thecapitol | Some, some, some I, some I murder. [open]

Who| Nick and oooopen
What| When you try your best but you don't succeed.
Where| D7, lobby bar.
When| Post-Arena, pre-Crowning
Warnings/Notes| Nick being a douche. Nbd.

Hell hath no fury like Nick when he wakes up in the Training Room. To get that close and lose by inches, inches of knife in you, it's soul crushing. The frustration takes some working through, but his methods have never let him down. Booze. Sex. More booze. Denial. If there's one thing he's willing to do, it's to absorb absolutely all of the luxury of the Capitol while he can. He thinks he deserves that much, but he's also pretty sure other people have different ideas.

He's a frequent at the Lobby Bar lately. He's perpetually rolling in, ordering rounds and glowering at the replays when he can. He can at least boast quite the featured face in the highlight reel, but it's a pretty miserable runner-up prize in his opinion. He can be found ranting at the bartender and denizens of the bar as well as trying to make bets with them long into the night.

Sometime in the night, he drags his sorry ass up to the District 7 suites. He can't rightly remember which bedroom is his, and he's not willing to chance it. He finds himself on the same couch he'd planted on when he'd first arrived here, and it's good enough for him. He sleeps the whole night there, half-heartedly smothering his face with a pillow as he snores into the morning. If nobody wakes him up, he'll wake himself up with a snort of disdain at the sun and a clumsy stalk into the kitchen to make coffee.

He'll stand there, looking incredibly disheveled, with a hand on the counter and a cup of coffee in his hand like he's an efficiently early riser and not red in the eye and dead in the soul. "Morning sunshine." He'll croak at anyone who happens by him, still just drunk enough to think his cover is foolproof.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Not when it involved stairs." He says fondly, but he'll drop it now. Thinking about Coach being stuck back home made him feel physically ill, and he doesn't need that when he's as hung over as he is.

Nick takes the donut with a grunt, but he's glad for it. He hasn't even thought about getting food, this saves him the hassle. "Remind me to jog your memory sometime." He suggests, taking a bite out of the donut as Ellis speaks.

"If you start crying, I'm going to leave." He says around a mouthful of donut, pointing it at him accusingly. "You gotta get tough too. No bleeding heart bullshit."

"Figure o' speech, Nick, figure o' speech. I got everything outta my system after I drank myself to sleep, so there," Ellis raised an eyebrow at the grunt and the bleeding heart comment, "You're the type that don't believe in honey bein' a better trap for the flies, huh?"

That's coming from a man who befriended his killer in the Arena, so maybe Ellis' methods were deeply flawed.

If Nick is concerned by that, it doesn't show in his expression. He contemplates it for a moment, faintly worried that the ever present ray of sunshine known as Ellis is having downswings. He brushes off the feeling as best he can, because it's not his problem until he sees it happen.

"What are you going to do with your flies once you catch them, Ellis? You don't expect me to believe you're sweet talking just to stab them in the back, do you?" He gives him a flat look, his tone like a school teacher scolding a bratty kid.

"Well, uh," shit, he hadn't planned that one through, and Nick caught up to him and his drive to getting allies over self-preservation. He figured bigger numbers would mean better survival but nope, not in this world.

"Goddammit all right! I don't think things through," he huffed, yanking his hat on straight, "An' hell, I could end up bringin' someone horrible that kills us all in our sleep. An' as much as I know you complain, I...I dunno wha' I'd do if you an' Rochelle got killed because of me."

There was a high enough chance that he'd let the anger cloud his thinking and start landing kill shots. Which brought back some old guilt from losing the weapons bag in that helicopter crash.

"Yeah, didn't need to trap you to figure that one out, Ellis." Nick retorts blandly, but he can't help being the slightest bit disappointed over the fact that Ellis isn't using his miraculously winning personality to win over enemies. These good people will be the death of him, and he's not even joking when he says that.

"To be fair, I don't think either of us would be surprised." That's a lie, of course, because they all trust each other with their lives and they don't need to say it out loud to understand that. But maybe, just maybe, belittling him will comfort him. "If you can't make use of the fact that we're dying and coming back like Looney Tunes characters then you're just wasting an opportunity."

Ellis' personality had some limits but he'd at least have the decency to try and get them on his group's side for the while. That and the shot at his track record of being the harbinger of pretty much every horde or reckless endangerment, it may have brought back memories of their trip together.

"Dyin's a bitch, I'd like to not have it happen t' people I give a shit about. But if you're into that, be my guest. You're gonna fit right in with these folks," El let out, "But I hope ya don't. You're just tha' big a lovable dick."

The belittling worked in getting the mechanic to open up more.

"Of course it's a bitch. So are zombies and starvation, but guess what? It's part of our life now. We're gonna have to get used to it happening, because this might not be the last time." Bickering, as it turns out, is a great way to open up. Nick isn't being wry, he's fully serious. His brows are furrowed and he looks sincerely irritated rather than his usual, bitchy self.

"You can't save everyone, Ellis. Focus on yourself, that's the only way you're going to make it out of this."

"I know it is," the joy left Ellis for a moment, "I'm just glad we're not goin' through all this alone or I don't think you'd be half as sober as you are right now."

It felt like old times back at the swamps, hell it felt closer here now that there were no zombies hoping to tear them apart. This was Nick off the Arena, off the field and how really was. Turns out, El still liked and cared for the cranky gambler.

"I got tha' but I ain't lettin' you behind either. Call me stupid or whatever but these people, your escort, can wipe where the sun don't shine with splittin' our group."

Nick rubs a hand over his face when Ellis brings up the whole drinking thing. He's right, and that's why it pisses him off to hear it. If he didn't have anyone to care about, he wouldn't even pretend to keep it together.

"Nobody is splitting us up, Ellis. Just because we sleep in different rooms doesn't mean we aren't.. uh. Friends." He frowns at his inability to substitute in a better word, but it's the one that sticks when it comes to those two. "Is that what you're worried about?" He asks finally, leaning in a little curiously.

Ellis beamed a little at Nick calling him a friend, he would have accepted 'fellow survivor' too! But as he remembered what he told Rochelle, that title will only come back to them if they win, if they managed to survive again. He quickly shot the smile down and nodded, "Places can change people an' seein' ya so hurt, Nick, and this whole District thing...I mean, I wanna win but just so we keep our asses alive."

He then tried to cheer up again, "When we win, I'll bring ya some cheap beer an' pizza an' be catty bitches towards our kills or something. You sound like you'd enjoy that." He just had to keep his optimism and faith alive, no matter how many times he gets killed out there.

Some, some, some I, some I murder. [open]

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