luxury | peri

At times, even Peridot Myler forgot who he was. This, he figured, was a luxury that maturity had gifted him.

Still lithe in figure, the once boyish svelte physique of the accomplished victor had broadened in a way that reflected thirty-two years of experience. Staring fifty years old in the eye, Peri had seldom made the time to keep up the same rigorous training routines that had once given him the obnoxious definition of his younger years. Good riddance for that. The glaive-wielding champion of the sixty-second Hunger Games was a relic of the past, and it was best to keep it that way.

It was only in small moments in passersby where that echo of his personality refracted up to the surface. There were, of course, the knowing looks. These he had grown accustomed to over the years. With any sense of celebrity, regardless of what for, there came the long-knowing stares of the general public. Over time, these moments became fewer and far between. But, still, there was no denying who he was. Over the years, Peri had cultivated a series of other labels: trainer, mentor, jeweler, uncle, grouch, party boy - in his younger years. Each carried its weight and value. None had removed the victor part of him etched so deeply into his skin. But, in turn, they filled the gaps in a resume that had needed bolstering. Most days, Peridot floated effortlessly across the moats he'd built with such self-sustaining care. Most days, unfortunately, were not all.

He'd been asked many times following the games whether he'd felt the presence of the cameras in the arena. Even then, he hadn't remembered seeing a lens refraction, let alone a full-blown camera - it was a world of its own. What would have happened had the Games been a private ritual instead of a national battlefield? Twenty-four kids sent off, one returning without a soul knowing how. Peri had always been one of the more introverted victors, especially amongst the careers. Had he been given control of the narrative from the start, if it was his story to tell how would he have gone about telling it? Would he have told it?

It's in the frightened eyes of a child that he found his answer: no.

Small, thin, not more than eleven - academy age, not much of a build, yet, they would change that. Short onyx hair ruffled the boy's head, the intense summer heat revealing the traces of wispy curls. A curdling gasp revealed the boy at first to Peridot as if an icy claw had gripped each lung and squeezed as hard as possible. His breath, like a soul, escaped his ghostly lips as the victor turned a market corner. The whole ordeal would almost be comical if it weren't for the pure unadulterated fear seeping from the boys' eyes. It was in these moments that he finally saw the Capitol cameras, beaming outwards from a child's eye.

Thirty-two years had not done as much to age him as he probably would have liked. Hell, even cigarettes had aged him more than time. The once romantic vice had turned into a rotten addiction that crippled half his days with the debilitating need to take in smoke. Gone were the days when Peri was deluded enough to believe he could quit at any moment if he wanted to. Gone too were the days when he even tried to quit. The wanting pull of nicotine tugged at his tongue, which had gone instantly dry with anxiety. Why now? Why today?

Other victors had luxurious cosmetic enhancements, changing the entire landscape of their faces. Though curious and certainly intrigued, Peri had never participated in any touches by angels. Even in the luxury district, he thought a Capitol-grade silicone would be more recognizable than the cognizant look or two he got over a month. Slight wrinkles bookending his chapped lips begged to be tugged away by injection, but not many tributes had the opportunity to age. Peri could not escape age, nor was it a gift he looked to run from. But presented with a child frozen in fear, he longed for the quick fix of a syringe and a knife.

A better victor than him might be able to navigate all this seamlessly. Turn on the charm, disarm, and... there was a third thing they used to say. All those years of media training were awash in twice the amount of time spent sequestered away in his shop. But here, a younger representation of what he once was, a boy too unshapely to be a career, stood frozen in fear of what he could one day become - a murderer. No amount of coddling could curb that kind of terror.

Without a word, without acknowledgment, the grown Peridot Myler took one gentle step to the right, circumventing the young boy. He hoped this was a moment that the child would someday be able to forget. But it was a moment that would plague him for years. Reaching cooly in his pocket for the familiar feel of the packet, Peri drew a cigarette between his fingertips. He longed for the romantic days of sending smoke signals to the sky with every puff sending love letters to a girl who lived in the stars. That, he realized, was a luxury he could no longer afford.