I've wept for those who suffer long...

[the_marshal]

WHO| Wyatt and OTA
WHAT| Somebody needs a time-out.
WHERE| The Speakeasy
WHEN| A while after cleaning Aunamee's clock.
WARNINGS/NOTES| On top of the arena guilt he'd already been dragging around, he's now found out one of his friends is dead-dead, and tried to for realz kill man with his bare hands. Just... keep that in mind.



He'd tried to kill a man. Had wanted to.

He hadn't been aware of it at the time, the decision too quick, too hazy in the fog of red, but now, in the clarity of the aftermath, as the bitter anger burned away and left him once again to his own thoughts, that was the truth of it.

Had the peacekeepers not been there... he would have beat that man to death. Easily.

Far too easily.

But then... what was one more charge on his ever growing list of sins?

He sat with his back to the room, his left hand wrapped around a half-empty tumblr, the other hand covered in a blood-spotted napkin. He wasn't sure he even recognized the face anymore, that tired, worn thing, that stared back at him from the mirror across the bartop.

Comments

[gluteus]

Maximus had expected - half hoped, half dreaded - that he wouldn't see Wyatt again. When he had returned to his suite to find Javert's room barren and empty - to find Morrigan vanished in the same manner - it made a grim sort of sense that Wyatt would also disappear. He'd already hardened his heart to it, after Wyatt's death was broadcast (he couldn't help glancing at the television when he saw friendly faces) and the man didn't appear. Wondered, vaguely, if that was simply the nature of this hellish place. Allow you to care about people again, however briefly, and then unceremoniously rip them from you.

He was almost relieved when his Escort burst into his room with gossip that Wyatt had punched a fellow tribute, didn't you hear?? Out of nowhere!!

Maximus frowned as he listened, mostly tuning out the prattling continued. He knew where he could find him.

Silently, sullenly, he made his way to the Speakeasy. He didn't trust the Capitol at all, wondered what sort of underhanded punishments they had for those that broke the rules - and worried.

He found Wyatt where he expected to find him, and didn't speak, or ask permission, before he sat down.

[the_marshal]

Wyatt watched him come in the mirror, his back stiffening, the knuckles under the cloth twitching. His eyes shifted down and away, his jaw working as he stared at a row of liquor bottles.

Whatever pleasure there was in the familiar face was quickly overcome by the shame. He'd sat by the fire that night, wallowing, as Max had gone out. He'd waited, useless, while Max had died.

He swallowed harshly, his glass chasing a sweat ring in a small ring on the bartop.

[gluteus]

Maximus didn't say anything, even as he motioned to the bartender. Didn't need to order, as she knew just what to bring.

Though Wyatt had given him a taste for beer, he usually preferred wine. Wine, it seemed, had not changed even in all the thousands of years past. He waited, patiently, silently, as she brought it over and set it down beside him. A glass, and the last third of a bottle that she had left, set down next to it.

He waited until she had turned her back, waited until she was half way down the bar, before he lifted the wine and slowly drank - and drank - and then set the glass down and filled it again.

He didn't meet Wyatt's eye. That could wait. But he didn't move, either - his silent, stoic presence seated directly beside him like a stone in the shore, waiting for the tide.

[the_marshal]

"Well," his voice was hoarse, when he finally spoke. A thick rasp that threatened to bury the word. He'd barely spoken since returning - a few words to the escort, a few more to the peacekeepers - but it sounded like he'd worn it raw. Had spent the hours screaming.

His eyes flicked up, hard blue chips in the glass. "Let's have it then."

He wasn't sure what he should expect. But he was struggling to keep afloat, drowning in the sea of his own failings. He just wanted it over. For better or worse... sink or swim.

[gluteus]

"Morrigan's gone." He paused. "And Javert." Perhaps not what Wyatt expected from his lips, but it seemed more important, at that moment, to speak in memorial.

He took another long drink of wine, filled the glass. Pushed the empty bottle across the counter.

"Did he deserve it?"

[iselldrugstothecommunity]

It isn't like last time. Howard isn't slinking and scared and keeping to himself. He isn't some small, slipping shadow in the street, darting from alley to alley, sleeping in crannies outside because he can't feel safe in his bedroom. He isn't a ghost, animated by the bone and muscle the Capitol props up.

In fact, he looks almost normal this time, at least as much as he can after a revival from the Arena. Every time he comes back he's a skeleton, starved and starving, and he still can't really sleep, but there's something alive in him. Something that says he's present, instead of still on the ice being cut up.

In a way, he wishes that Wyatt hadn't punched Aunamee, that he hadn't heard about it. That he could block Aunamee and the rest of the crazies from his mind entirely.

But what's done is done, and what it tells him is that he should find Wyatt. He slips into the bar, purposefully dragging his heels so that Wyatt can hear him. He knows the bow of someone who's in their cups, and it worries him.

When he's about two feet behind him, he speaks up.

"I might order something. I could totally pass for twenty-one."

[the_marshal]

Wyatt's head dipped at the sound of his voice, a wince of pain twisting his face.

If there was anyone he'd failed this arena, above all the others, it was this boy. He'd promised he would keep him safe, wouldn't let anyone hurt him....

He would never forget that. The way Howard had looked at him with such trust, and how it had ended with so much blood.

[iselldrugstothecommunity]

For a while Howard just stands there, within reach of Wyatt, unsure what to do. Maybe he should walk away. It's tempting to leave, to let alcohol work its magic and to ignore everything, to assure himself that Wyatt will pick himself back up soon.

But Howard's never been the sort of person to walk away from a friend. Usually he just stands while they walk away.

He takes a seat next to Wyatt and orders a ginger ale. His fingers are spidery against the counter, jagged and knotted with malnutrition. The padding in his clothes, meant to make him look more normal-sized, folds awkwardly as he sits and creates a sort of comical pot-belly pouch. He folds his arms and leans forward to look at Wyatt's face.

"I know you heard me."

[the_marshal]

"I did," he nodded, swallowing hard as he finally turned to look at the boy. His eyes roamed over his face as if checking to make sure it was really him. That he was really safe and whole.

"I just don't know what to say, son. Somehow sayin' 'I'm sorry,' don't seem like enough."

[tis_allgood]

It was less the look on his face than the look of the man himself that drew Cuthbert's interest. He tried to meet the strangers eyes in the mirror before approaching, a good Gunslinger didn't sneak up on a potential ally unannounced, not if he wished to live through the meeting.

His stylist sent him out in what might be considered a 'cowboy tuxedo' which includes a hat that he tipped in Wyatt's direction in the mirror as a sign of greeting.

"Hile, stranger. You look in need of company."

[the_marshal]

Wyatt's eyes ranged up and down the length of the stranger has he made his slow approach. He didn't recognize him, but in his experience there was only sort of person that wore hats like that besides himself.

"I'm ain't much up for autographs today, friend."

It was as gentle a warning as he could manage as he lifted his glass and swallowed back what remained at the bottom. He wasn't much for dealing with anyone from the Capitol today and it would be his own fault iffen he hung around and took affront to things Wyatt had to say.

[tis_allgood]

"For the best, since I've no idea what an auto-gaff is."

Cuthbert was disappointed that the man behind the bar wouldn't serve him anything stronger than soda, but it was almost worth it since he'd never had anything that sweet before in his life. It was almost a luxury.

He leaned against the bar next to Wyatt and gave him a much longer and more interested look. The smile Bert almost always wore was faded to a hint of its former glory at the moment.

"I don't know your face, now that I see it close, but I could swear you were a Gunslinger of my home."

It was just the mustache, he didn't know anyone else around the capitol that wore the style, at least not yet. And nothing brought back memories of home like familiar facial hair.

[the_marshal]

Wyatt frowned and leaned sideways as he turned to look at the man beside him.

A tribute?

Gunslinger?

Something small and hot curled in his chest. Something not related to the liquor he'd been drinking.

It couldn't be... could it?

"I don't reckon I know you," he replied carefully, eyes narrowed. "Where is that yer from?"

[futilecycle]

Unable to handle the guilt of losing Kyle, Sigma decided to deal with his emotions in the same way he did the night before his first Arena: he'd drink them down for now. He also wanted the cash he'd won from killing Donatello out of his pocket as quickly as possible and drinking it away seemed to answer both issues.

Sigma entered cautiously as though lost, still feeling out of place in public bars. The lounge he kept well-stocked at home was permanently empty of company, and so it felt unnatural to find so many others inside the Speakeasy. Sigma wandered around until he found a place to sit where he wouldn't have to explain himself to a complete stranger: he took his place next to a man he identified as a district mate. Though they had never been formally introduced, they'd been civil to eachother in passing. This was enough for Sigma to decide that if there were a member of his district (besides the young one) that he wanted to win, it would be him.

After ordering for himself, Sigma turned to the other man. "Let me know when you need a refill," he sighed.

[the_marshal]

One of his districtmates. Not one he knew well, or was particularly close to, but they had rubbed along well enough.

He wasn't much lookin' for company, but iffen he was going to have it, this one he could live with.

"Ya might regret that, friend. I don't intend on leavin' anytime soon."

The Speakeasy was as much a haven as Wyatt had and he didn't plan on facing the Capitol again until he had to.

[futilecycle]

"That suits me well, because neither do I," he replied wryly. The bartender came with Sigma's drink, and he didn't hesitate to take a swig from it. How unfortunate that the alcohol tolerance he'd been working up since prior to the last Arena was gone with his resurrection. The Doctor knew it wouldn't be long until he was well and truly drunk.

"Though I would appreciate it if you had the judgment to call an ambulance if need be." A very forced joke. "Mister... Earp, was it?"

[the_marshal]

Wyatt didn't know what brought this man to the Speakeasy tonight, but something in his face, in the weariness of his eyes, the strain around his mouth as he forced humor that had Wyatt relaxing. Some of the tension easing out of his shoulders. Out of his jaw.

A man after his own heart.

Or pickled liver.

"Wyatt," he nodded. "Call me Wyatt." And he held out his hand.

He didn't think they'd ever formally introduced themselves, and somehow, just then, it felt right.

[mediumdrip]

Blaine didn't really like to come to bars alone, but he needed a break from the Tower for now. When he saw Wyatt he watched the man for a moment, making sure that he was alone and by going up to him he wouldn't be interrupting something.

"Hey," he said carefully when he came around Wyatt. "Welcome back."

[the_marshal]

The glass was almost to his lips, ice clinking softly as it tipped, when the young man appeared at his side.

He paused just long enough to glance over, to recognize him - the kid from the ice. The one that Alpha had cornered, and he'd help escape.

It seemed like a long time ago. Years, a lifetime, rather than just months.

"Keep yer welcome's, son," he said, eyes shifting back to his drink. "Ain't nothing here worth celebratin'."

Then the glass lifted the rest of the way and he knocked back the swallow that remained.

[mediumdrip]

Blaine looked away for a moment and then back at Wyatt. "I don't know if that's true," he said very carefully. "There are still people alive."

[the_marshal]

A low, rough snort.

"That not much'a a consolation for those that ain't." His mouth twisted as he swallowed, the burn of the liquor racing down his throat.

[setfires]

Cinna slid into a seat near Wyatt and looked over at him.

"Let me buy you a drink," he offered, watching the Tribute curiously.

He was pretty much never going to forget the way that Wyatt ensured that Momoko won the Arena before this one.

[the_marshal]

Wyatt studied him out of the corner of his eye, offering no response for a long moment.

He did not know this man. Not by face at least.

"Go on an'keep yer money, friend. I ain't done nothin' to earn yer charity."

[setfires]

"It's not charity," Cinna insisted. "It's an excuse to start a conversation."

[the_marshal]

Wyatt shifted a fraction, fixing the dark man at his side with both eyes.

"Might be easier to just come on out with whatever it is yer meanin' on sayin'," he pointed out in return.