Heart in Chains {Aya}

Ares Elder —

Some nights, Ares Elder sleeps outside. Some nights, he just can't bring himself to sneak through the living room, up the stairs and up the ladder into the attic, because he knows his uncle is waiting somewhere. Odds always are that, like most nights, Uncle Ares Arrius is passed out drunk in his armchair or underneath some gap-toothed whore, either way too busy to notice quiet Ares as he slips in through the back door. So most nights, Ares sleeps inside, up in his attic loft, staring at the rafters of his uncle's house, watching the occasional rat scamper across them. Some nights, he wills the roof to collapse; some nights, the boards beneath his bed. Most nights, he sleeps soundly, silently, still.

The previous night, however, was not like most nights. Ares the elder hadn't been quite drunk enough to pass out, and had instead settled on chucking the half-empty bottle of gin at his nephew's head. His drunken aim, of course, had him missing by a good few feet, but the old ex-Career stone miner still hurled it with enough strength to cause it to completely shatter on contact with the doorframe above Ares's head, showering him with booze and glass. It wasn't the first time this had happened to him, but Ares always took it as a sign to bolt. He wasn't about to fight his way through his behemoth uncle just to sleep on some barely-comfortable mattress. Sleeping indoors simply wasn't worth the bruises.

There were a dozen couches he could've crashed on, a dozen underlings to exploit, and while he was confident in his ability to manipulate a place to stay without giving away the embarrassing details of his home situation, Ares's ego was in no fit state to ask for favors, especially not at four in the morning. He didn't like his acquaintances well enough to be in debt to them, even if he could twist their thoughts so that he owed them nothing. Besides, then he'd have to pay extra attention to them for awhile, and five hours of sleep on some couch wasn't worth the pain

Instead, Ares wearily ambled to a park, intentionally selecting one across the district from his house just because he couldn't stand the place. He'd been here before — often, but he entered the place only while the sun was down. The foliage always looked a lot more imposing when they weren't backlit by the sun, though Ares could never be frightened off from anything simply by appearance; a much stronger will than that was needed to put up with his Uncle — something he only did because he knew if he were moved into a community home, he'd be forced to stop his training. At fifteen, he'd already devoted a decade to preparing for the Games, but there were still so many skills to hone before he was ready to compete.

He never considered his training to be lessons, though; sure, he picked up pointers and tips to refine his combat skill above all else, but the learning was a process and something he could not complete in some sterile-feeling facility under controlled conditions. Toughness was not something that was bestowed upon you with your millionth push-up; strength was not being able bench press double your body weight; discipline was not realizing that talking back to your coach would only get you beat on. Character was sucking it up and sleeping outside because no amount of fighting or yelling or crying will get you past your abusive uncle and tucked safe into bed. Whether intentional or no, this was one trait that Uncle Ares Arrius instilled in his nephew quite well.

There was one bush in particular — the very bush that he pulled himself into under the faint grey light of the dawn — that Ares had come to like. It was his favorite, not because there was anything spectacular about it, but instead because there was a trough in the earth that had been worn down simply from him sleeping there. It was familiar, and therefore it was something that Ares found comfort in. He'd considered stashing a knife or a threadbare towel under the bush to give himself some comfort or claim it as his own, but he knew that defeated the purpose. He didn't own the shrub any more than his Uncle owned him; both pairs were just thrown together by circumstance, one benefiting from shelter and the other showing signs of wear from it. Probably was his fault that his uncle drank so heavily.

* * * * *

Considering the time he went to bed, Ares awoke much later than he generally did. If it was a school day, he'd missed it, though he gave no thought to this — his attendance wasn't exactly stellar to begin with. Not wasting another moment of daylight, he extracted himself from his bush with the precision of someone who'd been doing so twice monthly for longer than he cared to remember. The park was busier than he'd ever seen it, probably given the time of day, and though he recognized none of the voices that surrounded him nor the faces they belonged to, Ares was still conscientious of how much of a mess he was. He could feel the dirt caked to his face, though he knew how hopeless it would be to try to remove it; little twigs and bits of grass and glass stuck out of his hair, which was slicked down with his Uncle's gin (though he'd've smelled of liquor anyhow); his palms and knees were scraped and bloodied from his exploits before he'd been gone home to realize how futile his hopes of sleep were.

He weighed his options before making a move. Go home, get cleaned up there. Potentially face the wrath of his uncle. Go to a friend's house, get cleaned up, go home at night to avoid Ares the elder's foul temper. Owe the friend. Get cleaned up at the water runoff by the mines, possibly run in to Uncle there, possibly get wounds infected. Nothing sounded particularly appealing at the moment, so Ares's final decision was to wait it out. Somewhere that wasn't here, though; being in the park during the day felt entirely wrong — sacrilegious, even — and there were too many people around to see him so disheveled. Even if no one was watching, Ares still felt all eyes on him as he stalked out of the park. "What're you looking at?" he snarled at the nearest person, his face darkening — though it was likely she wasn't looking at him at all. A good offense was the best defense, after all; that had been drilled into him time and time again since the time he could shake a stick at a dummy, and had been one of the mantras leading his life for nearly as long.