{ i won't be vacant anymore // arbor standalone

The seasons between the Games always straddled the line between uneventful and depressing. He'd spend the antsy hours prowling around his house like a caged beast, counting the seconds until nightfall, when he could retreat to the sanctuary of his four-poster and pass the time in darkened oblivion. Occasionally, he'd roam the unpaved streets of District Twelve, pretending as if he didn't feel the stares that always followed him, ignoring the deep-seated uneasiness that found him on his district's streets. Like most of his fellow victors, Arbor had a hard time fitting in anywhere. The last home he'd ever known had been the slush-filled hellhole that he'd emerged from more than a decade ago, tips of his hair beaded with ice, coat and hands and entire being soggy with blood. He'd ensured his alienation back in Twelve by murdering his district partner personally. With three tributes left, he'd weighed his options, and decided he'd be better off against the heavily-wounded boy from Eight; District loyalty had not even factored in, which had lost him a handful of supporters, the food and glory he'd won for the poorest district notwithstanding.

As time wore on, the District collectively forgot about Arbor's eleventh-hour breach of a pact he'd never made. However, they were less willing to look past his horrific drinking problem and the general life-in-shambles aura that he projected so effortlessly, even if his suicide attempt following the 61st Games had been hushed up by the Capitol. His alcoholism had eclipsed his earlier reputation as a tactical genius and brilliant strategist — after all, it was quite a feat to bring home two District Twelve tributes in three years, all before he was too old to be eligible for the reaping. And much less in the state they were in: young and wide-eyed, legless and alone. And yet, he'd never really been District Twelve's golden boy, never really found a place in the public eye. He didn't have the personality for it, and certainly hadn't when he was young. He fell into disrepair, grew old and washed-up. A has-been. And the only people that understood him were who knew how many miles away, scattered throughout the other eleven districts.

He'd purchased a busted old typewriter from a gruffly old man with more fingers than teeth, and spent a good week and a half repairing and cleaning it. Although he wasn't too familiar with the mechanics of the machine, it hadn't been terribly difficult to figure it out when he had all the time in the world to study it. Even so, he was mildly surprised when he'd managed to get all the gears and bands and key hammers back in order. With the device fixed up, and with the victor being desperately in need of a hobby -- lacking the heart for music, he'd hardly touched his old one in the last decade -- he began hammering out poems, short stories, and letters that would never be delivered. Having just learned how to read and write in the recent decade, each page was riddled with egregious spelling errors, but he found it therapeutic to have his thoughts on paper. It was better than the whiskey-soaked alternative.

Since embarking on his quest to drag himself from the darkness he'd stumbled back into so willingly, Arbor had been very successful at tempering his thirst for liquor. He couldn't quit his sustenance entirely, but he'd promised himself he'd only drink when he was up, and he hadn't broken it yet. Not in the six months since he'd last been in the Capitol. He was very proud of himself for it, even when so little had gone his way in the recent decade. The victor found that if he pretended as if he was content for long enough, he actually began to feel that way. Not happy, no -- he couldn't feign that. But no one could argue that perpetual brooding and wallowing was a better state of being than satisfaction with the way of things.

The first few weeks of winter had been fortunately mild, but any sharp enough dip in temperature put extra pressure on the already-impoverished citizens of Twelve. Though they were known for their lack-luster effort during the annual Victory Tour, the district had begun gearing up for the start of the celebration, which was scheduled for the end of the week. Most did not seem to care for the event, but Arbor typically found the small dinner party that followed the speeches to be quite enjoyable. As a victor, and therefore as a person of privilege, the twenty-six-year-old was always invited to attend. In his younger years, he spent many social events scowling at anyone who looked as if they intended to approach him. As he aged, however, he began to appreciate the free food and liquor, and, increasingly, the number of his friends that would be in attendance.

The past two victory tours had brought familiar faces to the coal district, much to the old victor's delight. Admittedly, entertaining his former one-night stand following the 63rd Games had been a tad bit uncomfortable for the victor from Twelve. He hadn't seen much of Julian Bryze since their encounter, particularly considering the blonde boy's tendency to latch himself to Mace Emberstatt whenever the victors were having what could loosely be defined as a get-together. On the other hand, two years before, he'd got to spend the evening drinking and guffawing with Topaz Ross, his best friend. Unintentionally, the pair had largely ignored the brand new victor, who was left awkwardly picking at the wild turkey that had been served that evening.

He was very much looking forward to seeing the redhead again, even if it meant Peridot Myler would be in tow. Arbor had done his absolute best to avoid the the younger victor since the pair had slept together during the most recent Games — which was made much more difficult by Peridot's frequent attempts to see him while they were in the Capitol, and by the constant phone calls since he'd returned home to Twelve. And while Arbor was used to running into one-night stands as a result of his incessant whoring around, frequently being in close proximity with the other victors made him somewhat uncomfortable with the ones he had slept with. Hadn't he learned that lesson with Julian? Peridot's hounding just made the matter worse.

With the Victory Tour impending, Arbor had needed to get the holes in his nice blazer mended, and had dropped it off at the tailor's shop in the district square, to be picked up that day. The establishment had offered to deliver it when it was finished, but with little to do but sit around the house, he'd insisted on picking it up himself. He laced up on his fur-lined boots, threw on his coat, and tied a scarf around his neck, prepared to spend some time milling around the square before going to check on the status of his order. Shoving a handful of money in his pocket, he threw open the door of his house in the Victor's Village, and was startled into swearing by what was waiting for him on the stoop.

In a small straw-stuffed wooden crate, not unlike the one that Arbor's spirits came imported in, barely visible under a pile of tattered old blankets and shirts, topped off with a faded-grey knitted cap, was a human infant, sleeping peacefully.

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i'm trying, but i'm graceless
don't have the sunny side to face this
i am invisible and weightless
you can't imagine how i hate this
graceless

Murmured swears escaping on the fog of his breath, Arbor stepped back inside and shut the door behind him. He counted to five, inhaled, and open the door again. But the baby was still there. "Oh, hell," he sighed, perplexed and without a clue how to proceed. He pulled the scarf off of his neck and draped the soft fabric over the infant, then stepped over the box and headed down the street to visit his former charge. There was no answer at Aranica's door, however, and Arbor figured it was probably for the best. He wasn't sure when exactly the two became such strangers. Over the years, she'd grown up from that scared little girl, while he'd withered away, unable and unwilling to deal with the life he'd killed for. They were not on unfriendly terms. But there was distance.

He hustled back to his house, found the telephone that he only used in the rarest circumstances, and lifted the receiver from its cradle. The dialtone hummed in his ear as he searched himself for the sequence of numbers he needed to key in. He just wasn't on friendly enough terms with the victors that had kids to ask them for any advice. Besides, what advice could they really give him? It wasn't as if he was going to keep the thing just because someone dumped it there. That wasn't fair. He settled on punching in the string of digits he dialed with greatest frequency -- not often, but more often that any others -- and twirled the cord around his finger while he waited for Topaz to pick up the phone.

"What the hell do you want, Arbor? Haven't you ever heard of beauty sleep?" It hadn't occurred to him that, being significantly more inland than his district, it was several hours earlier in District One. The note of irritation in his friend's voice caused him to forget himself for a moment as he slid immediately into friendly banter. "Beauty sleep? I've never needed it." He forced a chuckle along with the witless retort, but the corners of his lips quickly bowed back into their serious frown. His mouth open and shut several times in the silence before he could formulate the words to fill it.

"Uh... someone left a baby on my doormat."

"Look, the last thing I need is more jokes relating to the bun in my oven, cut it out." Not seeing her in six months had made it easy to forget that Topaz was pregnant at all — but being that it had been so long, it was a safe bet that she was currently quite. He backpedaled, trying to think of the best way to phrase his predicament.

"No, I'm serious — there is an infant on my front porch and I have no idea how it got there" There was a brief pause that left his stomach reeling, the full weight of what he'd said pressing on him fully. The was an infant child on his stoop. Topaz, on the other hand, seemed to be able to grasp the immediate implication of what he'd just said more completely than he had: "...well you brought it inside, right?"

"Ye—" he automatically responded, but cut himself off mid-sentence. Very quietly, he set the receiver down and hurried outside. He scooped up the entire box, quickly bringing it in and, scooting a stack of dishes off to the side, set it on his kitchen table. "Yes." He drew a heavy breath and rested his head against the wall, already worn out from the whole ordeal. "What am I supposed to do with it?"

His friend wasted no time in giving him a response that was darker and drier than he'd been expecting — even for her. "I'd say go ahead and kill it, but the publicity would be really bad, and I'm pretty sure the Capitol doesn't need any more excuses to hate District Twelve victors."

Though somewhat perturbed by the prospect, habit forced him to return fire with a quip of his own. "Well I could've just left it outside for that, you know." He forced himself not to think about dying in the cold — the frigid winters that permeated his pitch-black nightmares, the slush that grabbed at his boots, iron-scented with the blood of those he had bested in battle.

But exactly what he'd experienced was dredged up all the same — a decade later, he was too numb to feel the horror of his Hunger Games, but even he was not so dead inside that he did not wince at Topaz's words: "Too cold. Inhumane. Better off just shooting it in the skull, or something. Be creative. You killed an arena full of people, didn't you?" She sighed, then excused herself. "The doctor says I'm responding to pregnancy by becoming even more insensitive and abrasive than usual. So asking me what to do with a squealing infant really isn't the best idea."

He forced a snicker, but his mood was grim. "Yeah, no kidding." He scratched the stubble that he hadn't had the opportunity or the motivation to shave. His hands worked their way upward, massaging the bridge of his nose, an exasperated sigh slipping from his thin lips "I guess I'll just return it or something. Thanks anyhow. Go back to sleep, Ross."

She seemed to realize that she hadn't been much help, and offered him an apology and a last attempt at advice. "Okay, okay, sorry. Just bring it to an orphanage or something? They'll know what to do with it." Arbor frowned. It was a reasonable suggestion, and one he'd considered quite thoroughly — after all, what else in Ripred's green earth was he going to do with a baby? Yet somehow, it still felt... wrong. "I guess you're right. I'll do that then. Sorry I woke you."

"Good luck with the baby, kid. You'll need it." There was a click on the other end, and then silence. He hung the phone back in its place and turned to the infant on the table. The baby had woken from its nap and was chewing on the tassels that hung off the ends of the scarf that Arbor had draped over it. The victor sighed, fished around his closet for a new one, and fastened it around his neck. He hefted the box off the table and stepped back into the cold.

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i am not my rosy self
left my roses on my shelf
take the wild ones,
they're my favorites
it's the side effects that save us
grace

The victor's head swam with thoughts, but he was entirely unable to pin any individual one of them down. He was too conflicted to verbalize what he was feeling, but even overwhelmed, he seemed to know that he was not meant to give that baby away. Hell, if he knew where the district orphanage was, then someone who'd lived on that side more recently than the last decade certainly did — and wasn't it easier to bring the wriggling infant there? Victor's village was out of the was of everything. The child in his arms had been brought to him intentionally.

Intentionally? But why him? Arbor Halt was a mess and everyone knew it. A wealthy mess, but he'd had over a decade to get his shit together and and so far only managed to pickle his liver. He'd given up on himself, on his tributes, on his few friends, his distant family, and at one point, even his life. Whose life could possibly be so bad that they'd decided Arbor was a more suitable father to their child than what they could provide, that they'd deemed him more fit to parent than the place dedicated to the purpose?

Too many people. Much as it pained him to recognize, Arbor was still more than familiar with the poverty that surrounded him at all times in his district. He glanced down at the bundle of baby that was cooing in the victor's arms. The innocent smile that beamed back at his worn, weary face caused his stony heart to grow even heavier. Yes, as depressing as the idea was, the washed-up, reclusive, alcoholic, shepherd of the doomed and literal murderer was, in all likelihood, the best feasible guardian for the infant that had been left on his doorstep.

Whoever had left the baby was certainly asking an enormous favor of Arbor, who had, in recent years, decided that it was incredibly unfair and selfish for anyone to ask anything of him — for Anastasia Estrange to ask him to 'take them down', for Jared to ask that the victor 'give them hell' — bah! He could not, would not, allow himself to feel obligated to fulfill the requests just because he'd spilled their blood across the frozen ground all those years ago. And yet, they still echoed in his head whenever he found himself in complete silence. They still bothered him. Two favors — not small favors, either — that he could not complete. It simply was not possible.

He stopped his meander right where he stood, setting the box down at his feet for a moment while he got his bearings. Arbor Halt would once and for all put to rest the notion that he did not accept favors from anyone — he would take on this one wordless, desperate plea, and consider the other requests to be completely square. He drew a deep breath, picked up the box that contained the baby — his baby — and course-corrected to the Justice Building to pick up the necessary forms. It was not a responsibility he had asked for, nor one that he'd ever particularly wanted — but in that moment, he was convinced that the responsibility of raising a child was a responsibility that he needed.

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put the flowers you find in a vase
if you're dead in the mind
it will brighten the place
don't let them die on the vine,
it's a waste
grace