Your Heart Outside Your Body

The Reaping

"Kurt, how long does it take to tie boots?" Finn demanded irritably.

His stepbrother looked up from the intricate process with a glare.  "Long enough, Finn," he snapped, and then went back to lacing them up.  They were leather, black and worn and there was a rough patch at the top of one.  Rejects from the factory that Kurt had spent every last penny he had on and was inordinately proud of.

Finn sat on his creaky, sagging bed and watched his stepbrother finish his preparations.   He'd initially felt odd about sharing a tiny room with Kurt, but there hadn't been a choice- it was that or nothing.  So he'd gotten used to it.  They'd both gotten used to it.  And now, Finn just hoped they'd still be sharing a room at the end of the day.

"You nervous?" he asked, his own knee jerking up and down.

Kurt glared at him again, but softened.  "I try to keep reminding myself of how many potential Tributes are in District 8," he said.  "It's not likely that either of us will be chosen."

"I know."  Finn frowned, looking around the room.  Not that there was much to look at.  The walls and the floor were bare, although there were tattered curtains in the window and a small, spotted mirror in the corner.  "How many times is your name in the reaping ball?"

"Fourteen.  You?"

"Twenty-one."

Kurt shuddered.  "Hundreds of us," he said.  "And lots of people have their names in that many times or more.  It's not going to be one of us."

Finn nodded.  "It's not going to be one of us."  Kurt made a face that was supposed to be a smile, and Finn tried to smile back.  It was probably true, but it was still hard to believe it.

***

The 'kitchen' of the Hudson-Hummel apartment was a corner of the big room.  A small stove sat in one corner, and an ice box next to it.  It was never kept all that full, because electricity was sporadic at best.  Which was fine in the winter, when heat was sporadic at best and food was slow to spoil.  In the summer, however, it was not so good.  There was an old sink that spouted rusty water, and an almost microscopic countertop.  The smell of food permeated the entire apartment when anyone attempted to cook.

Carole peered at the oatmeal in the pot, debating whether she should add the corn syrup now or wait for the evening meal, when they could celebrate that neither of the boys had been chosen in the Reaping.  Reaping days were supposed to be "special."  That was always bullshit and everyone knew it, but this Reaping was worse than any of the ones that had come previously.  This was the first Reaping where Carole had two sons to worry about, not just one.

She decided to wait, and put the corn syrup back in the cabinet.  Then she dished out the bland porridge into four bowls and set them on the table.

The table was easily Carole's favorite object in the entire apartment.  It was worn and scratched, but the wood was good and the carving was well done.  It had been a wedding gift when she and Burt had gotten married nine months ago, a gift from all the residents of the tenement they now lived in.  It must have cost a small fortune.  It was big enough for all four of them to sit comfortably at, and to Carole, it was the outward symbol of the family they'd put together.

"Smells good," Burt said, coming in from their room and wrapping his arms around her waist.

"No it doesn't."  She leaned back into his embrace.  "But it will have to do.  We'll save the better stuff for when they're home."

"Sounds good."  He squeezed her.  "They will be home tonight."

She heard the uncertainty she felt echoed in his voice.  "I think I'd be less scared if it wasn't a Quarter Quell.  Are they going to make the District vote on tributes again?"