far from free / { t / v }

[marcellus rhodes 11b arc]

A cruel, wilted part of my consciousness cheered when Krueger died. The rest of the bar did, too, but the lines we parade on won’t overlap. Clink, clink, clink. The chatter that brims the walls of the bar resorts to praises, welcomes, and disbelief as they complement the victory.

”To Seven!”

”They fuckin’ did it finally,”

And, in the distance, ”maybe this one will actually do something,” reminding me that despite my victory, I hadn’t done anything that I was meant to do. I knew, deep down, that I fucked up this year. I put the life I had already secured before those that hadn’t. A few reporters have approached me, asking why I didn’t try to help those who didn’t get a say in being reaped. They asked if I had ” anything to say to their families back home,” which is hard to say because that place is hardly a fuckin’ home anymore. The empty, hollow pink walls of the living room they’ve moved my mother into feel like a reminder of my failures over my victories.

Shot glasses get raised to the heavens, and sorrow gets pushed down our throats. A burning of fire, followed by a bite of acid, fills their throats. I raised mine, too; eyelids squeezed shut to form a blockade against the set of tears. It’s passed to my liver, where I turned to look for Rafael - the only person who offers some security, despite being the biggest motherfucker here. Instead of finding the big bitch, my eyes immediately meet those of a slender man in all black. Like he’s dressed for a damn funeral or something. Pointed ears, and a hum that wisps the man’s mouth that’s of alcohol.

On the whim of defense, I’m set on edge by any new capitolite. And this one is looking right at me, with a gloss in his eyes that features way too little consciousness to know what this dude wants. ”You need some-someffim, elf-ears?” My words stumble, wobble and slip around my mouth as if the thick liquid that’s been pouring down it makes it slicker than normal. ”Not the-” I choke on my words, suddenly being reminded of the bender Rafael’s taken me on, ”not the boy you want - “ I point at the TV, a bloodstained boy from seven presented. ”You want hhhim. Nnot, me.”

Because shit, I wish I didn’t matter anymore.

Fion

[Fion]

vender crius hyland;

Saturn City, Capitol 

This was a great idea. He knew the second he made the decision to go and explore local socialite hubs. It's been an awfully long time since he came out of his wolf den for the last time, so he might as well make it worth his while. Not like he had a lot going on anyway - getting high every day could only get you so far, per say. Ever since his girlfriend died, Vender was a living mess. He's successfully returned back to his old ways of screwing a different girl every night and quickly became the epitome of a textbook fuckboy. Was he proud of it? Hell nah, he thought to himself as he sipped on his whiskey. On ice, obviously. Once upon a time, he believed he was destined for something big. He was full of drive, determined to achieve everything he's set his mind on, but that era was no more. The fact that he failed to save the life of the only person he's ever loved sucked the life out of him as well. He was too much of a coward to blow his head off; that was the only reason why he was still alive. So instead, he turned into the coldest, most bitter version of himself he could think of. 

Vender noticed a guy stare at his guts for way too long. He knew he was hot, but he'll probably never get used to being stared at. The possibly autistic part of him hated it with a passion. Before he could shout at him to fucking mind his own business, he noticed that he was staring back. The fuck are you doing, went through his mind. As he downed the rest of the whiskey, he finally realized.

That's a fucking victor. It was like some Ratatouille kinda shit. Memories started to race and spin inside his own head as he turned his gaze back to... Tim. His name was definitely Tim. Vender used to adore the victors. The little him used to be obsessed with them, although he's never developed a crush on anyone but a female tribute.

"Man, I have no idea what you're talking about," he replied, annoyed, trying his best to ignore the stupid nickname he just gave him. "Believe me, all I want is to drink my shit in peace," he added without any reasoing as to why he would like to continue the conversation. Maybe (just maybe) the little Vender deep down wanted to talk to a victor. There was no doubt he was deeply traumatized, but that was to be expected. He gestured to his nose and raised an eyebrow at him. He then placed the tip of his finger to his nostril and cocked his eyebrows again. Don't be dense, please. There was a shit ton of coke on him at this moment and he needed to get rid of it before the peacekeepers could track him down and the victor looked like he could use a few sniffs. Vender usually didn't share, but it seemed rather symbolic now that he's found someone as miserable as himself. He wasn't a complete ass; he had his moments and this was one of them. "Elf-ears is feeling particularly generous today," he snapped at him, a slight undertone of a warning attached to his voice.

✖ ✖ ✖

[marcellus rhodes 11b arc]

Rafael noted that when I get drunk, I tend to pace. I stand up and shift from side to side, I move my feet. Says it’s cute, or that sometimes it gets annoying because he doesn’t know where I go - and apparently he doesn’t trust me anymore. Ever since I gave that motherfucker Flynn a black eye, he hasn’t trusted me for shit. It’s my fault more than his - we were in his home, he can do as he wishes.

Some bullshit, really, but I’m too busy with the alcohol and music to care. Rafael’s busy talking up his plug, so it’s a free excuse to wander. It’s one of the last nights - I deserve some fun, man. Drinking and watching a reflection of my shit-poor job has formed a massive gray cloud over my head. Everyone looks at me like I’m stupid. People tell me they’re sorry or ask what I could have done better - man, I don’t even know what I’m doing. And it sucks.

"Man, I have no idea what you're talking about," elf boy comments, which is hard enough to hear over the cheers and commotion in this bitch. My eyes rise and fall on the body before me like an elevator.

Eh.

I’m in no place to judge a guy - I’ve been in pinks, reds, and whites the entire damn time I’ve been here. Lanie wanted to keep up the cherry blossom shit - as if it’s not already tired. Stupid bitch wants me in the slimmest pants possible and the brightest colors. Shit would get me rocked two years ago. "Believe me, all I want is to drink my shit in peace," which causes an offbeat laugh. It holds no life; all the life it could hold had been left in a poker deck.

”So you’re…” thoughts slowly string themselves together, I let out another laugh, almost gigglish because that shit don’t make sense. ”You came… to a bar…” the glass in my hand raises toward ”on the last night of the… games…wanting peace.” Come on, man.

That doesn’t make any sense. At all. Capitolites are fucking stupid anyway. He raises his finger towards his nose, and a white powder lay on his finger like damn chalk as the coked-out capitolite takes a sniff. "Elf-ears is feeling particularly generous today," this dude hisses, as if he’s giving me a damn gift for being here. I don’t fucking know this dude. The real present would be Woods walking around the damn corner - I need someone sane here. And this guy, well, he’s not sane thinking that he means anything to me.

”Do I - do I…” A pause, slight for comedic effect, but also to gather myself within the current state. ”know you?” Raised eyebrow, cocked head - if I were to be honest, I don’t care to know him either. We don’t have elves back in Eight, and how this one looks, Mariah would be fucking happy. She’s tired of the coke addicts that roam the place, and we ”don’t need more of those goddamn snow-sniffers,” as she claims. My breath is warm with an aroma of beer, lime and tequila - a combination that lay on my tongue like a wet sock.

”I’m afraid I don’t, man.” My eyes connect back with the chalky substance, intrigued, to say the least, with Asher being MIA for the night. He’s usually my guy for that type of crap, but this long-legged elf will do for now. ”Feel free to introduce yourself, though,” as I grab his hand and take it up to my mouth, and shit - Momma ain’t here. I place his hand back down, nose twitching to adjust to the new filling.

”You know who I am.”

[Fion]

vender crius hyland;

Saturn City, Capitol 

"As unbelievable as it may seem, yes. Why would I come here on a regular night? Too much attention. Tonight, they're all focused on that. You could have come to that conclusion yourself, it doesn't require all that much mental power," he replied dryly and gestured towards the screen. He really tried his best to not be a dick (did he, though?), but he just couldn't help it. But this guy - whatever the hell was his name - had a different grade of asshole-ness going on. Vender hated it when people asked way too many questions; and he hated those who spoke in riddles even more. It was the corniest kind of shit he's ever witnessed. People were no longer real. The whole "do I know you" crap got his blood boiling. Why does it even matter? He offered him some god-tier coke and he was being a fussy little bitch about it. So, when the guy brough his hand up to his nose and sniffed the white substance off his fingers, something deep inside of him stirred and the corner of his mouth lifted in a crooked smirk. Vender was straight as a ruler, but it made his guts flutter. He hasn't slept with anyone since Lana died and it probably showed. He was so touch starved that he didn't even care who it was.

"See? It didn't even hurt," he said as he slowly slid his hand across the bar and grabbed his fresh glass without even cleaning his fingers first. He dipped his index finger in the gold liquid and licked it. Nothing should ever go to waste, he thought. "I'm Vender, by the way," he added and took a sip of his drink. He knew the coke won't kick in earlier than in twenty minutes, but he already felt way more conscious and aware of his surroundings. Like a haze has been lifted and he suddenly saw the world for what it really was. People cheering, eyes glued to the screens. It was disgusting. "Of course I know who you are," he replied with disdain. "When I was a little kid, I used to be obsessed with people like you," he chuckled and rolled his eyes. It was all so lame. There wasn't a day when he wouldn't long to be born a few decades earlier, back then when the world was still normal. Maybe she wouldn't have to die and we would be happy for the rest of our lives, a dangerous thought suddenly entered his mind and he started to feel a sudden sharp urge to off himself right on the spot.

"Why are you here, though? Trying to get laid?" He said, completely unbothered, though the back of his brain said otherwise. He never really questioned his sexuality, but that little act just a few minutes ago set off something he really hated. Perhaps he should get off his ass and go find a nice brunette hooker instead of contemplating these lowkey gay thoughts. Sometimes, he let his intrusive thoughts win, but now was definitely not the time. He scanned the guy with his gaze once again. Nope. He wasn't his type even if he could magically grow a pair of tits and a cunt. Speaking of the devil, he thought as his eyes caught a sight of a lovely young woman sitting just across the bar. It was tempting, but he swiftly banished the thought. Even though she's been dead for years, it would still feel like cheating. No woman could ever compare to her. Maybe switching teams wouldn't be such a bad idea, after all. Lana would definitely be mad about it, but way less than if he ended up cheating on her with some other woman. Loneliness can only get you so far. He no longer gave a damn about his career. He'd do any kind of atrocity just to get her back. Vender looked his companion in the eye and took another sip of his whiskey. I'd kill you first.

✖ ✖ ✖

[marcellus rhodes 11b arc]

My body continues to shift from side to side. It keeps me conscious and sane, a constant reminder that I’m fuckin’ alive despite putting myself in the hands of fate. Watching Torian win, I’m reminded of the envy. The hate families had for me. Not even within the Capitol -which already produced the snarky remarks that I was “given the victory” or “should have died day one.”

Vender, who ends up being his name, says he wouldn’t come here on a regular night. That it brings too much attention and the focus in on the Games, and not him. He talks really highly of himself for someone that I’ve never fucking heard of before, and I’ve heard of a lot of people from my Capitol adventures. All I’m thinking is just a bitten-back reply of brother, you’re just an elf-eared coke addict; nobody’s got reservations for you.” Despite his comments on my brain, I kept my mouth shut. I can be courteous even when I don’t want to - Flynn Garner, you bitch.

He says he knows me - of course, and damn right he does. It’s a weird consciousness, the power of being known and seen. There’s been people thanking me for winning. That it gives hope to the District - I aint’ ever been a damn hero, or a villain, normally I’m just chillin. Up until the games I just liked pizza, card games and the field. But now I’m… a face, which aint bad, but it sure as hell was never desired growin’ up. The way some of these kids came up to me makes me feel more heroic than demonic, despite the envious eyes that the families from the 93rd gave me. So many people from home are shittin themselves over the fact that Eight can breed victors. People everywhere else… damn, man, they’d rather me dead. Sometimes I don’t blame ‘em.

Elf boy speaks up, asking if I’m “tryin to get laid”, and seriously, man? I look around, as if trying to find someone else. If getting laid was the goal I’d already be home. Rafael’s gaggle of boys attached to his hip make an easy fulfillment. ”Nah, not quite.” I give a nod to Rafael, still preoccupied with trying to refill his addiction, ”my buddy over there has me busy enough.” I realize it sounds like we’re fuckin’, but who says?

But, really, absolutely not. ”Not here, anyway. This is… not my crowd.” I note, looking around at the crowd of people here. It’s hard to imagine getting with any Capitolite - their bodies are decorated with prosthetics, and mine is too, but at least for good fuckin’ reason. My eyes find a resting position on the man in front of me. ”You included.”

I don’t fuck elves, let alone a self-proclaimed icon like this elf.