We Get Older [Closed]

[culturalappropriation]

WHO| Punchy and Carlos, Punchy and Dave, Punchy and Gary
WHAT| Post-Arena condolences.
WHERE| Lobby of the Tribute Center.
WHEN| After the children's Arena.
WARNINGS| None yet aside from your typical juvenile murder games fare.

Tonight, it occurs to him that he's actually going to age. Physically, not just carrying extra years in his soul like an invisible tick, bloating itself on his years in Panem. His body's going to be allowed to slouch and swagger into its twenties, rather than stuck permanently at eighteen.

The freedom from the Arena, and the cage of life as a Victor, hasn't hit him like a sack of bricks. It's just revealed itself in details that blindside him as each day goes by.

He keeps coming home half an hour before curfew, irate that he isn't able to drown out his woes in public revelry. He wants to go to bars and gets wasted and feel up the cute girls who throw themselves at the new Victor. He wants to paste over the feeling of a chasm yawning beneath him with confetti and alcohol and g-strings. Sometimes he gets a little bit into it before the alarm comes, and he stumbles back to the Suite intoxicated, but usually he feels as if grieving for the person he's supposed to be has been painfully truncated every night.

He's going to age. He's going to get old here in the Capitol while everyone he cares about dies in the Arena or rots in the ground. He's so excited he could cry.

Tonight he's sober when he gets back to the Tribute Center, carrying a box of trinkets under his puffy jacket. The soon-winter air outside has flushed his cheeks and the tip of his nose rosy. He glances at the still-erected statue of the naked Enjolras and frowns at it, unsure if it's out of relief that he didn't suffer the same fate or out of envy that he didn't get a nude statue.

It's totally envy.

He flops down on a couch and rubs his hands together, reminding himself to buy mittens tomorrow. He won't use the Avoxes to run that errand. This one's on him.

Comments

[a_minute_younger]

It's late when Gary goes looking, and he's starting to worry he'll never be able to find Punchy again to talk to him. It seems like the guy's been staying out later than ever--probably to celebrate his victory, but Gary's jealous mind assumes it's to avoid talking to him. And goodness, does he sure as hell deserve it. He might have been out of his mind, for reasons that he still doesn't quite understand, but Gary can't hold that excuse accountable for his actions, not towards his main man, his partner in crime, his brother from another mother, et al. Punchy deserves something better than that. And if nothing else, he deserves a proper celebration for his victory.

Now if only Gary had the patience to actually go looking for Punchy, perhaps that could have been taken care of sooner. Instead, Gary finds him just in passing through the lobby. Perhaps this is for the best; caught off-guard as he is, Gary doesn't have time to think about all his misgivings when he spreads his arms out and calls from across the room, "Hey, bro, what's happenin'?"

[culturalappropriation]

Punchy doesn't really hold grudges. He put it together soon enough that it was the water bottles that were getting people all aggro, and even without that, he knows full well that the Arena does strange things to people. It makes them desperate, makes them mean, confuses their senses of right and wrong. That's why he has to keep his feet planted firmly on his foundations, so he can show them the way, like some kind of sad, wangsta Messiah.

Or he would, if he weren't king of the child-killers, the Capitol's lackey too unwitting to resist their machinations.

"Not shit, dawg." And Punchy gets up off the couch and crosses the distance between them quickly, taking the invitation before it's denied to him. He wraps his arms around Gary and gives him a squeeze, then leans back so he's lifted the other guy a little bit off the ground. Personal space? Fuck it. "Just rolling back to the trap before they kill the lights. I ain't seen you around!"

Granted, Punchy hasn't seen much of anyone lately, because he's been avoiding anything remotely approaching human thought by surrounding himself with vapidity, loud music and intoxicants. It's club, bedroom, club for him.

[a_minute_younger]

Not a bad life as far as Gary's concerned. If curfew, the underlying need to be around his new friends, and a cripplingly short attention span didn't keep him central to the Tribute Center, Gary would be attempting something similar, as he had done his first week or so after arriving. The world is simply to interesting to drown out for too long, he's found. Perhaps that will change.

In the meanwhile, he's just happy to see Punchy around again. Gary lets out a laugh and an oof as he's hiked in the air, hugging tightly and with much enthusiastic patting of Punchy's back. "Same to you! They keeping you busy, eh Victor? Yeah?" There would be an encouraging nudge of Punchy's ribs there if he wasn't having the air squeezed out of his own right now. "Or have you been keeping yourself busy?"

[culturalappropriation]

That word, 'Victor', cuts like a knife into Punchy's gut. He smiles, but he looks almost queasy for a moment, like he's trying to swallow an emotion that's too big for him. He jostles Gary right back to cover for it.

"I been keeping the ladies busy, if you catch me. And I know you do." He smirks and waggles his eyebrows as best he can before patting Gary on the shoulder like a bro should.

[a_minute_younger]

The slip is sufficiently covered. "The ladies know better than I do," Gary grins and waggles his eyebrows back. He could not have asked for a better reaction from Punchy, having found him here by happenstance, happy enough that he almost forgets why he was apprehensive in the first place. And then he remembers.

...Should he even apologize at this point? Punchy seems so happy...maybe he's been silently forgiven and they don't have to even bring it up. Gary would like that. Besides, he can make his appreciation known through less awkward means.

"Hey man, you want some drinks? It's on me."

[culturalappropriation]

"Yeah. Yeah they do." Punchy has no sense of subtlety, so he feels as if he's just gotten the world's best joke, and puffs out his chest and raises his eyebrows.

"Shit yeah, I ain't gonna turn down a chance to get turnt on someone else's greenbacks. Get me two on, okay?" The truth is Punchy could probably stand to drink a little less these days, because he's spent most of his mornings hungover and most of his nights trying to get too wasted to think straight, because the last time he was a hundred percent sober was before the mini-Arena.

But like hell is he telling Gary or anyone else that.

[a_minute_younger]

What isn't known isn't worried about! "Sure thing!" Gary trots over to the bar and leans confidently over the counter, slaps it to get the bartender's attention and holds up three fingers with a wink. The bartender, of course, has no idea what he's on about. Gary repeats the gesture with more insistence. The bartender gives up and starts preparing three cheap, although still quite fancy-looking, fruit-themed beverages.

There's time for some casual conversation while they wait. "Let's throw you a proper celebration, eh?" Gary hops onto one of the stools and perches there, resting heavy on his elbows. "Some nerve those Gamemakers have, not throwing you one! What's their problem?"

[culturalappropriation]

"Them bitches know they can't fit all that phatness into one night's what." Punchy shrugs it off. The truth is that he can't imagine anything he'd rather do less than be more celebrated for his victory, the one he slithered to the finish line on over the bodies of children, over his friends, over people who actually wanted this freedom.

He takes two of the drinks for himself and leaves one for Gary. Whoops, hope that's how you intended to divide them, G. He also knocks on the counter and yells "shots!".

"Maybe I'll just throw a little shindig with my closest peeps. No CapitolKart this time, though."

[a_minute_younger]

Gary takes no notice, if only because he'll probably end up sneaking sips of Punchy's extra drink while they're distracted with conversation. "Aw, no CapitolKart?" he pouts, pausing to knock back his colorful cocktail and take several long gulps. "I can always get more controllers, man! It's no problem!"

[shenunigans]

It seems like it's a trend lately in Dave's life for people who have no real cutthroat desire to win that cutthroat crown. Maybe he's a lucky charm, but he's starting to sincerely doubt whether being a Victor is considered lucky. Shit is fucked when it's almost safer to be in the Arenas murdering one another than it is to be out here with all the bitches singing your praises. Nah. That's fucking stupid. Clara and Punchy are better off on the outside, but Dave will always worry for people he can't keep an eye on most of the time. Especially people who have made themselves important like those two have.

Speaking of symbolic importance, it has occurred to him that he hasn't seen much of Punchy since he died or he killed him or he spontaneously combusted. The whole thing had been a level of sentimental that makes Dave ache from the sincerity and squirm to avoid the reality of it all. He'd thought Punchy was a good guy going in the Arena, but now he knows he's a great guy and he sort of just pales in comparison to that level of bropanionship.

It doesn't mean he's avoiding him, but he hasn't exactly been running through fields calling his name with outstretched arms. No. They're just up to different things. Punchy gets drunk habitually and Dave can't stand the smell since his own halfhearted attempt at it. Dave has considered approaching a few times, but he's always too drunk and it's always too late. Really, though, there's been no dwelling, none of that. That's why he totally doesn't need to steel himself a little when he finally catches the guy at a good moment. He strides toward that couch like a true Strider, inviting himself to perch on the arm of it with his arms folded over his chest.

"If I were your wife I would have killed you by now." That wasn't an awkward way to start a conversation at all. "Up late drinking again, you're never home for dinner, our kids don't even know what you look like, homie." Of course he would say this the one time Punchy wanders in sober.

[culturalappropriation]

"We got kids?" Punchy jerks his head up and gives Dave an honest-to-God confused look before it sinks in. Oh, right. He grins and laughs.

He scooches over on the couch so Dave can sit next to him instead of lingering on the armrest like a tow-headed gargoyle. It's not as if he hasn't seen Dave since the Arena, but they haven't really talked, and being in such close proximity superimposes the image of Dave's corpse with the mutilated face over everything. When Dave talks, Punchy tries not to hear broken teeth or the blood-flecked wheeze of collapsing lungs.

Punchy still looks a little bit of a mess since his victory. Felicity beat the hell out of him, and it's likely that he's going to have a bit of a limp for the rest of his life. His eyes are no longer the crimson broken-capillary color they were, and his Stylist coaxed him to go under the knife to get that broken nose straightened, but he's still got his fair share of conspicuous bruises and stitches and scrapes.

"Soz I missed your birthday, dawg. I heard it was a banger." He pats the box of trinkets. "Still got you some shit, though."

[shenunigans]

The sincerity in Punchy's confusion gets Dave to snort in amusement while the other boy laughs. It takes him a moment, but eventually he scoots down so his ass is on the couch and not perched on the arm. Either way is comfortable for him, but he doesn't want to look like he's ignoring an invitation when they're already bumbling around seeing each other again.

Punchy still looks pretty damaged, but he hasn't got much on Clara. Things are pretty sunny when you aren't missing an eye and a hand, right? Doesn't mean you don't come out worse for wear in other ways, and Dave is pretty damn sure that's the case here. He didn't seem to want any part of winning, he can't imagine he's terribly fricking pleased right now.

"As far as bangers go, it was pretty mild." Mild, but enjoyable. He zeroes in on that box straight away. "Oh, man. Blah blah, you didn't have to. Wow, I'm so flattered. What is it." All of that is said in rapid succession because his curiosity is already killing him.

[culturalappropriation]

As soon as Dave's on the couch Punchy's sprawl turns into a kind of bro-hug, one that's been a bit pent up since the Arena. The last he felt of Dave was a corpse, cold and stiff. He ruffles Dave's hair and it's less to show affection and more just to make sure he's not conversing with a hallucination or hologram.

"Dawg, it ain't nothing serizzle, and I ain't even tricked out the package yet." He pulls a small box out and passes it over, looking a bit sheepish that it's unwrapped. Inside is a sunglasses case that just screams "awful taste", with panthers and winged grenades patterned over pin-up girls embossed in gold. There's an entire kit in there, all equally garish and overly hip-hawp, with little wipes and a screwdriver set and everything. Dave's name is monogrammed in studs along one side.

"Tried to get it past regulations for your token, but they says you can only get your shades, so it's gonna have to stay in your crib."

[shenunigans]

The hug is met with Dave tensing his shoulders up before he eases himself up a little. The least he could do for his bro is not flake on a damn hug, he's just really goddamn bad at what he assumes is the affection thing. He lets out a grumble of protest when his hair is mussed, pulling away so he can smooth it back with an almost dramatic level of indignation.

"Shit doesn't need to be serizzle to get my attenshizzle." He's not sure if he mocks the way Punchy speaks or revels in the chance to do it himself. Either way, he's being presented with something and that holds his attention right now. God, he needs to stifle the childlike glee at being given a present. How does someone cool play off being appreciative? Shit is hard.

"Aaaaw snap." Yes. Good choice of words. He takes the box when it's offered, turning it in his hands as he takes in every factor of the garish gift. It's a little too much, super kitschy and weirdly charming. Yup. Just like punchy. "Shit, man. I'm getting choked up." He presses his free hand to his chest like he's fighting back tears, a small smile playing at his lips even though he's trying to smother it.

"Gotta let me give you the stamp of approval." When he's done with the dramatics, he holds a fist out in front of him, inclining his head toward it for tapping.

[culturalappropriation]

If Punchy realizes he might be being mocked, he certainly doesn't show it. (Spoilers: he doesn't realize it.)

Punchy eagerly goes in for the fistbump, but pauses a moment after their knuckles touch. Punchy's hand is still covered with bruises and a stitch between his first and second knuckles that he got on Dave's face. There's an awkward pause where Punchy pretends that he's not acknowledging what he's clearly noticed, and then he takes his hand and shoves it into his pocket.

Like it's no big thing.

"Don't get all bitch shit on me. Real G's don't cry." Except when they bash their homie's brains out against their fist. There's another little awkward pause and Punchy compulsively clicks his tongue out of a need to fill the silence. He flops back against the couch and props his feet up on the coffee table nearby. "You catch that they screwed me outta laying it down in a victory speech? I was gonna give a rap."

[shenunigans]

It's a playful kind of mocking, it's part sincerity and part irony. It's almost entirely because he wants Punchy to like him, even if he isn't aware. Hell, he isn't sure when he and Punchy got tight like they are. Is this tight? God, he's really awful at friends who aren't aliens or either much older or younger than him and it's just dawning on him now.

Now he has a friend, his age with similar interests who buys him thoughtful gifts and kills him to spare him from a heavy death. He will never properly be able to handle how friendships are fostered here, so he tries to discreetly avert his eyes from Punchy's bruised hand. Everything about him is screaming the story of shit he went through to make it to the end, it's hard not to glance at a scar and go back to that moment. He resists the urge to touch his own face, even though he hadn't felt the pain following the connection of the punch, he'd still woken up with a start from it back in the Capitol.

There's a gut instinct telling him to apologise for putting Punchy in that position and a dumber inclination to look him dead in the eye and ask what the deal with the puppet is. Instead, he takes the easy way out an awkward conversation, the way Punchy is offering. Again. He's making a habit of this.

He brings his legs up onto the couch so he can sit cross legged, resting his chin on his hand when he does. "I definitely would have cried if you did." Because it would have been awful or stirring is hard to say from his tone. "Not 'til I'd laid down a beat for you though, homes. If I had my tables we could have crafted a mix so ill they'd just crown us victors of every Arena by default."

[culturalappropriation]

They're totally tight, although that likely says more about Punchy than it does about Dave. Punchy goes through his life like this, determining what people will be to him on the first glance and then doggedly turning them into that - friend, nemesis, sidekick - out of sheer incredulity that they could be anything else. It never occurred to him that he and Dave wouldn't be homies.

"Homes, if you been holding out on me about your mad beatbox skills, we gonna have words. I been looking for some phat beats for years in this joint." He raises his eyebrows and jokingly reaches for the glasses case. "You sayin' if I get you some tables you can lay it down for me? Maybe I oughta switch out your gift."

Which he can afford, since he's rich now, coffers glutted with a Mentor's winnings. His face falls a little again, like a stutter in his smile. His victory (Dave's broken head, Sandy's blood all over the dashboard of her go-kart, Felicity's tears soaking his shoulder) is sewing each minute together with its ugly, impossible-to-ignore seams. The alcohol makes it easier, the weed makes it easier, but the patchwork remains painfully obvious.

"So parties aside, how's it been hanging since you got back?" It's easier to talk about the present than about the future right now, about Dave going back into the Arena, the burgeoning truth.

[youbarium]

Carlos is making his way in from the cold, as well, just as rosy-cheeked. Maybe he'd be warmer if he were wearing a heavier jacket than a lab coat, but he will tell anyone who asked that this is definitely a winter lab coat and he is perfectly fine, thank you.

He sees Punchy rubbing his hands on the couch, and realizes that, somehow, he hadn't talked with Punchy since the events of the last Arena. He also realizes that he probably should.

He walks over. "Hi, Punchy," he says, breaking a small sort of smile. "Do you mind if I sit here?"

[culturalappropriation]

"Nah, dawg. It's a free country," he says, before he realizes how ridiculous that saying is in these dark times. Even he has to pull a bit of a face at that, all lower teeth and widened eyes. "Sit yo' ass down."

He scoots over on the couch - if he were any taller than his generous six-feet-and-change, he could take up the entire piece of furniture with the way he sprawls - and allows Carlos a seat.

He heart tightens a bit to see Carlos. The events of the Arena are mostly forgotten. Cecil (a fellow Avox, a hero of the Districts) has not been.

Punchy tries small talk. "It's cold, right?"

[youbarium]

Scientifically speaking, it wasn't. But Carlos, for once, doesn't feel like voicing something they both know.

"Yeah," he says, matching Punchy's awkwardness. "We're up in the mountains, so it's just going to get colder. It's weird: I was brought here in January -- well, January here, it was June in Night Vale, and I have no idea what month it was in the outside world, and all of this plus the constant Arena resurrections has made calculating my age really hard -- and now it's December. That's nearly a whole year. One year in the Capitol." He shakes his head.

"It feels like longer."

[culturalappropriation]

Punchy laughs, but it's not a very joyous sound. It's kind of dry, and doesn't seem to match the boyish face or teenage sprawl. It comes from someone far older who happens to be wearing a boy's skin and ideals.

"Two for me." He shakes his head and runs his hand through his hair, leaving it in a wilting spike. "Look, dawg, I seen a lot of- I seen most people cash it in by now. I'm just-"

He sighs and rubs his hand over his face, looking as if his name indicates one of the many things he's better at than talking about things. "I'm glad you got to talk to your boo before he was gone for good."

[youbarium]

Carlos's face falls and softens all at once.

"...thanks," he says, after a moment. It took him that moment to find his voice, and then to find what to say to that.

"It was really generous of you to let me take your vocal cords like that. I'm grateful. I really am."

A pause.

"Did you watch any of the tapes?"

[culturalappropriation]

"Nah, dawg, that weren't generous, that was legend. I'mma live forever through this vox." He thumps his finger against his throat, wincing a little as he accidentally flicks a bruise still lingering from the mini-Arena.

And that wince lingers for just a moment, because there's a melancholy underlying Punchy's boisterous attitude that wasn't there before. "I try not to. Figure I'll be seeing all that shit when they king me."

[youbarium]

...the shift in tone is strange to hear. Carlos can't help noticing it, noticing that Punchy is not what he was. Not entirely, anyway.

"Most likely."

He's quiet for a moment.

"Were you trying to win?" The question is asked neutrally -- as though winning were neither a good thing nor a bad one.

[culturalappropriation]

"Did you see the mini-Arena? Guessing no, from that question." Punchy snorts and rubs at the bridge of his nose, the pressure of his fingertips leaving a flushed then a pale blotch between his blacked eyes.

"I went across that finish line because my best homie asked me to. That's all. So in a way technical sense, yeah, I was bumping to win it."