pseudosmiles {victors}

My mind drifts from the conversation to the music playing in the background to the shoes everyone is wearing and guessing who designed them—and who the fuck dressed Mace in that disgusting fringe jacket?—before drifting back to the conversation again.

I never really cared about the answer to my question. I already know my answer. No one here is going to convince me of anything different. No way she was forced into this position and no way would she have turned down the opportunity to create and be a part of something we Careers enjoy. I doubt she was given a choice because I doubt she was approached first. It's likely she volunteered.

Somehow the conversation circles back around to Miss Kate and it's amazing how easily these elevens make everything all about themselves. Who would've known, huh? And they call me egotistical.

"--like any fucked-up, pathetic, egotistical District Two would."

Apparently literally.

I laugh. It's not really all that funny, but seeing as I'm the only fucked-up, pathetic, egotistical upper district asshole Career with a predilection for the extravagant lifestyle the Capitol offers to well-behaved victors like me—it's sort of a requirement that I do something. At least that's what my drunk mind thinks. And it was either laugh or crack my fist across her cheek. Ripred knows every other victor hopeful already has.

She walks away and I nudge Mace just because he's closest and Harbinger is boring and Kirito is weird--

"Okay, but dude, seriously," I say, completely losing my original train of thought as I look him over in his cowboy get-up again. "Who dressed you?"

I play with the fringe in disgust, but the alcohol keeps me from cringing. In fact, it makes me laugh instead.

"Fringe is cringe," I say, snatching a fancy croissant from the plate he's holding and speaking through a mouth full of food. "Seriously how'd you get a girl like Saffron to like you wearing fringe?"

It's a genuine question hidden beneath laughter. He isn't even forty and he already fits the part of a dad who doesn't have a clue. Which apparently works for him, though I'll never understand the appeal. Kirito speaks past me to Mace while I'm lost in my own thoughts—I'm in hysterics now, accidentally spitting crumbs onto his jacket as I begin speaking. I brush them away.

"Wait, wait, I'm sorry. Does--d-does she--" I sputter, laughing too much to actually get the words out. I try again, but to no avail. I take a deep breath and wave the question away—"Nevermind, I'll just ask Saffron."

Someone walks by with more champagne flutes so I snatch one, drinking away the hysterics and laughing at the thought of meeting and greeting Saffron for the very first time with—"Do you call Mace 'daddy?'"

I finish off the flute, head on a swivel in search of the next fancy looking drink I can try. I weave through the crowd with a grin on my face, smiling, apologizing, and complimenting every stranger I bump into. I wink at someone across the room, her smile glowing an almost blinding white as she raises a liquid gold drink in the air.

The reflective metal gives off a heat so thick and heavy it sends sweat into my eyes. And it stings like hell, but I keep my eyes open because blinking is a deadly habit. And this is all a nightmare against a shimmering gold backdrop no matter how big I talk.

She lowers the glass and suddenly the room is completely silent, her words the only one's I can hear—"What's there left to do but give in, Fray?"—and I grip my axe tighter as she takes a step towards me, pool of molten gold making her silhouette appear haloed. But she's no angel; she's Achilles Muto for fuck's sake.

"Haven't you already failed them all?"

My hands close into fists, the champagne flute shattering in my hand breaking me free of my memories. Only a split second of hesitation gives everything away.

"Oh, shit," I say, forcing a laugh as a few Avoxes swarm to clean up the mess around me. I bend down to help only to nearly fall over myself. I stick to apologizing as the party continues around me, my little mishap warranting nothing more than a few glances and hused whispers. Insignificance can be a blessing.

An Avox wraps my bleeding hand in gauze as my head swims with too many memories to drown in alochol. I suddenly feel sober; I hate it. I force a laugh to feel drunk again, start a conversation with someone who can't even speak back to connect myself to something tangible.

"I've already forgotten it. Do you want a drink?"

And I know she isn't talking to me and honestly I wish it were anyone else, but I'm too deseperate to care. I'm too afraid of my own demons to care if my lifeline bites.

"Oh, you're so thoughtful, darling, thank you, yes, I would love one," I ramble, interjecting in their conversation and pushing my way between them to pour myself a drink. But as my hands fumble and fuss over glasses I settle with just taking the entire bottle for myself, taking a swig and coughing as the burn almost immediately hits my chest.

"Well, damn, could've warned me about the kick on that," I splutter, feeling my worries wash away as I sit in the middle of what was probably a serious conversation. The familiarity of pissing people off is comforting. I wear a shit-eating grin as I glance between the two of them.

"How drunk would I have to get the two of you to follow me to a strip club?"

I immediately decide that it's probably best to lay out more than just that single option.

"Or something fun? More fun than sharing our feelings and talking about Kate or Cricket."

I'm banking on having pissed them off enough that one of them will just punch me in the face. At least then I'll have a broken nose to keep me distracted.