open.

[downbeat]

Who| Katurian and OPEN
What| Katurian is boozing the night before the arena.
Where| Tribute lounge.
When| Night before Arena 6.
Warnings/Notes| possible mentions of abuse, death.

Katurian had made several decisions before the next arena:

1. He was going to train. Before the last arena, he had poured over poisons and antidotes, hoping there was a way that he could gently taint the food supply when no one was looking. But there were no poisons, there were no antidotes, and Katurian had been stuck in a barren wasteland with a knife that was no longer than his index finger. He was too weak to throw spears, but he spent days learning how to throw the smaller knives, how to shoot a bow and arrow, how to blow darts without sucking the needle-thin points back into his cheeks. Distance was key.

2. He was going to run for the cornucopia. It was better, he figured, to die early and messily rather than embark without weapons and find yourself at a psychopath's mercy. Or two psychopaths' lack thereof.

3. He was not going to scream and he was not going to cry. He would take injuries with a grunt, if anything. He would pretend that his mouth is stitched shut.

4. He would not harm any children. There were limits.

5. He was going to play to win. He would not shy away from betrayal. He would not hesitate to slit an ally's throat in the dead of night. If he ever granted mercy, it would be with death. Which was fair.

He had also decided that he wasn't going to drink the night before (it only stirred up panic, it only made him groggy in the morning), but he couldn't stop himself. It was the eve of the arena, and Katurian, in all his pale and haggard glory, was kicking back drinks in the tribute lounge.

Comments

[iselldrugstothecommunity]

Howard's only back at the Tribute Lounge because he knows he's supposed to get a good night's sleep before the next arena. But try as he might to get ten hours, after two wasted ones lying in bed trembling and tossing and shaking and spitting on himself, he has to move around. His restlessness brings him down here.

He takes a seat next to Katurian, realizing he's still clutching a sock in his hand. He must have gripped it while trying to sleep, looking for something to cling to, and just forgotten he's been holding onto it like a security blanket in his roaming. He shoves it hastily into his pocket and gets himself a water bottle.

"Should've figured you were an insomniac too, Twitch."

[downbeat]

He watches Howard hide the sock out of the corner of his eye. Katurian likes Howard because he's afraid like he is afraid. He likes Howard because after he stabbed Draco (the boy from his district, the boy he promised to protect), he stumbled backwards and said he didn't mean to do it. He likes Howard because Katurian believes him, that he didn't mean to do it, because Katurian knows what it's like to lose control, to have fear and anger drive his body as though he were a mechanical man. Howard's gestures, his sickliness, belie a suffering that's been tearing at him far longer than these Games.

Just like Katurian.

He shrugs his shoulders with a weak laugh. "The people that sleep," he says, "probably get better nicknames."

[iselldrugstothecommunity]

And Howard likes Katurian in turn, not because he's watched the tapes of Katurian - he still can't bring himself to watch the last arena, although he forced himself through the fourth - but because Katurian's twitchy and wears his fear and upset on his face. He's easily read, scared, broken, stunted by the weight of the Arena. That makes him not trustworthy, but not as dangerous as the ones who go on with life as if it's normal.

Howard laughs a little more loudly with that barking noise of someone who's either faking it or is caught off guard. "Nah, nah. I give everyone shitty nicknames. I named one guy Rob Zombie and there's this girl I'm calling Moody Blues just because it annoys her."

His words are jittery, fast, caked over the core of 'oh boy, another death match tomorrow. He drinks from his water bottle and drums his fingers on the counter, then wraps his arms around himself. "You planning on going in with a hangover?"

[downbeat]

"I'd rather go in drunk."

He laughs, but it's not really a joke. His words are already slurring, consonants melting into consonants, yet he moves so much smoother when he has the alcohol in him. It's not unlike when he tells one of his stories, when his anxiety melts away and he becomes strong, all-powerful. A god.

"It's good, though," he says, nodding his head, leaning his elbows on the table. "Nicknames. I don't usually get them. I mean, friendly ones."

It was impossible not to let that slip in at the end, the wistfulness. The loneliness. (Twitch doesn't sound like a very friendly one.) He shakes his head, his brow furrowed, as though attempting to dislodge his mistake.

"So why do you do it?"

[iselldrugstothecommunity]

"Nicknames?" He shrugs. "Depends on the person."

Some people he names to show them he's not afraid of them, not going to bow to their authority. Some people he names because it's his way of saying he likes them. Some he names because it's a weird sort of kinship.

"I call you Twitch because people call me Twitch sometimes. It's like passing the panic baton."

He takes another chug of water and swallows hard. He tugs at his oversized sleeves. Without thinking about it runs his fingertips along his jutting hip bone, along the thin layer of fat he's put back on there, that he knows will be gone soon enough after the arena works it off him and after he gets revived as a walking skeleton again.

"You have a plan this time around?"

[downbeat]

He can't help but smile at that, at passing the panic baton, but his smile dies when Howard asks him his plan.

"Well," he says, trying for conversational, trying to pretend he's talking about the weather or what he needs to buy from the supermarket, "last time, I joined forces with a psychopath because I thought it would stop him from killing me."

That's all it was. A blind panic, a desperation to survive just a little bit longer. The logic seems almost funny in retrospect, and a smile finds itself on his face once more, except now it's rueful and bitter and self-loathing.

"But then he stabbed me the first chance he got. The very first chance. Because he's a psychopath."

He kicks back the rest of his drink, his eyes on the ceiling.

"So not that."

[iselldrugstothecommunity]

Howard looks ill. He hugs his ribs and leans his head forward, so his face is resting on the top of the water bottle, the cap starting to leave a little pink imprint on his forehead. "Yeah. Sounds like that wasn't a winning strategy."

He wants to say he got stabbed too, by someone he suspects is a psychopath but can no longer tell. He wants to say that he allied with a dangerous person who turned on his first chance, too. Maybe it'll make Katurian feel a little less foolish, because that's just the ugly flavoring to the guilt and fear, Howard feels, the notion that you can't even trust your own judgment because you're just too damn naive.

But he opens his mouth and the words vanish, dry and cowardly. The words vanish and his mind is soaked in blood again, his, Alpha's, Aunamee's dripping down his leg.

So he swallows. "We got too many damn psychopaths in this place. Wait, no, amend that. The world."

[downbeat]

It isn't until he sees Howard's reaction that he recognizes the parallels. The older wounds were easier to match, those ones were straight-forward, but Katurian's recent death still has an agonizing and self-absorbed sheen. It is still his pain, his suffering, his pitying moment.

"It's all right," he says, and his bitterness is gone. He speaks softly, smoothly, like a parent comforting a child. A brother comforting a brother. He even offers a comforting hand, but he does not touch Howard. Not without his permission. "I watch the games."

And it's not your fault.

[iselldrugstothecommunity]

Howard shies away from Katurian's hand, eyeing it suspiciously. He doesn't know what to make of a warm, parental gesture. It's hard to believe right now that's it's not a threat, or a trap, or something of that nature.

"Well, that makes one of us." He tries to sound stoic, bitter instead of shaken. He doesn't know what happened to Katurian, besides what he was just told. But now he knows Katurian's seen him bleed and writhe and piss himself and beg with half his tongue for mercy, seen him pinned down under someone bigger with a knife raised not once but twice. It's not a matter of shame, but it makes Howard feel small, weak, vulnerable.

"Least I know better than to make allies this time."

[downbeat]

If Katurian is hurt by the rejection, he doesn't show it. He simply purses his lips and nods, drawing his hand back and curling it around his glass. "That's right," he says. Because he's drunk. Because it's true. "Don't make allies. Hide. And if there's no way around it, you kill them in their sleep."

The harshness of his words stands in contrast to his sickly skin, his trembling voice. He stares forward into the middle distance. Into his parents, Dr. Grey, Wesker.

[iselldrugstothecommunity]

Howard wants very badly to agree with what Katurian's saying. He wants to say it's that simple, that he can just shut off his feelings and do the practical thing. He's killed, hasn't he? He stabbed Draco so many times the other boy looked like a side of a cheese grater. He stabbed Alpha in the neck and let him choke on his own blood on the ground. He took Sebastian's clothes and let him freeze to death in the snow.

But it's not that simple.

"Could you do it? Kill someone in their sleep?"

[downbeat]

It's different, killing an innocent person. If Howard asked Katurian if he would do this to Wesker, Grey, anyone deserving, he would answer yes without a moment's hesitation. But what about someone who thinks he's on their side? What about someone who gives all that trust to him, enough trust that they can fall asleep when he's near?

"Most people," he says, "are going to die very horrible deaths in that arena." Most people will be stabbed or burned or beaten. "I know that I -- I know that I personally--"

He closes his eyes, bracing himself.

"I'd much rather someone do it when I don't have the chance to be afraid."

[iselldrugstothecommunity]

Howard's quiet for a minute. He agrees, the fear is the worst part. If he weren't he'd be a hundred times more scared of Aunamee than Alpha, rather than only twice as scared. And it would be easy, he thinks, to die in his sleep. Just drift off and never wake up-

-or wake up gurgling on his own blood from a slit throat. Wake up suffocating from someone holding a piece of plastic over his face. Wake up for a few painful, terrifying, disorienting seconds as his clothes burn.

He covers his mouth and gags slightly. For a moment his shoulders shake as he digs back up his composure. Then he laughs and smacks the counter top. "Well, so much for getting a good night's rest tonight."

[downbeat]

He opens his eyes. He should say something encouraging, something sweet and soft, but lying right now tastes sour on his tongue.

“Sleep is for the dead,” he says instead, the bitter words wrapped in his usual trembling tone. “And idiots who don’t know a fucking thing about this fucked up world.”

He reaches forward to pour himself another drink.

“I won’t hurt you,” he says, his eyes and attention focused on pouring so that he doesn’t need to look at Howard. “But you don’t need to believe me.”

[iselldrugstothecommunity]

"Sleep is a necessary body function." Howard's reciting that more out of his survival handbook than out of any belief. He'd love to not need it, but unfortunately he's tethered to the needs of his body. He looks over at Katurian, wonders if he should ask what Katurian plans to do with that mindset in the Arena, then decides against it.

"Good. Because I don't." He forces down a few swallows of water and stands back up.

[downbeat]

“I know,” he says, forever soft. He cringes as Howard stands up, his shoulder muscles going rigid.

“If you kill me,” he says, that same tiny plea of mercy he asked of Wyatt before the last arena, “please try not to draw it out so much.”

[iselldrugstothecommunity]

"Okay." Howard's voice is small and meek, like the meaning of the promise is lost to the horror of actually pondering it. He doesn't want to kill anyone again. "I looked in the books, I looked up all the ways to murder without making it hurt too bad, to make it fast..."

He rubs his fingertips together on one hand. "Do the same for me, okay? If you do kill me." Because he doesn't believe Katurian won't.

[downbeat]

"I promise," he says, because he knows he can't convince Howard he won't kill him and he knows he can't convince himself. He feels unconsciously for the artery running along his neck. His neck is warm with the alcohol or his fingers are cold from the fear. It's hard to say which.

"Most of these people don't deserve anymore pain."

[iselldrugstothecommunity]

He gives Katurian a skeptical look, like the more Katurian swears it the less convincing it is. Then his eyes start to follow the line of the jugular, that fragile little pulse of life.

"Even if they do, I don't want to be the one dealing it." He sets his water bottle down on the counter. It's empty now. He drinks fast.

[downbeat]

"I do," he says, and the words are easy. Natural. "Because like you said, there are too many psychopaths in this place. There are too many psychopaths."

He takes a heavy sip of his drink and then sets it down. He slides it back and forth across the ring of condensation.

"But not because I'd like it," he adds. "Because maybe it might protect me, later on. Maybe it's good to show you can hit back now and again."

[iselldrugstothecommunity]

Howard wraps his arms around himself, feeling his ribs under his fingertips. "Or it'll make you a target."

Howard's learned not to be violent because almost everyone can hit harder than him. Being benign unless you have stronger people to help you is a better survival scenario. The problem is, of course, that stronger people have no debt to you.