Wttt Ohio - Tumblr Posts

Indiana: Time sensitive question, how flirt boy

Ohio: Throw rocks

Illinois: hot dogs

Wisconsin: beer

Minnesota: ice fishing

Michigan: kill him

Indiana: thanks guys.

Father’s Disappointment

4 times Adam was disappointed in his children, and 1 time Gov was disappointed in the States.

———————————————————————

When most of the States’ were children, they were allowed more freedom than most kids. Their parents, Congress and Assistant, Adam and Robin Jones, worked to let them be children; even if the memories of their past lives made them more aware than most humans who appeared their age.

They were allowed to engage in their hobbies with little restriction, as long as their parents remained informed of it. They were kept from the humans and their pressure of social norms, and allowed to grow and age without the same fears as their human peers.

There wasn’t much they could do to upset their parents; but they were children, and children made mistakes.

They were hardly ever physically disciplined, always feeling guilty for thinking of something that would earn their parents disappointment, let alone do something to earn much more than that.

All it ever took was their mother crossing her arms for them to feel guilty.

But the disappointment in their father’s eyes?

…

No one wanted that.

.1.

Arthur Jones had always been fond of fire. Be it candles, lanterns or the fireplace— or even the bonfires his father would light a few days in the year— he was always captivated by it.

He was allowed to handle the flickering flames under his parents watchful gazes, and only allowed to burn specific, set aside items.

It’s 1820, he’s 16 years a State, 21 in body, and he’s sitting by the fireplace.

It’s late, the January winds of Pennsylvania whipping against the window shutters and howling though the trees at the edge of their property.

The sky had grown dark hours ago, their parents shooing them off to bed when the winds were only whispers.

He heard soft voices of the younger kids upstairs, heard doors creeping open as they left their rooms to brave dark hallways until they found solace in their parents bed.

It was a large bed, one purchased once the older personifications learned that it’d simply be easier to have the space for when the children they raised decided their own rooms were too dark or too big.

He stayed seated on the ground, holding his breath. If any of the little ones saw the light in the fireplace, they’d know someone was awake downstairs. If they knew someone was awake, they’d either investigate, or they’d just run to their parents— little tattletales.

It’s a few minutes before he hears the final door shut.

The fireplaces go out when their parents go to bed, the magic permeating the air keeping the house warm and safe even on the coldest nights. Like the blankets their mother knits or their fathers arms wrapped around them in a hug. Like when the politicians thought they could get by with raising voice or hand at any of the younger States, only for their parents to block their way.

It’s only happened a few times, Arthur doesn’t think he’s ever seen those men again.

But his parents have long since been asleep, and here he is— with the main fireplace lit, seated on the floor in front of it.

After a few minutes of silence, he reaches out to his side— grabbing the long stick he had brought from outside.

It’s drier than what’s out there now, with all the snow…and perfect for lighting on fire.

He holds the end with two hands, carefully placing the other end in the soft orange-red glow.

He watches it spark, watches the ends darken and smolder until it fades into ash. He feels the warmth of the fire along his skin, and he can’t look away from the flickering light.

He watches the flames climb along the wood, eyes wide as it slowly, slowly, gets closer to his hands, feeling it lick at his fingers…

There’s a hand around his wrist, the grip gentle yet firm, and the wood is thrown entirely into the fireplace.

Arthur blinks.

His father is kneeling at his side, brows furrowed and lips pursed. His hands are pulled to his other side, where his mother is crouched, gentle hands surveying the light burns on his fingertips.

“Arthur Jones,” his father’s voice is quiet and stern, scolding but quiet enough to not wake the younger children, “What in the world are you doing?”

Arthur can’t bring himself to answer his father, not even once his mother pats the backs of his hand— a signal that he is no more injured than a scratch that didn’t even break skin.

His mother stands up with a pat to his and his fathers shoulders, and ventures back upstairs— so that the younger kids wouldn’t wake up alone, most likely.

And then it’s just he and his father.

“How’d you know?” He rasps instead of answering.

His father raises his brow, in the same way he did when he found a question unamusing, as he often found the politicans to be.

“Your mother and I built this house,” he says easily, “We know when something happens that shouldn’t be.”

Arthur feels himself wilt at the look in his fathers eyes.

Not anger, no— his father has hardly been angry at them.

The disappointment, he thinks, hurts worse than any anger ever could.

“You have hurt yourself,” his father scolds gently as he hefts them into a standing position, “and could have lit the house on fire.”

“…sorry…” he mutters, looking down and scuffing his foot.

His father sighs, and Arthur jolts a bit when he’s pulled forward against his fathers chest.

“We have these rules for a reason.” The sentence is said against his hair, “We need to trust you not to break them, Artie.”

“…I know…” his voice is quiet and muffled against his fathers shoulder, “…sorry, pa…”

His father hums, “Off to bed, child. We’ll talk about it more in the morning, alright?”

“Okay.”

He likely wouldn’t be left alone with his fire for a while, left under supervision. He could accept that.

He goes to bed with a small, writhing feeling in his chest.

.2.

Ian Jones has always been a reckless, adventurous child, and it got him into more trouble than any of the other kids.

It’s not that he is stupid— he’s incredibly emotionally intelligent and has plenty of street smarts, a miracle his parents didn't prioritize good grades in education, only that they knew enough to reach a good place in life.

The forest around their home is thick and lush, a single cobblestone road leading from the front gardens to the mainstreet leading to town. There are no humans for miles, but there is plenty of wildlife.

Plenty of wildlife that Ian wrestles with, tearing up his clothes and mussing up his hair, returning home with a little blood on his face and dirt seeped into his skin— his Mami fussing over the blood on his cheek and the tears in his clothes and his Papi doing his best to hold back his laughter when he reminds her of how they arrived in Abuelo Pat’s house. It always earns his Papi a huff from Mami and something small flung at him from across the room.

He had never been allowed to wrestle anything bigger than him, and he was running out of critters that would let him get close enough.

He had followed that rule like it was the most important thing in the world, but…he got curious.

And that leads him to now, tears in his eyes as his Mami and Papi flutter and fuss frantically around him.

Mami is hissing in Italian, along with several other languages Ian doesn’t know. Papi is muttering in German as they carefully wipe away the blood on his arm.

Ian had never seen a black bear before. They didn’t often wander close to the property, but he saw it deeper in the woods and he wanted to fight it.

He hadn’t expected it to be fast enough, or agile enough, to whirl around and scratch him when he got too close.

Apparently, it had been a mami, and he got too close to her babies.

He understood, his Mami and Papi had done worse to humans before.

“Bambino,” his Mami says, gently wrapping the large scratch marks on his arm, stitched back together by her careful hands as Papi held his other to comfort him, “This is why you don’t try to fight something bigger than you, at least until you’re all grown up.”

She stands up, brushes her hands on the skirt of her dress, “I’m going to get a bath ready. Stay with your papi, alright?”

Ian sniffed and nodded as his Mami trotted up the stairs and his Papi pulled him close.

“You won’t be allowed in the forest for a while, kleiner,” his Papi says softly, “We have these rules for a reason, hmm?”

“S-sí, Papi.” Ian goes to wipe his face with his sleeve, but his Papi pulls out a handkerchief and does it for him, wiping away tears and snot.

His Papi’s eyes are furrowed in concern and worry, but Ian can see the disappointment. He broke one of the few rules his parents had made for him to be out in the forest, and he felt guilty for the first time.

The feeling writhed and wiggled in his chest, and he decided he did not like it.

“Your mami has the bath ready,” Papi says gently, “Let’s get you cleaned up, sweetheart, and then to bed.”

Ian sniffed again as his Papi lifts him into his arms, and buries his face in the mans neck.

He hates the feeling twisting in his tummy.

.3.

Andrew and Aiden Jones are twins, just like Grandpa Anthony and Grandpa Bennie, but they don’t share the same sort of camaraderie.

While their Twin Grandpas were practically attached at the hip, from the little the newer States ever saw of them, the two younger States were constantly at each others throats.

They, of course, learned to hide it for the most part. Their Pa is still sick most of the time, and their Ma has enough on her plate to deal with their arguments.

So they keep it on the downlow. Keep any glimpse of their rivalry beyond the pettiness between siblings hidden.

But they got caught.

They forgot Pa was home that day.

It is 1899, they’re ten-years-States and 12 in body, in the bedroom long declared as Aidens’, right next to Andrews’. Their Ma out in the Markets with some of the older kids, Evan, Boe and Max— the Departments had work they couldn’t do at home— with Cassian and Joshua staying behind with the younger ones; the twins themselves, Felix, Sebastian, Noah, Dexter, and Micah- the youngest of them at 3-years of Statehood.

The other kids are outside in the massive yard, and kept away from the treeline.

The twins had gone back inside to grab something from their room, turning the task into a competition of who can get to the item the fastest.

“No fair, Andy!” Aiden snarls, though it sounds more like a whine, “It’s my room!”

“So what!?” Andrew yells back, “I’m North Dakota! I should be the one to get it!”

“That makes no sense!”

“Yeah-huh! It means I’m better than you!”

“Nuh-uh!”

“Yeah-huh!”

They devolve into shouting, and soon fists starting flying.

They’re young, yes, but they’re still personifications— they’re stronger and faster than humans.

The other kids won’t hear them, what with the windows closed— though the bedroom door remained wide open—, but the sounds of their fighting drowns out the sounds of rubber against hardwood floors. There’s hands in hair and knees in faces and a mouth latched onto an arm before—

“Boys!” Their Pa’s voice booms over their own shouting, and they both freeze in place, heads whirling to the door.

There was their Pa, fingers curled over the wheel handles on his chair and a dark green-plaid blanket over his legs as it usually was.

Narrow grey eyes gaze at them from the doorway, a clenched jaw and mouth pressed thin.

“Separate,” their Pa says sternly, and they nearly trip over themselves to get away from each other. “Now, what is going on here?”

Their Pa wheels into the room, brow raised in expectation of some sort of explanation.

“Well?” He says, “Why’d I come to find two of my children in the middle of fisticuffs, inside the house no less?”

“Um…”

“We, uh…”

“Take your time.” Their Pa reclines further in his chair, a slight grimace on his face, “I’ve got all day.”

On one of the few times they agreed with each other, they explained the fight in unison— something they glared at each other for before their Pa’s look made them wilt.

By the end of their explanation, their Pa was humming to himself.

He seemed to think for a moment, before nodding.

“Alright, then. Off to your room, Andrew. You’re both grounded for the next two weeks, I’m sure your mother will have extra chores for you.”

“Pa—!”

“No arguments, boys.” Pa raises his hand to silence them, “You’re grounded, end of.” Then, his eyes soften, “If you didn’t want your rooms next to each other, you should’ve said so.” He wheels forward to pat both their heads at once, ruffling ginger curls, “I’ll ask one of the older kids if they would like to trade one of you, yes?”

That was enough. They accept their punishment of extra chores, Andrew scampering off to his own room as their Pa leaves them be with a simple,

“Behave.”

Two weeks later, Boe trades rooms with Andrew.

.4.

Eugene Jones was 13-years-a-State and 15 in body when he attended his first Meeting in 1920.

A Southern State, well aware that most of the States in his region were the reason his Papa had been so… sick and hurt all the time. Why his Mama was so protective and had to know where they were going and when they’d be back— because most of their other kids had abandoned them to fight in a war that nearly killed his Papa.

So, safe to say, Eugene isn’t much a fan of his fellow southerners.

Especially Texas.

But Eugene was raised with a modicum of manners, and has watched his parents show off their Mastery of the Art of Passive Aggression— and people wonder where the Midwest got it from— and has all the charm of a Southern boy. He knows his Mama is waiting back home, and knows DC is keeping an eye on him– it’s his first meeting, after all, and tensions always run high when all States-of-age are in the room.

The first time he’s met any of the other States outside the kids raised in Mama and Papa’s home.

So, Eugene was sure he could be polite to the others at his first Meeting.

…

He was wrong.

It was hard to grit his teeth and bear it when they acted like nothing was wrong. Sure, it’d been several decades– but nearly killing your Papa and breaking your Mama’s heart isn’t something you can just forget.

He had seen Boe giving him a look from a few seats up the Table– always a people pleaser, and no one the Coal Miner wanted to please more than their parents, so he always kept an eye on the ‘young'uns’ as he called them– but it wasn’t enough to hold him back.

He remembers Boe and Felix pulling him away from his fallen chair as Grampa David and Grandpa John pulled Texas— Gabriel— back.

He had stopped struggling almost immediately after he was pulled away, settling with just glaring— he wasn’t going to risk kicking Boe’s prosthetic leg, which would both hurt the other State and most certainly earn himself a tanned hide from his Papa.

But he couldn’t help but think, now that he was fidgeting in one of the chairs in front of his Papa’s desk, that it would’ve been easier than it is to have his Papa look at him in such disappointment.

He squirms in his seat, not meeting the older man’s gaze as his hands rest folded on the table, Eugene’s own fiddling in his lap.

Even when his Papa had been confined to his wheelchair, he’d been an intimidating man— even if only when they got into trouble, Eugene’s seen him stare men near twice his size into submission.

But his Papa had been walking for almost a year now, though with assistance from Mama and his cane. It made him all the more…imposing, he thinks he’s heard that word used to describe similar things.

His Papa had never been scary, not to him and the other kids, but he and Mama have always been able to get them to behave with a look.

And now he’s directing The Look at him.

“Eugene,” his Papa starts, an eerie calm tone to his voice that nearly makes the young State flinch. His Papa had rarely been calm to the point of monotony, at least that he could remember. “I would like to know why you decided to incite…violence at the Meeting yesterday.”

He doesn’t respond beyond a mumble incomprehensible even to himself, hunching his shoulders.

His Papa ‘tsk’s, and Eugene can hear the desk chair move away. Hears the clicking of the cane on hardwood as his Papa rounds the desk. He squeezes his eyes shut.

He feels a hand under his chin, raising his head to look his Papa in the eyes. He keeps his eyes closed.

“Look at me, Eugene.” His Papa’s voice is calmer, quieter— concerned.

He opens his eyes.

Papa looks at him with a furrowed brow and lips pressed thin. Pale grey eyes search his own deep brown, and Eugene can feel himself start to choke on his breath.

His eyes grow wet, and he tries to hold back the tears— but his Papa sees. The older entity pulls him close, tucking his head to his chest— and Eugene can feel the solid brace wrapped around his abdomen. A reminder that those…those Other States hurt his Papa so badly.

“Oh dear,” his Papa’s voice is a small hum, a sound made with concern as Eugene clutches tight to his suit jacket, the boy's shoulders starting to shake, “What’s wrong, honeybee?”

“They—they hurt you, Papa.” He whimpers, burrowing his face into the man’s chest, “They hurt you and you’ll always be hurt because of ‘em.” His Papa’s hand rubs along his back soothingly as his breath hitches, “And they act like nothin’ happened— Papa—“ his voice cut off by his own throat clenching.

“Shhh,” his Papa soothes, pressing a kiss to his hair, “It’s alright, honeybee, I’m fine.” He keeps speaking, not letting Eugene interrupt, “Papa can take care of himself, okay?”

He leans back, hands resting on either side of Eugene’s face to make sure he’s looking at him, wiping away tears with his thumb pads.

“You don’t have to like them,” he says, “You just have to be civil during Meetings, alright?”

Eugene takes a breath, lungs stuttering.

“O-okay, Papa.”

“Good.” Adam Jones hums again, pressing another kiss to the boys forehead, “Off to bed, baby, I’ll be there in a minute if you’d like a story.”

Eugene squirms. Most humans his age didn’t have their fathers, or even their mothers, tucking them in and reading bedtime stories.

But his family had always been strange— or rather, Nonconforming to Human Social Normalities— he’d heard Gideon say that once.

“Y-yes, please.” He whispers, and only receives another hum in response.

“Okay, honeybee, go get ready for bed and I’ll be there in a minute.” Another kiss on the top of his head before his Papa lets him go.

Eugene scurries down the hall, feeling a hitch in his breath— yet a settling peace in his heart.

..5..

Gov has been around for a month, and it’s nearing the end of February. He gave off a familiar feeling, but they brushed it off. He was Gov, and he’s here to replace DC after the January Riot.

DC had been holding the meetings for more than a century, he knew how to get the States to listen better than most— especially Minnesota and those that came after.

Gov didn’t stick around for much beyond Meetings at the start, but he’d been spending more time in the office. He didn’t touch any of DC’s stuff, left it as it was and simply did his work.

It was strange— Gov never knew DC, did he?

Either way, Gov was new and hardly around, so the States didn’t really…respect him in any way. Sure, they mostly listened during meetings, but hardly. They continue to do their own thing.

But this Meeting is different.

They’re shouting at each other, tensions are rising with them all in the same place for so long, even Alaska is snarling. They stay out of the large, brooding man’s way— he bites if he gets too antsy, and it’s like being mauled by a Polar Bear.

Soon, insults turn into fists.

Gov is at the head of the Table, rubbing his temples. His eyes narrow and he snarls at the first sign of blood. He stands from his seat, and slams his hands on the Table.

The sound is loud, louder than any of their shouting, and several glares turn to the head of the Table.

But they soon wilt at the look in the man’s grey eyes. Gov looks at them with so much disappointment it almost seems like anger, and a few of them start shuffling their feet.

“Sit down,” the man’s voice is stern and strained, “and be quiet.”

West Virginia is the first to scramble to his seat, and others follow suit.

Gov watches with a flick of his eyes, back and forth, and soon everyone is seated.

“I expected better behavior.” the man says dryly, “Especially from people over 50 years old. Suppose I expected too much, having all of you in one place.”

The man tilts his head.

“After this meeting,” he says, “I believe everyone should take a week or two in their own homes. A cooldown period, if you will.”

No one responds as he finally sits down, and clicks the button on his earpiece— he hadn’t even turned it on to yell at them— and he speaks.

“Now then, onto what we came here to do…”

———————————————————————

Several of them sit in the Statehouse living room after the Meeting, Gov having left almost immediately.

“I felt like I disappointed someone important.” California shudders, “Like, someone very important.”

“Felt like I disappointed Mama.” Louisiana agrees, but Florida shakes his head.

“Nah, Mami had a different kinda disappointment. That- that felt more like—“

“It felt like disappointing Pa.” Texas mutters, half-curled into himself.

No one responds.

Their father had a specific sort of disappointment. He told you why he was disappointed, he told you what would happen next, and then it’d be done and over with. He would always be proud when they understood what they had done wrong, and it was never brought up after.

The moment they had all sat down, the disappointment had faded from Gov’s eyes almost immediately.

…

It reminded them of their father.

Their father, who has been dead for over a hundred years.

They never liked to disappoint their father.

But the familiarity nearly made them cry.

And no one needed to know that some of them did, once they got home. From the writhing guilt in their chests and the familiar look in Gov’s eyes.

Ohio would die and try to take everyone with him- and take a good amount of them lmao.

Tell me which states y’all think would survive the Hunger Games and not get speared like a kabob like Rue did