Chapter Text
Anyone who saw TommyInnit at an event might remark that he was perhaps the most openly chaotic person in attendance. Of course, it didn’t ever matter to people whether that was true or not. All they saw was a loud-mouthed teenager making the rounds, irking everyone within earshot while also being just tolerable enough to retain a loyal following.
In reality, Tommy would much rather toss his horribly itchy suit to the press and hang out with his real friends, laughing and bantering at a reasonable volume and bringing up every inside joke the Capitol people would never understand. He wanted so badly to rip the constricting snakeskin prosthetics off his face, to scrub the apple-red blush from his cheeks, and to toss his one amber contact into the punch bowl and cackle as some unsuspecting citizen scooped it out with a ladleful of blood red liquid. The Capitol could keep its clever symbolism, he wanted no part of it. Half the time he wished he really was a snake. Then he could shed his glued-on skin like so much dirty washing.
As much as he hated the outfit itself, he hated what it represented even more. His post-Games branding hadn’t been as obvious as someone like Wilbur’s, but it still reflected the awful events of the Arena. Most of the shallow Capitol citizens thought it was a reference to the snake infested river that had split his Arena in two, but anyone who gave it an ounce of thought knew better. Tommy knew the best of all.
He had been the friendliest person in his games. He made ally after ally, working his way into people’s hearts by appearing mediocre and naive, yet still helpful. Once he gained someone’s trust, then- well, he tried not to think about it much anymore. His costume was two-faced for a reason.
He still knew all their names. He had tried to forget them, but, for better or worse, he had a knack for remembering people. Point to any Victor in the room right now, and he probably could give their name, the number of their Games, and who they streamed with most. The faces of those who’d entered the Arena with him were burned into his mind more firmly than most. They would stay with him for the rest of his life, just like the cursed persona he was forced to keep up for the public.
No one had really started expecting him to win his Games until over halfway through them. By the time two thirds of the contestants were gone, it had become a guessing game for them, who he would befriend next. The betting on who he’d target was almost as intense as the speculation on who’d actually win. His sickening highlights reel was cut together like a messed-up comedy skit, showing all of the trust he’d built in a disgustingly campy montage before playing all his betrayals in quick succession. Audience members at his ceremony were laughing. Laughing. It made him unbelievably, horridly angry. The editors made the other tributes look so stupid for trusting him. They didn’t deserve that disrespect.
But now he was stuck with scales, branded as a liar and a jokester and never taken seriously. He could announce that he was going to jump off the roof and people would chuckle and murmur “He’s hilarious.” Not that jumping off the roof would work anyways. He’d considered it before, craving the attention it would get him in his early days as a Victor, but he was well past that now. All something like that would bring him was trouble.
There weren’t many people in the Tower that he felt comfortable saying understood him. He confided in many people, that’s just the way he was, but not many could truly empathize with him.
Surprisingly, the person he’d gravitated towards most was fellow floormate Michael Reeves. Their personas bounced off each other well, and any stream they were on together was such a dichotomy between high-energy flippancy and biting sarcasm that it was difficult for anyone, including the viewers, to stand it for too long.
Off camera, though, their interests meshed together in a strange unspoken arrangement both of them were too proud to call friendship. Tommy, whose father had been in charge of textile machine maintenance in District Eight, found familiar solace in Michael’s inventions, and in turn he was a bright point of hopeless optimism in the life of the long-time Victor. The almost seven year age difference dropped away when they were together. Michael taught Tommy to swim and gave him spare parts to tinker with, and Tommy filled the oppressive silences of the floor with cheerful chatter and wit, saving Michael from the loneliness of his own thoughts. They both swore like sailors and liked the same foods, though neither of them were allowed to use the kitchen.
Michael made a point to rope him into most of his projects. Even though the complicated electronics were much smaller than the contraptions he had helped his dad with back in Eight, he learned quickly and rapidly adapted his existing skills for use with the tiny circuits. The job of Michael’s “lab assistant” came with certain risks (electrocution, in most cases, both purposeful and accidental), but Michael never put him through anything he didn’t also do to himself, and never without telling him first, a courtesy the rest of the floor wasn’t often granted. If they were in on something, they were in it together. And it was worth it, since at the end they usually got to prank at least one other member of the floor with whatever they’d created.
Michael gave him a sense of normalcy and domesticity that he hadn’t found anywhere else. Sure, it might be odd to feel at home designing something to shock your friends (literally), but Tommy would take what he could get. Anything to push past the flighty panic he’d first escaped the Arena with.
Escaped was not the right word, he decided. He hadn’t gotten away, the Games and the Capitol still haunted him wherever he went. If he was careful, however, he could tamp down the open well of emotion. Escaped was a better word for it than won. No one won the Games.