I've been walkin' the streets at night

[fuckitall]

Who| Nick, Grantaire, Nill, castmates and anyone else!
What| Nick's still pretty bitter about the arena. There are lots of ways to cope!
Where| Training Center, rooftop, bar, here and there
When| Sometime after Arena 12, day/evening varies
Warnings| Mentions of violence that occurred in the arena



Training Center, castmates and anyone else

He never cared about going to the gym much back when his world was still normal. And when it became a living hell, running away from lurkers had been the best form of fear driven exercise.

Getting into shape isn't exactly the first thing on his mind as to why he's here though. Despite the talks and moments of catching up with those he could after the arena, his emotions still feel raw. He's still angry at himself for not being able to do more, still angry that he's brought back only to see people suffer fates they don't deserve.

And they all have to do it again and again. There will probably never be a point in his life now where he can stop and think life ain't so bad. Life ain't fair, he gets it. If only everything in the god damn universe would quit reminding him so much in the worse ways possible.

He only just realizes how white his knuckles are and unclenches his fist, making his way towards the training dummies with a steel baton in his other hand. He can hone his skills with ranged weapons later. Right now, he just needs to let out all this pent up frustration and disappointment in himself in the healthiest way he can think of: beating the ever living shit out of this dummy.

"Fuck you," he huffs after a hard swing before following up with one after each uttered word. "Fuckin'. Piece. Of. Shit."

Useless.

Luke

Lying in a soft bed has been a comfort Nick learns to never take for granted, but lately he hasn't been able to pull the blanket over himself without imagining lurkers or aliens popping out of nowhere in front of him the second he pulls the covers off. Needless to say, sleep isn't going to come to him easily any time soon. He's still stuck in this nightmare after all.

He hasn't seen Luke since the end of the arena. He doesn't know what to say. Maybe Luke's feeling something similar along the likes, since he hasn't heard from him either. Knowing Luke, he's probably keeping to himself just as Nick is doing right now. But he's been feeling this distance between them for a while. This distance that only closes in moments where Luke isn't acting like a leader whether the circumstances permit him or not.

One thing he does know is that Luke can't shoulder all this burden himself. Is Luke worried that Nick would think less of him if he tells him that? Does Luke think he blames him for what happened?

He slowly sits up from the bed, running one hand down his face while fumbling with the communicator with the other. If Luke's blaming himself for any of this, Nick needs to let him know that it isn't his fault. He sends Luke a ping, feeling the anxiety creeping along his throat.

"...Luke?"

The park, open

Spending hours beating the shit out of things at the Training Center certainly helps, but it can only do so much for the moment and not much else when the moment's over. And for some reason, he doesn't feel the slightest tired. Even if he was, he can't bring himself to sleep for no more than an hour.

For now he'll make do with his guitar. It calms him down, keeping him grounded. Even if he played angrily, which he has done more than a few occasions, he can do it without the shame if it's through music.

He spends a little time wandering around for a while before finally finding a bench that faces away from most of the foot traffic. He plucks the strings and tunes the guitar accordingly. It takes a couple of random strums before he lets his fingers finally decide on a song. He doesn't sing the lyrics despite knowing them. Instead, he whistles an accompaniment to the tune. Eventually the whistling dies down and he just lets his fingers glide along, for once not caring about screwing up a note or missing it entirely. He's too busy staring ahead at the trees ahead of him, reminiscent of days at the park back home or exploring the woods.

Grantaire

The bartender working practically knows Nick's face by now. At least, from what he can tell anyway from the look he gets and the following head shake. As usual, Nick responds to that with his order along with a flippant eye roll. He takes his seat at a corner stool, his preferred place to sit mostly so he could lean against the wall or some sense of bullshit security he can't explain while sober. Drinking with Beth earlier was nice, but tonight is the night where he intends to go all out.

He's not even halfway done with his glass of whiskey, but he's already ordered another.

Nightmares aren't coming to him tonight.

Nill

Nick had only seen Nill in the arena as a portrait painted by the stars. Before that, they only had what Nick recalls as one of the first decent conversations he had since his arrival here. They've only spoken that one time but in the end he decided that Nill's good in his book. It's not often he feels safe enough to talk without feeling like he's being judged for it. He hasn't forgotten that and deeply regrets not trying harder to seek her out in the arena.

The guilt just keeps growing the more he thinks about it. Even if he does find her on the rooftop, he's not even sure if she wants to see anyone. He'd understand if she doesn't, but he wants to let her know that her patience and willingness to listen isn't going to be overlooked.

These two packs of cigarettes he bought might not cut it, he thinks.

Comments

[fuckitall]

"They really do like talkin' about themselves," he replies with a vague understanding of what Daryl could mean, but doesn't offer more commentary on that since they're being constantly watched. As far as he can tell with his people and Daryl's is that they all have zero interest in supporting the Capitol. The level of propaganda around here is comparable to the shit he remembers from history class.

He raises a brow a bit in the middle of taking his drink when Daryl mentions hunting. He's not sure what Daryl can hunt with but he probably could choke out a game or something with those arms of his.

Thank god for the conversation to continue flowing because there's no way he can pull himself back if he actually made that comment out loud. Instead, he lets out a thoughtful hum and nods.

"Yeah, I heard she got herself a small one not too long ago...I dunno about "good" but I practiced a helluva lot." And with practice came urges to chuck said guitar across the room. He had done that once or twice after a huge surge of frustration at an early attempt to learn the intro riff to "Snow (Hey Oh)" by the Red Hot Chili Peppers. He never gave up, of course. The guitar would land safely on the bed and stayed there for a few moments before he decided to try again. And again. And again. The only thing slightly damaged was his own self-esteem.

"...you askin' for lessons or somethin'?" He asks almost playfully. Almost. There's a smirk there to reveal that he's been more comfortable with the conversation, though still nervous as if the waters still needs to be tested. For whatever reason the prospect of teaching someone like Daryl (whatever the hell that means - just someone who seems cooler than him?) makes him feel a little nervous.

[weaintashes]

Daryl realises only after the fact that he maybe shouldn't have mentioned hunting at all, knowing that the Panem government undoubtedly forbids the possession and usage of weapons even in the districts. For that reason he's privately grateful Nick doesn't press for details, even though he could always lie and say it's solely snare hunting. Safer to just not talk about it here.

Shit. He knows he needs to be more careful, especially with the way alcohol starts loosening his tongue after a certain point. Thankfully his slip up is fleeting, and all but forgotten in his surprise at Nick's seemingly joking offer. He can't mean it. It has Daryl drawing himself up from his comfortable slouch against the bartop, his expression shifting between bemusement and thoughtfulness. What if it is a serious offer?

"Wasn't my intention," he admits honestly, fingers rasping against his beard as he rubs his chin. "I was gonna suggest you'n Beth make yourselves a little redneck band." Because the guitar and piano complement each other, plus Beth has a pretty singing voice (not that he'd ever admit to thinking so), and it genuinely wouldn't have occurred to him to even include himself — before Nick's suggestion. Turning to fully look at Nick now, his interest is evident in his voice when he asks, "You offerin' lessons?"

[fuckitall]

"Me and Beth?" Nick asks not out of annoyance but of genuine surprise, but clears his throat and starts swirling his cup along the table. Just to...not convey any wrong ideas. He's heard Beth perform before and finds her voice (and overall presence, really) nice and even comforting. Even if Daryl's joking about that, he feels the need to add, "I dunno about bein' in a band, but she and Luke could probably form a nice duo."

He thinks back on listening to the two of them performing Tom Waits, as if they were all friends just hanging out one normal summer afternoon. "He's better at it than I am," he adds, without any attempts to hide the hints of Nick's low self-esteem, and envy.

He turns to Daryl just in time to see the other man looking back at him. His eyes widen some at the eye contact and has him biting his lower lip for a moment to consider the idea. He's been teaching Clem the basics here and there, and almost unsurprisingly she's been picking it up real quick.

"If you want, sure." Fuck it. Why the hell not? They both could add more to their list of things to do in their free time bsides just beating up manniquins and...hunting. He holds up his glass to Daryl as a toast, his small smile nervous, but genuine. "And maybe you and her can play together."

[weaintashes]

Between the self-deprecating commentary and the way Nick ends up looking like the proverbial deer caught in headlights, Daryl's forced to wonder just how badly he may have misread things, already mentally preparing to withdraw his suggestion. Had he presumed too much, too soon? He's also sorely tempted to point out that they're not talking about Luke or his abilities, whatever he can or can't do better than Nick, but there's obviously history there that may be better left untouched at the moment. Navigating potentially delicate feelings is not something he excels at.

Feelings in general make him feel out of his depth.

Then after what feels like far too long, Nick's agreeing, and the wary tension that had been stiffening Daryl's posture thaws as he reaches for his own glass, and returns the gesture, as though finalising their arrangement with a symbolic toast. He drains what little whiskey's left in his glass before asking, "When d'you wanna do it?"

They can start with one and go from there, he figures. In the interim, he'll be thinking of what he can offer in return. Hunting or tracking lessons, maybe, or even a tattoo. Something. He's too self-conscious about taking up Nick's time to not attempt to make it up to him in some way.

"...Dunno what I can do for ya in return. But I'm willin' to work something out."

[fuckitall]

Daryl's a hard person to read for Nick and a pair of eyes like that shows that the man is no stranger to a stare down. Neither is Nick, but it's usually him that turns away from eye contact first. His brain is wired to have associate staring as judging. It's why he always tells other people off or walks away when they don't.

Things feel lighter right now though and despite Daryl being almost unreadable for him, he feels safe enough to talk comfortably. Enough to not lash out like he did earlier. Going in with a clearer head always helps.

Daryl's forgiving and he's grateful for that.

"How 'bout a tattoo? I mean, when I think of somethin' first but..." Is there more to tattoo etiquette? He's not sure, so he just lets his sentence trail off there and waits for Daryl's answer.

Operation: tattoos and guitar lessons is go!

[weaintashes]

"Suits me," Daryl agrees, and turns to give the bartender his card to pay for his drinks. While he normally wouldn't do this sort of thing for someone he doesn't know too well, he's willing to take a chance with Nick. Can't expect to earn trust without extending some, after all, and it will admittedly require more faith on Nick's part; he'll be the one on the receiving end of the needle.

"Lemme know when you figure out a design, I'll tell you what to do from there." The preparation on Nick's end would be fairly simple — providing Daryl with at least a rough sketch of the tattoo design, and shaving the area of his body that he wants it on. "An' I'm in District Nine, by the way." A somewhat unnecessary detail, because of the convenience of the communicators, but he feels it's worth mentioning all the same. Taking back his card from the bartender, he gives Nick a nod as he slides off the stool.

"Take it easy on the dummies," he suggests by way of parting, offering a faint smile as he says it to let Nick know it's meant in jest. Then he crosses his arms, tucking his hands up under them as he walks away, headed for the elevator.