Someday I will ask you if I was a disapointment.

[the_marshal]

WHO| Wyatt and Open
WHAT| Enjoying a frosty, adult beverage (or ten)
WHERE| The Speakeasy
WHEN| A few days prior to Maximus' crowning
Notes/Warnings| No warnings at this time, will add any as they become appropriate. Epic levels of bromance. If anyone's been hoping to chat with Wyatt, this will probably be your last open chance prior to the new arena.



Max's crowning was all Wyatt's stylists could talk about, the whole District Ten team - including his escort - in a tizzy and growing ever more frazzled as it approached. It was at once both amusing, and disconcerting.

He didn't hold any particular ill will against the lot of them anymore - he'd come to accept them as more a nuisance than anything sinister - but he didn't much care for the way they eyed him speculatively when they passed in the halls or common room, whispering to each other and making strange gestures with their hands.

And, of course, whatever they were planning aside, the crowning also meant that the new arena wasn't far off.

He was happy to celebrate Max's victory for what it was, and for what it meant, but he couldn't stop that niggling concern from rooting around in the back of his mind, especially as he was spending so more time alone this round. Just him and his own thoughts, worrying over the possibilities like a hound at a bone.

He hadn't spoken to Howard, unsure there were even words enough to apologize - to earn forgiveness - for what he'd done in the arena, and he didn't want to speak to R. He could feel the lingering heat of that still burning bridge. Max was busy, of course. Everyone and their second-cousin wanting a few minutes with the new victor.

Even numbing his troubles at The Speakeasy was an undertaking anymore, the pub, like so many other places, turned off by the cuff shackled around his wrist. They hadn't thrown him out yet, but it was clear the attention he brought them was now of the unwanted variety and he'd cut his visits down accordingly.

He wasn't here to cause trouble.

He just sat his table toward the back, taking the insults that did come his way silently. Drinking alone as he toyed with the necklace he'd worn to the auction. He'd cut the cord and was now in the process of adding a few, more unusual charms, to either side of the little golden eagle.

Comments

[gluteus]

Maximus was having a host of his own problems - some similar to Wyatt's, some quite different.

His stylist team had been fussing over him something fierce since he'd got back. Where usually they left him alone, intimidated or perhaps even afraid, they'd gotten over their fears and now it was impossible to get rid of them. You represent all of us now, they'd chided him as they'd presented him with more and more elaborate clothing.

He found himself in mourning for the comfortable simplicity of a rough linen tunic.

But the stylists were bearable, even welcome, compared to the crushing adoration of the Mob.

It seemed like no matter where he went, he found no peace. He was hardly inconspicuous (his stylists had made sure of that), and he couldn't even walk down the street without someone throwing themselves at him. Peacekeepers had taken to following him around (at a good distance) just to keep order.

The Speakeasy was one of the only places where they left him alone, so he'd been staying there more and more frequently. The Patrons there didn't give a shit about his status, and turned a blind eye as he quietly drank, in a corner to himself.

He kept missing Wyatt. Where before the arena he'd usually casually seek the man's company out here, it appeared that he didn't frequent the Speakeasy as much as he had. Maximus didn't ask after him (it was his business, not theirs), but he did keep an eagle eye look out.

So when he walked in and saw the familiar face at one of the tables, he let out a relieved breath and a smile, and walked over to slide himself down into the chair opposite.

[shambler]

Fix this. That's the mantra that's running on repeat in R's brain: you need to fix this. At least try. The Dead part of him, the one that's like all the other zombies out there, thinks that's too hard. It'd be easier to stop thinking.

R stands there swaying and gaping up at the Speakeasy's sign before he finally closes his mouth. He's probably in there. It's either Howard or Wyatt or both, like last time, and R's so spooked at the idea of talking to either of them that he almost turns tail and shuffles off in the opposite direction. Go find a nice, comfortably dark corner to rock in. Instead he lurches forward. There's a reason why the other Dead consider him the resident weirdo.

He finds Wyatt in the back. It takes him awhile to notice there's this invisible line in a radius around the Living man, like he's diseased and he knows it and the other customers know it, too. No one sits near him. People tend to take the long way around if they can. R goes against the grain, pushes one dragging foot forward, and bumps into Wyatt's table with his hip before he gets cold feet.

"...Sit...here? Want...to talk."

[doc_holi]

"Want some company?"

Holiday had come out for a drink, hitting the first place she found that didn't immediately throw her to the curb for the stupid cuff. Calico's dark green wrist band that she wrapped around the thing probably helped out some.

Usually, when Holiday would see someone she knew in these places, she would immediately warm up to them for company. The plan was the same when she noticed Wyatt sitting alone, yet she was hesitant in the approach. He probably wanted to be left alone with his drink tonight...

She hadn't seen too much of the arenas, but she had kept track of his steps at the end. She would understand if he declined.