rubble] arborperi

Despite being the mandatory center of attention for the night – after all, it was his party – Arbor found himself sliding into his regular party-time habits of occupying the venue's dark corners and consuming as much liquor as humanly possible. He did his duty of flitting from guest to guest as he was summoned, but still gravitated toward his regular crowd of victors. This grew to be more difficult as the crowd dispersed throughout the night, but even at his own party, Arbor did not have anyone else that he felt particularly comfortable with. Growing up in the poorest neighborhood of the poorest district excused him from the Capitolites' expectations about etiquette, even after a decade spent hopping between their city and his.

He bounced between the other groups as quickly as possible, thanking them for coming – even when he could not muster up so much as a name to associate with their cosmetically-saturated faces – trying to make his rounds between trips to and from the open bar so he'd have an out whenever the conversation grew too long-winded. Presently, he was trying to pry himself away from Gingerbread Krumms. The escort had inherited Arbor and all of his problems as a mentor to deal with practically a decade ago, and for the first time in that span was able to capitalize on her relationship to the victor. He couldn't blame her; all of his life, Arbor Halt had been nothing but trouble. She was not eager to relinquish her hold on his attention in the presence of her guests, especially not to allow him to be swallowed up by the jaws of his alcoholism, rendering his 'just going to grab a drink' excuse worthless.

He scanned the bar with some amount of urgency, before setting his eyes on a face he could actually name – the perfect excuse. Peridot saw him at the same time, and began waving the older victor over with more enthusiasm than anyone had ever expressed to see him. "I was just on my way to see Peridot," he announced, a small-but-genuine hint of apology in his voice. Prying Gingerbread's claws off of his bicep — she'd trapped him as he'd walked over, her grip as effective as any latch crab's — he wandered away from the group, sending a dismissive "Nice to meet you!" over his shoulder.

"Arbor, Arbor, Arbor!" Arbor, Arbor, Arbor could not keep the drunken grin off of his face. Something about the earnestness with which he was attempting to summon the District Twelve made the younger victor seem like a golden retriever. The warm — albeit intoxicated — enthusiasm was beyond gratifying. Arbor sidled up to Peridot, who was supporting himself on the bar, and clapped him on the shoulder. "Peridot," he greeted, more amicable than he was known to be. The spirits on the other victor's breath were overwhelming — champagne, whiskey, perhaps vodka, perhaps rum — and perfectly explained the spiritedness with which he'd been summoned.

Arbor exchanged looks with the bartender, who raised an eyebrow. Since the 54th, his arena had become bars and pubs, and he knew how to navigate them better than any Career could do in their own Games. It did not seem as if the District One was handling his liquor too well. "Peridot," he repeated, this time a note of concern edging its way into his voice, though he did not speak unkindly. "How are you doing?"

Arbor hated himself for how easily he understood — or thought he understood, at any rate — what the younger victor was getting at. It wasn't abnormal for him to be the pursued party in most exchanges; after all, stylists and designers were a dime a dozen in the Capitol, a place where all of the 'labor' was voluntary and the products were frivolous. Victors young enough to still be considered desirable, victors whose games were recent enough to prevent them from falling out of the limelight entirely — well, there couldn't be more than one or two dozen of them. That wasn't to say that Arbor was anything of a looker — even a decade spent with stylists messing him around (and messing around with stylists) could not atone for the unshakable look of poverty that accompanied half a lifetime spent wandering shoeless around the poorest neighborhood of the poorest district.

No, District Twelve wasn't known for their beauty — not the way that the golden boy leaning on the bar beside him practically exemplified the District One stereotype. Aside from the fact that the Career districts' children often spent their time building muscle and collecting skills while most of Arbor's mentees had grown up (or hadn't, for want of nutrition) covered in dirt and collecting sorrows, there must be something in the water in District One, because it seemed as if every goddamn tribute to come out of there was gorgeous. Peridot for certain — with that damn hair that seemed to be spun of Polyphemus's own golden fleece — and every other tribute he'd seen represent One since he'd been able to see them. Topaz, too, and he would admit it — he was gay, not blind — though perhaps not to her face unless he could couple it with a backhanded insult in jest.

Ugh, Peridot. Damn that hair of his. Damn him, and damn Arbor's ears for perking up at the — was it a proposition? He had already drunk away his inhibitions and his best judgement. "You know, Arbor, I haven't even kissed anyone. Like ever." That was no proposition; it was a reminder of the boy's youthfulness, and it disgusted the victor how willing he was to believe that it hinted at the sort of post-festivities activity that he considered his normal fare. A frown played across his face, and Peridot continued to non-verbally emphasize his naïveté as he rambled. The corners of Arbor's lips turned up in amusement as it occurred to him that Peridot Myler was the only person who could talk about literally murdering people and sound more innocent than he had at the start of the sentence. "I killed like, people. Well I mean you did too, but you were blind or whatever, you didn't even know what lips even like, looked like, you know?"

Ripred, he sounded younger than Ara had, fresh out of the arena. Or that Klaus Goravich, even. And yet, Arbor found himself chuckling at the remark — "Well I mean you did too, but you were blind or whatever, and you didn't even know what lips even like, looked like, you know?" The observation, if it could even be called that, brought him further back in time than the killing people part of his blindness that Arbor usually stuck on. He'd been twelve, the first time he'd been kissed — twelve and a half, he supposed, almost exactly, since it had been the first day of school — and he hadn't seen it coming. Hadn't anticipated it at all, for that matter. The perpetrator had been a year older and a head taller than him, with thick wavy hair and a kind voice, and Arbor had wholeheartedly believed he'd love him for the rest of their lives. He hadn't even gotten another full year until that condition was met, the older boy's performance in the Hunger Games no better than the jaded victor's usual crop of tributes. In all his years of little but sorrow, Arbor had not shed a single tear since that cannon fired.

He zoned in to hear Peridot talking about how he was supposedly some sort of hunk and caught himself snickering at the obliviousness of the District One. Arbor's own analysis — and he did consider himself quite qualified, even by the standards of the Upper Districts; if he'd had a bastard child for every drunken game of "Bang, Marry, Kill" he'd played with Topaz, they'd need to build an orphanage the size of a district — had Peridot labeled as beautiful; not rugged enough to be 'hunkish' and yet somehow too callow to be handsome. His ears perked up again as the thoroughly intoxicated Career began to willfully divulge the contents (or lack their of) of his sex life: "Well if I'm a hunk, what am I doing because aren't hunks supposed to be getting something. You know? But all I'm getting is a big fat — nothing. I get nothing Arbor, Arbor - it sucks. Let me tell you."

It did suck. Most of the year between Games were considered a dry spell for the old victor, who very seldom sought out any sort of company, particularly in District Twelve, where people simultaneously revered and mistrusted him, placing him on a pedestal in order to keep him at a distance. And when dry spells lasted more than a few days into his Capitol voyages — well, that whole debacle with Ethan Taurus in the dining hall was a shining example. For the most part, he didn't need to do much more than go to the right bars, or (once upon a time) let Topaz drag him to the right parties. He next-to-never screwed the same person twice, and such flings did not last longer than his brief stints in the Capitol. The next year, they were always demoted to booty call status.

"It does suck," he agreed after a thoughtful minute. He glanced up from the scotch in his hand, unable to recall when it had been placed there, only to find the golden boy beaming at him. Oh no, groaning to himself as the scene he was in became something all too familiar. No, come on, you can't. In a stall for time, he swirled his tumbler, the faint and familiar clink of ice against glass doing little to fill the pause. His anxious tic did not buy his clouded mind enough time to pick a new topic. "How are you?" Peridot's tone was telling, and his movements even more so. The boy was shitfaced.

"Fine," he lied, draining the rest of his scotch and setting the glass down on the bar top as gently as his next words: "You're a mess, though." He offered a thin smile, as warm as he could muster. "Let's get you back to your room, I think you've had enough for the night." I think you've had enough for the night, Arbor Halt. Convinced that this night would be the night to break his whoring habits, Arbor shoved his self-loathing to the back of his mind and held out an arm for Peridot to grab. Just taking him home, he promised himself. That's it.