[.}love is watching someone die{.][AiA]

Arbor Halt—

He'd been drinking when it happened, as though he'd already foreseen the events of the day before they actually came to pass. It wasn't fair to call it a premonition; Arbor Halt had been drinking a lot lately, even this early in the morning. Something about the hopelessness of the situation and forced him out of the training facility where he couldn't stand to be, into crowds which he hated just as much, surrounded by Capitolites that had trouble leaving him alone to drain his tumbler in peace. In relative peace. In the alcohol-induced fuzz that came nearest to peace for the seventeen-year-old victor.

Man, he was seventeen? His head was buzzing from the liquor, but even when sober his age didn't make sense to him. Seventeen? No, that wasn't right. He couldn't be. He was thirteen, a little kid back in the Seam, refusing to 'watch' the Games with his brothers — they still lived at home then — and father, unable to completely block out the sounds of the television from his refuge, curled up on his little lumpy mattress in the corner of the room, quietly trembling as he knew what was going who knew how many hundreds of miles away, as he knew who was dying and who was dead and who was about to be. That was Arbor, wasn't it? The little blind kid sobbing over the death of Shaw Nolan?

But he wasn't thirteen. He was seventeen, and he wasn't blind, and the tribute mangled on the screen was not Shaw. This cannon was for Anani Petros, and Arbor didn't love him. Yet even through the whiskey, he felt his insides go numb. He knew that his tributes were doomed to fail this year. He knew this was coming, and sooner rather than later; he'd expected it. But maybe not quite like that, not so quickly. One minute, he was just standing there; the next, he'd been dragged halfway across the forest by an angry goddess of a muttation, a chew toy for the oversized puppy bred and perfected by the angry Capitol. And then he was dead. Just like that, he was dead. Quick. Not painless, but quick.

Arbor wasn't sad. He might be a bad mentor for it, but Anani's death did not make him sad. He didn't particularly care for the boy from the distance that he'd gotten to know him. It didn't stop the angry frustration from gripping him, though. It wasn't right! No, it was right, because this was the Hunger Games — but those weren't right! To send so many to die, so needlessly to die? It wasn't right! It wasn't entertaining, and it wasn't funny—! …But, he supposed, it did serve its purpose: displaying dominance. Over the tributes, over the Districts. That's why they were devised. Dominance. And with the tributes that had been living as of late — a wispy little girl who was twelve and who was afraid of clouds; an occasionally psychotic, half-starved, gay, blind, Seam kid; both of them from the poorest, most feeble district — the fact that District 12 was out of the running managed to tilt the playing field back in the Capitol's favor for this very purpose. In all probability, the winner would be from a District that was supposed to win — one of the Career girls, probably. He'd like to root for someone, the underdog, the guy from District 9 who was with Anani, but 'lucky' enough to not be dragged off by the monstrous mutt, but honestly, he didn't care anymore.

He never cared, not really — caring hurt too to much. He hadn't even cared about Anani. When he'd started mentoring in the Games subsequent to his own, he had known that his tributes would die. All of them. District 12 didn't win, because they weren't supposed to. He wasn't, and Ara definitely wasn't. So even though he was frustrated — frustrated enough to slam his glass tumbler down on the counter so hard that it shattered, leaving a rose field of tiny red cuts all down the side of his hand — he wasn't truly upset for the boy. It was bad when tributes died, yes — but Arbor hadn't been upset about tributes dying since Shaw, whom he loved. He didn't love Anani. Didn't even care too much for him in his own right. But he loved Aranica, and she loved Anani, so Arbor had to like Anani — at least a little bit — by extension. Oh, poor Ara…

Ignoring the shards of glass and whiskey he'd left on the counter, Arbor abruptly stood up — almost crashing into a few members of the garishly decorated mass that surrounded him — and stumbled towards the door of the bar. He had to get back. He had to get back. He should've already been with her, if he knew this was going to happen (of course, he hadn't known, and would've been drinking regardless) because he needed to be there for Ara. He had been her mentor — still was, even a Games later — and was supposed to look out for her! Because even if Arbor hadn't been too deeply moved by the deaths of his district's tributes since Shaw, even if he didn't care too much about the ones that died — he still cared deeply about the one who'd lived. If she died, it would've been easier, probably for the both of them. Dying was easier. But she lived, and that was better. Wasn't it? Wasn't living supposed to be better?

It took too long. Getting back to the Training Center took too long. The crowds hadn't done anything to help the inebriated victor along the way, especially with the number of people trying to stop him, trying to get an opinion on Anani's death, trying to get any words out of him at all. He refused to oblige, pushed past, and soldiered on to the building where they'd been staying. Couldn't the Capitolites see that he just wanted them to leave him alone? Why didn't they understand that he didn't want to tell them — to tell them of all people, the complete strangers that had caused his tribute to be a wreck, for the past few weeks especially, and her brother to be dead — anything about the Hunger Games. It wasn't their business! Except for the fact that it was their fault, it wasn't their business!

After the hour-long hike back to the building he needed to be in, Arbor had sobered up considerably, though his hand was still bleeding freely — not profusely, but he'd needed to wrap it with his scarf after the scarlet trails had begun to dye the white sleeve of his nice shirt. He'd have it looked at later, but for now, he needed to find Ara. She was stronger than people gave her credit for, stronger than he gave her credit for sometimes, he knew that — but there was no way he'd let her be alone right now, if he could help it. He didn't trust her to be alone right now, even though he was pretty sure that she'd like to be. He'd like to be, if he were the thirteen-year-old sobbing over the fallen District 12 male — but that had been him four years ago; that wasn't his role anymore.

Before he even started, Arbor realized the futility in his task of trying to search for his little charge. The center was so big, so labyrinthine, and she was just one little person. There was no hope for finding for, but in frenzied desperation, he dashed between all the places he could think to find her; there weren't many. He'd checked her room, Anani's, the rooftop, the training room itself, the sponsoring center — but all of the places that would be ideal hiding spots for the younger victor were so off the beaten path, so obscure that Arbor could hardly think of what they would be, let alone where.

He'd looped back to the first place he'd checked, Ara's room, as if by some miracle she'd decided to reappear in the hour or so he'd spent turning the rest of the facility upside down. Still empty. In a bout of frustration — the only thing he'd really been feeling all day — he kicked at the open doorframe, twice, three times, four. Then, utterly defeated, he rested his head against the frame and began to sob quietly. He was so goddamned useless! He'd had two duties. Two. That was it. One, keep Anani alive, if possible. The fact that he'd failed that task was… forgivable, anyhow, as next to everything in the Arena was beyond his control. Secondly — but most importantly — look after Aranica. That, at least, was feasible — and yet he still was failing miserably. She'd vanished, and he ought to find her. But he couldn't. He couldn't be everywhere. He only had two eyes, and he'd hardly even gotten used to using them, so how was he supposed to —

They had cameras, didn't they? Around the training center? They had to. Had to. This was the Capitol, and they had pretty much defined the word 'paranoid.' If there was one sect of the government that he trusted — no, not trusted, but counted on — to keep a watchful eye over everything, it was the division in charge of the Hunger Games — because those absolutely had to be 'perfect.' There was no room for error of any sort. Everything had to go according to plan. All according to plan… Each death, according to plan? No, couldn't be; Arbor won, anyhow, and Ara had won, too.

He pulled away from the doorframe, blood pounding in his temples and his head all fuzzy from the sobbing and the residual effects of the liquor, even though his state of drunkenness had all but worn off entirely. Unsure of where to go, exactly, Arbor sought out someone who could tell him where the cameras were watched from, although he was forced to settle for the next-best thing: a wiry young avox with russet hair and a trace of unbroken defiance still left around his features. "Cameras?" he asked, no time for articulate phrasing. "Where? Can I see? I need to find Ara…"

He was led through a series of hallways and stairwells, to a point where the walls were no longer vivid and the maintenance people had all but given up on the interior design. Outside a room with a labeled but otherwise unremarkable white door — Arbor couldn't read the sign — the avox gestured for him to stay put. He did as he was told, foot inadvertently tapping in impatience while the mute servant disappeared into the room. When the avox reappeared, Arbor opened his mouth to ask where she was, but closed it again as soon as he realized that he wouldn't receive an answer. Instead, he allowed himself to be led back into the public portion of the building, through hallways familiar and foreign, until at last, the avox stopped before a wooden door at the end of a hallway. He thanked the voiceless slave for his help, and tentatively opened the door.

Arbor couldn't bring himself to be upset or disappointed or anything but relived to finally have found the girl, alive and in one piece, if obviously torn up about the whole bad ordeal. Bad. Such a short word, so simple and nondescript. But it was easier, much easier to simply call something "bad" instead of elaborating on how awful it really was, instead of taking the time to delineate the badness in great lengths. But he knew that even if he could describe it better, he could do nothing to alleviate the hurt that was so obvious in front of him.

So he just led himself over to the chair in which Ara was seated, and placed himself on the floor to her right. The carpet around him was dotted with little white pills that he didn't recognize, which he did his best to ignore. The last thing he ought to do was reprimand her for substance abuse, present circumstances considered; it was hypocritical beyond that, given how much time and money he'd spent on alcohol over the past three weeks. But if he wasn't going to try to tell her that she shouldn't have any of the rum in her hand, if he wasn't going to lie that everything was okay, what was there for him to say at all? Somehow, words didn't seem like they'd cut it.

"Ara," was his whisper, barely audible. It was the only thing he could think to say. With his non-bloodied left hand, he reached out and found her foot — a feeble attempt at a reassuring gesture — just to let her know that he was there. Arbor swore to himself again that he'd be there for her. No one else — Dru, or Anani, or anyone — had the capacity to stay, it seemed.