it's just a flesh wound | aya

Life in District Twelve had become empirically better for Arbor since the bundle of infant was left on his porch a little over one year prior. Things weren't perfect – the jaded victor doubted they'd ever advance beyond 'not entirely horrible' – but the energetic toddler had alleviated a considerable amount of the misery that Arbor usually experienced in his home district.

And Cedar had helped him bridge the great divide that had formed between him and his family – his siblings, all parents themselves, were enamored with the new addition to Arbor's family. On that particular day, he'd actually just dropped Cedar off with his brother's kids – more because Arbor liked a reason to slip his nieces and nephews a few coins, rather than actually needing time away from his son. The Seam was a long hike from the broad two-story that Arbor had lived in for the past twelve years (almost) but it wasn't as if the victor had anything better to do; besides, even if the fresh air wasn't worth it, he'd come to realize that seeing his father or his siblings was something he'd missed during his some-odd years of seclusion.

When the victor stepped back to think about it, it was Brendon that had closed the distance fully, more so than the stoop baby had. In twenty-six years of life, Arbor Halt and experienced a multitude of horrors, but he knew that his nephew's death would haunt him hard as anything until the day his liver gave out. He'd asked his brother to watch his house – phrased as a favor, under the guise of 'house-sitting', handling Cade's pride with care — with the ulterior motive of giving his nephew's family access to a phone. This, in turn, gave them access to Arbor, which gave them more realtime information than most families of tributes ever got.

He'd expected to hear the same stoic voice that had sent him off to certain death all eleven years prior – but the cracks in his eldest brother's stony voice were apparent from the very first phone call. When Brendon's hand was cut clean away at the very beginning of the Games, he forced himself to give them the same hollow reassurances that became the tribute's mantra in such dire circumstances: Aranica Petros. Heron Kimberling. Lethe Turner. Opal Shore. But Arbor was experienced in the field, and knew full well that Ara's arm hadn't been taken off until the last swings of Drusilla Charlesburg's falchion, that Heron didn't need her feet to work a switchblade, that Lethe hadn't lost her eye until there was only one enemy left to see, that all of Opal's remaining opponents had been equally cut to oblivion. And there was not enough whiskey in the world to give Arbor Halt the heart to tell his brother that he'd already used up all the luck that the world had to offer their ramshackle family, that Brendon would not get to be a second miracle. And, in truth, the victor wouldn't wish it on his nephew.

The worst part was that Cade was already on the phone when it happened — and it had happened so fast there was hardly time to react. The two packs of preteens were upon each other in an instant, all snarls and flashing steel and big talk ("I'm going to cut off your head and show it to your Uncle, Halt") and Brendon was so clumsy with that giant axe in his left hand and who could've guessed that the girl who toted around that teddy bear had enough strength in her to bring a flail down that hard? The voice on the other line was so desperate that it hardly registered as belonging to his older brother. "You can still send him something, right? That's – you can fix that, it can be fixed, it's not..." Ears ringing, eyes fixed on the place where the wall met the ceiling, Arbor responded with stunned, solemn silence. There was nothing he could think to say that wouldn't sound callous – so he gave a hollow "I'm sorry" and forced himself to stay on the line, listening to the sobs for the next hour.

Things were different when he got back. His usual feelings of helplessness where the Games were concerned had been amplified by orders of magnitude, and, feeling guilty for his failings, he'd fully intended to isolate himself from his family, as he'd done for almost a decade. Cade Halt, however, was unwilling to let him. At first, the eldest Halt brother would just drop by, lying that he'd been in the neighborhood – and as it dawned on Arbor that he did not detest the company, he began to initiate. He'd drop by with sweet rolls from the bakery by the square, and even began to visit his other siblings and their father. It was nice.

It was nice, but it wasn't a cure-all. He'd been drinking less, yes – but even so, a few times a week, he'd drop Cedar off with one of his nieces or nephews, or sometimes with Kieran Emberstatt (well, truly, Ara – not even Arbor was irresponsible enough to entrust a one-and-a-half-year-old to a five-year-old) and pop down to the dirty bar on the Seam side of town.

The victor always felt unusual strolling past the place in the daytime, yet here he was. His addiction clawed at the back of his throat, begging him to go quench his thirst. It was harder to keep walking past the worn-down shack than Arbor would ever admit out loud. He paused in the middle of the street to stare the building down. He wasn't going to – were they even open? Despite the grim weather, not a single lantern shown through the snow-speckled window panes. Curiosity demanded that the victor poke his head inside, but some small voice at the back of his mind suggested that he shouldn't. It was the middle of the day, for starters, and just because the Capitol paid him a larger stipend than he could drink away in a month didn't mean that Arbor didn't have things to do.

As a matter of fact, he was hunting down a screwdriver and some screws for the rocking horse he and Cade were building for Cedar. The Hob always struck Arbor as an unsavory place, and while it was his best bet for locating the building implements, he'd left the toddler with his other brother's kids. Without the eighteen-month-old in tow, it was much easier to shoot the shit with the merchants, who spoke with the gritty cadence and bitter vocabulary of more years worked than years lived. Particularly since Cedar was quite fond of parroting the words he picked up, and since practically nothing the sallow Seam-stuck Panemites was suitable for young children, Arbor preferred to make the trips without his son.

"Oi!" Arbor knew that the summons were directed at him, but as he'd already picked up a screwdriver and a bag of screws from a stringy old woman with more fingers than teeth, he no longer had much interested in the Hob's cliental. "I know you." This elicited an eye roll from the victor, who thought he'd been victor for long enough that everyone had gotten their "I know yous" out of their systems. He stopped in his tracks and whirled around, bringing the white peacekeeper uniform into view. Of course. Arbor raised an eyebrow at the occupant, whom he did not recognize. The white suit smirked at him.

"You're the fucker who broke my jaw." Bursting out laughing was probably not the appropriate response to the situation – and even as the chuckles escaped his mouth, Arbor could feel his ears burning. It did explain the awful bruise that had spanned the length of his knuckles and had only recently healed – he'd woken up face down on his kitchen floor, dried tracks of blood running down the front of his shirt. "Yeah, well," he shot back, a condescending grin still lighting across his face, "you must've been doing something I found disagreeable." Arbor closed the distance between him and the peacekeeper, offering the man a handshake in lieu of an apology.

"Would you mind filling me in on what it was, so I can remember to dislike you for it?"