCK OFF OF M-” He whips himself around, trying to face the stage despite the vice grip on his wrists. He sends a murderous glare at Daphné.

“I VOLUNTEER!”

“I volunteer as tribute.”

This can’t be happening. Wake up Lucas, WAKE UP. He digs his fingernails into his palms, drawing blood.

He is awake.

This is real.

Daphné is still standing next to the bowl, mouth open in shock. She quickly closes it, and makes a gesture to the Peacekeepers. They release Eliott, pushing him forward, and he falls onto his knees with the force. Madeline cries out, squirming out of the Keeper’s grip on her shoulder, and launches herself into her brother’s arms. Lucas can see Eliott’s lips move at her ear, and she starts sobbing, holding him tighter. The Peacekeepers come up behind her, pulling her out of his arms, dragging her away. Her screams pierce through deafening silence, filling up the space, cutting deep into Lucas’ soul, suffocating him. Eliott gets shakily to his feet, eyes shining, and he walks with long strides up to the stage. He stops next to him. Lucas continues to stare ahead, afraid he wouldn’t be able to handle whatever expression settles on Eliott’s face.

“My goodness! This is so exciting! District 12’s first ever volunteer!” Daphné drags the microphone over to Eliott, holding it up to his lips. “What’s your name handsome?”

“Eliott Demaury.”

“Oh, let me guess, was that your adorable little sister?”

There is a beat of quiet as he swallows, clearly trying to restrain himself from slapping the hair straight off of Daphné’s head. Eliott’s eyes narrow as he leans down.

“Obviously.”

Daphné clears her throat. “W- Well, there you have it!” She squishes her way in between the two boys, grabbing both their hands and lifting them straight into the air, beaming with excitement. “A big cheer for the District 12 tributes of the 27th Hunger Games, Lucas Lallemant and Eliott Demaury!”

Maybe it was the heat that finally caught up to him. Maybe the vice grip around his chest finally cut off his oxygen supply. Maybe his brain short-circuited with the dawning realization that he was now in a fighting death match with who he thought was possibly the love of his life. Whatever it was, Lucas’ body couldn’t take it anymore. His right hand slides out of Daphnés grip as he sways to the left. He hits the ground with a dull thud, vision going black around the edges. The last thing he registers is a head of tawny waves blocking the sun in his vision, the edges of his hair glowing auburn.

God, he is beautiful.

And then, everything is black.

#so guys... I may have wrote a thing #my first fic ever #a fUCKIN hunger games au ahahahaha #if it goes over well... I'll write the new chapters asap #I'll post an ao3 link as soon as my account goes through #this is gonna be dramatic #but you can probably figure that out #Rated M for much violence and probably some sexy times at some point #skam france #skamfr #skam fr #elu #lucas lallemant #eliott demaury #elu fic #my fic #even the dead deserve a song

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