Wager This {Stew}

[aya]

I feel like I've been living in
A city with no children in it
A garden left for ruin by a millionaire inside
Of a private prison

Arbor Halt—

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It seemed to Arbor that he measured time in Games. He was getting so old. A new year, a new victor, but everything else remained the same. The Capitol remained draconian, he remained something of an alcoholic, tributes remained lambs for the slaughter. He didn't feel any older, but he wasn't anywhere near the scrappy fifteen-year-old blind kid who'd just come out of a frozen wasteland covered in the blood of twenty-three of his peers. He'd spent five years as a mentor, so shouldn't he feel older, wiser? Arbor Halt was aging backwards. Here he was, five years older, jaded, sober (he wished he wasn't) and cynical as ever — but just craving a good time. Weren't the teenagers supposed to be the thrill-seekers and the adults supposed to be the people fighting for change?

But here he stood, just outside the training center, a look of hesitation on his face masking the fact that he was dying to be impulsive. Well, not dying to be — that was an expression he hadn't particularly cared for since even before his own 54th Games, since it wasn't really fair; every year, two dozen kids were shipped off to hell, dying to be in his position, but Arbor Halt was just dying to do something drunk and incredibly stupid.

He hadn't been drinking as much these Games, which was probably a good thing, though it left him disappointed — on the contrary, before the Reaping, he'd expected to reconcile with his drinking buddy from the 58th Hunger Games, one Topaz Ross, as her company made his hobby a great deal more entertaining. The trouble with that, though, was the tributes from District One for these Games; he couldn't expect the other victor to shirk the duties of mentoring her sister just so that the District Twelve boy could have a good time. Besides, if the state of Aranica during the 56th Games was anything to go off of, Arbor knew he couldn't expect the red-haired victor to even bear a resemblance to the friend he'd known from the 58th.

So Arbor had steered clear. It wasn't that he intentionally avoided her, he just went to different bars than they'd been thrown out of together, took his meals in his room for the most part, and held his breath every time the elevator passed District One's floor, praying that it wouldn't stop. Maybe it made him a rotten friend, but just because he'd been through the same situation with Ara and Anani it didn't mean he was an expert on it. On the contrary, he was actually quite horrible; he never knew what to say, so he just kept mum and sat around awkwardly. Plus, he didn't know either of the Ross girls, just drank with one of them sometimes; Topaz was no Aranica and was not his responsibility. She could handle herself just the same without the company of the older victor from the opposite end of the country.

Arbor knew there had been another sibling of a former tribute these Games; the District 5 girl's brother had been the only thing that brought Heron to victory in the 57th Games, and both tributes were popular among crowds. This wasn't a new thing — plenty of relatives of former tributes ended up in the Games now and then. There were the boys from District One, last year and two before that, both of which ended up dead either in the bloodbath or not long after. And weren't the District Ones from a couple years back cousins? Whole families, it seemed, had terrible luck when it came to being reaped.

It made Arbor grateful that he was the youngest Halt, that his brothers and sisters were all much older than he was — if anything, he'd need to be concerned for his nephews, all of whom were approaching reaping age; the oldest would even be eligible for the next Games. He'd hope for his brothers' sons' safety, but his motive was selfish and he knew it. Even if he only saw his family a handful of times out of the year as it was, it would be impossible to go home to Twelve without them; he'd be expected to bring them home, because after all, wasn't he some sort of tactical genius? He'd also been expected to return in a wooden box during his own Games, of course, so he did have a track record for disappointing.

He shook his head, trying to put the competition out of his head — it was, after all, over for the time being; the victor would be officially crowned within a few days, and Arbor would on a train by himself heading back to Twelve, where there wasn't enough alcohol and where the company always made him sad. He may not belong there — he never really had — but it was his home; besides, he didn't belong here much, either. He didn't really fit anywhere while he was sober; home was where the liquor was. Home was a tumbler or a bottle or a tankard; family was whiskey or brandy or gin, and, as had been the case practically every night he was here — and most nights when he wasn't — Arbor saw it fit to have something of a reunion.

Not in the mood for walking about, the victor instead decided to head for the bar nearest to the training center — a familiar place, though he hadn't been since opening ceremonies. He felt a little awkward heading there alone, as he'd been kicked out on several occasions, the most notable of which being the time he'd tried to fire the bartender for giving disapproving looks to him and his equally-hammered drinking buddy, the most recent victor from District One. Somehow he got the feeling he'd run into her here, which was for the better; not thinking as clearly as he did with a drink in his hand, Arbor had the pressing urge to apologize if it seemed like he'd spent the majority of these Games avoiding her.

He'd already worked out a whole long speech about how he hadn't meant to and he was sorry, but the second he opened the door to the establishment and saw the telltale mane of red hair seated at the bar, he forgot the whole thing. Arbor was tempted to head right back out, to find somewhere else to get his fix, but not wanting to be cowardly — and, mostly, afraid that she'd seen him and trying not to damage the situation even further by being rude — he strode across the bar casually, seated himself next to her, and ordered a drink before he greeted her. "Hey," he said. "Haven't seen you in awhile." Arbor paused, considering whether or not it would be better to say anything else. It wasn't exactly his place, and he didn't want to bring up the bad thoughts and feelings that people typically drank to suppress, but he still felt like he should ask — "You okay?"

His whiskey arrived, so he took a sip, actively trying to keep himself from fidgeting on his barstool. The liquor burned his throat as it always did, but the familiar sensation wasn't as calming as it usually was; it felt awkward or out of place — or maybe that was him: uncomfortable in social situations, uncomfortable around strangers. Did he really feel like a stranger here, or was he afraid that over the course of a year, his friend wasn't the same one he'd known?

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[Lulu]

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and every demon wants his pound of flesh
but i like to keep some things to myself
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She was meant to be packing. As soon as the victor presentation ceremony and following interviews and feasts occurred, it would be time for all mentors, escorts, and stylists to move out of the training center and back to...well, wherever it was they wanted to go. Home, presumably. Everyone would go home for a much-needed break, taking a year off to prepare for the next horrific Hunger Games. Well, except for the crew from Ten - they'd have their work cut out for them, now that the Emberstatt kid was victor. Public appearances, preparation for the victory tour, and everything else that went along with it. But they'd be happy to do it, because they'd been able to bring a tribute home; Topaz remembered how elated her officials had been to cater to her every whim after she'd won.

But the seasoned victor didn't want to return home. How could she possibly handle the vast, echoing mansion in District One's Victor's Village without her sister? Even if they'd hardly had a civil conversation since Topaz had won the Games, she'd taken Sapphire's presence for granted during the painful times that she'd been forced to live at home in One rather than in her Capitol apartment. She'd gotten used to stirring every morning as Saph got up obnoxiously early and walked past her bedroom down to the kitchen to brew her coffee. She'd become accustomed to sitting directly across from her little sibling during family dinners at the dining room table that was far too big for only four people. She'd even learned to live with the exasperated glares that often came her way from the younger Ross. But now everything had changed.

Following her sister's untimely demise in the 59th Bloodbath, Topaz had very literally drowned out her sorrows in alcohol. It was easy to do; after all, she didn't have to feign her mentor duties any longer, seeing as her district had self-destructed in mere minutes. She'd started off simply bar-hopping, unsure whether or not she would be able to handle the social scene at parties; surely there would be people who would ask her questions she had no desire to answer. She was more comfortable interacting with only the bartender as she asked him for whatever drink she thought she could stomach that day. A few days ago, though, she'd went out to her first party since Sapphire's death, looking horrifyingly underdressed in just jeans and a tank top; to make a long story short, the night had ended with her curled up in a closet in the unfamiliar Capitol mansion, sobbing her eyes out while undercover reporters who had somehow anticipated her presence at the bash that night shouted questions through the wood paneling. Needless to say, she hadn't gone to any more parties since; bar hopping was a lot less hazardous.

Occasionally she went to bars that, during the course of the previous Hunger Games, she had frequented with Arbor Halt, victor of the 54th Games. The two had become quite chummy during the 58th - he was by far the victor she'd gotten closest to, even though it was hard to define their relationship beyond drinking buddies - and to be honest, he was probably the only soul in the universe whose presence she would welcome during all this turmoil, considering he had a habit of making her forget about whatever the hell was bothering her. And if she was drunk enough, some of the things he said would even have her in stitches. But he was never around, and she wasn't about to go searching for him. She wouldn't make herself look that desperate.

The Games had ended the previous day; it had been an epic showdown between tributes from Ten, Five, Six, and Three, and the one from Ten, Mace, had taken the crown with ease. In a way, Tope was glad he had won; he was strong, competent, and good-looking, definitely a favorite for victory from the start, so the Capitolites would be all over him and maybe leave her alone for once. The president would certainly be satisfied; though he wasn't a Career, he was a predictable champion, one worthy of the crown. But these Games had still been quite an ordeal, so the nineteen-year-old redhead had gone immediately out to a bar to drink herself sick for the rest of the night. And she had indeed woken up with an awful hangover that was only just beginning to subside as she sat on her bed and stared at her empty suitcase in frustration.

"Did you get anything done yet?" Topaz didn't look up at the sound of a familiar voice in the doorway; Kaiser's presence wasn't unexpected. "What do you think?" she responded dryly, gesturing at the barren luggage. Slowly she turned her head to look at her former stylist. There were bags under his eyes - clearly he wasn't getting enough sleep either - and he looked almost as worn down as her. His main problem was that he truly cared about the disheveled, broken girl that had once been his prized tribute. If he stopped giving a shit about her, Tope knew he'd be much happier. But since no one else gave a damn, not a single other person in the universe, it was nice to have at least one person who did, even if it meant he would suffer for it.

"I don't want to go back home, Kaiser," Topaz muttered, looking up at him with wide, desperate eyes as if he could do something about it. He only sighed. "I know you don't. But life goes on." The victor found this comment absurd in so many ways. How could life go on, with so much tragedy weighting it down? Surely it would sink under the pressure, deep into an ocean of nothingness, and life would be no more. "No it doesn't. It didn't for her." She had no idea whether she was referring to Nash or Sapphire; did it matter? "It didn't for either of them. So why should it for me?" There was a long pause. Kaiser looked at her, as if debating what to say. He knew she wasn't really suicidal; Topaz Ross would never kill herself. She was too afraid to. So what could he say? "Because you're stronger," he answered finally, and on that note he left the room.

Stronger. How was she stronger, when she'd been weak enough to resort to losing herself in liquor and parties the moment she'd left the arena three years before? Nash would never have done that. Sapphire most certainly would never have done that. No, she was most certainly not stronger than the only two people in her life that she'd ever shed tears over, and it was stupid for anyone, even Kaiser, to insinuate that she was. As if to prove her point, Topaz put on a pair of shoes and left the training center, heading straight for the bar around the corner.

"Rum screwdriver, please." There was no one else in the bar; this wasn't particularly surprising, considering it was a rather early hour. Besides, Tope was grateful for the solitude. The bartender got her her drink quickly, and she could feel herself relaxing as soon as she took the first sip; she'd long since fooled herself into believing that everything would be alright, so long as she got piss drunk. Hardly a minute had gone by when the door creaked open; the bartender, who was currently cleaning off the counter, looked up to see who it was, but Topaz didn't bother. What did it matter, anyway, who else had come to drink the afternoon away? As long as they minded their own business, she would mind hers.

"Hey. Haven't seen you in a while. You okay?" Suddenly the familiar voice of Arbor Halt filled her ears, and she glanced to the left to see him sitting himself right down beside her. Unexpected relief flooded through her; it was good to see him again, it really was. Good to see someone who didn't judge her for once, someone who could distract her from the hell that she was going through. Yes, she wasn't exactly thrilled that he asked about her state of being - it wasn't really something she enjoyed talking about - but he had a right to know, didn't he? "Hanging in there," she said finally. "Well, somewhat. To be honest, I think I'm relying on the liquor a bit too much." The champion took a sip of her orangey drink just to emphasize this. It was very good; much tastier than reality.

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i like to keep my issues strong
it's always darkest before the dawn
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[aya]

You never trust a millionaire
Quoting the sermon on the mount
I used to think I was not like them
But I'm beginning to have my doubts
My doubts about it

Arbor Halt—

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As soon as the redhead opened her mouth, Arbor quit feeling like such a stranger. He had a tendency to feel awkward and out of place when things changed for other people, because somehow everything just seemed to stay the same for him. Here in the Capitol, home in Twelve — he lead the same life that he'd won half a decade ago. It was probably a good thing that this was the case for him; Arbor didn't handle change well. Adjusting to something minor left him grumbling for weeks; anything major — like winning the Hunger Games, for example — threw him for months or years. And he never fully recovered then; he just coped.

It seemed like a good thing, then, that Topaz was hanging in there, as she said, even if it was only somewhat. He knew he couldn't empathize, couldn't say anything beyond "Well, liquor never let anyone down in a crisis," even though he was pretty sure after he said it that it was entirely false. It seemed like liquor had let him down every time he tried to get over something; it was a good short-term fix but an awful long-term solution. And very little that he'd been through since his Games could even really be considered his crisis; he was always caught up in some general great sadness, or felt so awful for someone else or some situation that didn't directly apply to him that he just felt miserable.

But the solution to other people's problems couldn't possibly be to remove himself from them, could it? He had so few friends as it is, so few people he interfaced with, even on an irregular basis, he didn't think he could handle shutting himself off from them. Didn't want to — and that was the problem. He wished that he could be less awkward around the grief-stricken, that he could be helpful — or at least a distraction — instead of useless like he was. If there was one thing he learned about himself during the 56th Games, it was that he was absolutely rotten at coming up with something encouraging or sympathetic or remotely helpful to say, so he'd make little comments, stupid ones, like the one about the liquor.

Why was he so inadequate when it came to being serious? Hadn't he aged twenty years in the space of five? Or had he really been aging backwards, as he supposed? Arbor didn't feel as if he even was an age; none of them fit. He lacked the ferocity of his fifteen-year-old self, the restraint he had at sixteen, yet was weary as someone twice his age — or older, even; could there even be a numerical measure on the disillusionment of victors? It was impossible not to be disenchanted when year after year, you were forced to passively participate in the same slaughter, forced to watch as sons and daughters and sisters and cousins and brothers and nieces and nephews and strangers and lovers tore each other apart — why? For a chance to go home, a hollow and unfamiliar replica of the person who left, for a chanced at a half-life, a pickled liver or ruined veins in exchange for a few hours of masked guilt.

This was the fount of his inadequacy, he was certain of it. The baffling, repetitive tragedy of the Hunger Games left him speechless at all the wrong moments, left his mind so busy and so numb trying to cope that he could hardly process anything besides the perfunctory tasks of his mundane life — the one that had plainly not been worth the blood shed so it could continue. That's why he couldn't come up with anything to say to the only other bar patron: everything was awful and there was too much that needed fixing for Arbor to even know where to begin — though he knew if the roles were reversed he'd prefer silence, anyhow.

So maybe it was fine that he just sat in silence, braiding a strand of his too-long hair — he was certain that his stylist would insist on cutting it before Arbor went home, and if he refused, he knew the quirky old man would have it trimmed while the victor slept — occasionally glancing at his whiskey, though, strangely, it didn't really appeal to him right then. Still focused on the strand of hair between his fingers, he nodded towards the television screen, where a recap of the finale of the 59th Hunger Games was playing in slow motion, not a sound coming from the television set besides the low, electronic hum that signified it was on, if the moving images weren't enough of a clue. (Arbor could think of one instance in which they wouldn't be.)

"What do you think of him?" he asked, mostly just because he needed to say something and smalltalk was better than extended periods of nothing. Well, maybe it was. He stopped fiddling with his hair and glanced between Topaz and the television screen, where the District Five girl was busy bleeding out. "The victor, I mean," he clarified. "Mace."

Arbor himself initially hadn't taken much interest in the tributes the past Games. He got up early to watch the bloodbath, and, from that point on, considered his mentoring duties complete, even though there was still one tribute from his district left. He couldn't remember most of their names; kept mixing them up with tributes from the past few Games. That, of course, wasn't entirely his fault, or at least he didn't think it was. Sawyer did look quite a bit like Gage, Shayde like Hawthorne, Berkley like Zack, Ember like Enigma Lane. He'd been through this so many times; was it fair for him to forget some of the two dozen names and faces he'd been exposed to over the past half-dozen years. Plus, the level of alcohol in his system at any given time during the competitions themselves certainly did his memory no favors.

He started paying attention again around the heavily male-dominated Top Eight, and at that point the future victor was already a standout in Arbor's mind. Built from work and not from training — and Arbor could tell the difference in origin between the muscles of the victor and those of the Career Midas Farrow — with a sturdy body (even though it was concealed under the bulky layers of winter wear that comprised this year's tribute uniform) and a long, serious face, Mace Emberstatt was certainly a handsome man. Gorgeous, really, Arbor thought, and only two years his junior — though Mace exuded masculinity and maturity, whereas Arbor had hardly filled out any from the scrawny fifteen-year-old half-man that had won the Hunger Games five years prior.

"He's definitely pretty," he started, answering his own question with a drastic understatement. "Plus it's nice to have another male victor. No offense, but girl after girl after girl after girl is so boring." The corners of his mouth twitched in the beginnings of a smirk. "Well, for me, at least." It was true; Arbor, being fifteen when he won, was years younger than the victors before him, and with none of the males winning since — besides Mace now — was left alone, for the most part, within his age group. It was nice to feel like he'd have some male company. Some devilishly handsome company, at that, whether Arbor could make a fling of it or not.

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[Lulu]

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and i've been a fool and i've been blind
i can never leave the past behind
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The red-haired victor could feel her mood lifting already; the presence of someone familiar was incredibly comforting. Actually, the presence of someone in general was comforting - however much Topaz convinced herself that she hated people and needed to be alone, she knew full well that for her, isolation was the worst possible curse to be inflicted with. She couldn't handle being alone; it made her do stupid things, stupid things that she regretted. When she had no company save for her own mind, her thoughts tormented her. And an extra dose of torment was the last thing she needed.

Arbor Halt was one of very few that the champion of the 56th Hunger Games legitimately considered a friend. Maybe friendships weren't supposed to be rooted in a foundation of bar-hopping and getting completely hammered together, but since when had anything in Topaz's life been what it was supposed to be? She wasn't supposed to have won the Games - her odds had been twenty four to one, after all. She wasn't supposed to have fallen in love with Nash Harvey, a girl, her so-called adversary. She wan't supposed to have murdered her true love. And on top of that, her sister was not supposed to be Reaped for a second time, and then take a cleaver to the eye in the Bloodbath. No, nothing was as it should be. So why couldn't she consider her loyal drinking buddy her friend?

"Well, liquor never let anyone down in a crisis." This comment actually managed to pull a snicker out of Tope. "Ain't that the truth," she agreed, recalling the countless number of times she'd turned to alcohol over the past three years. Yes, it was a horrid habit, and she knew she should be a good little victor and quit it so that she wouldn't destroy the body of the champion the Capitol so prized. But did she care? Not in the slightest.

Actually, her drinking-and-partying was satisfying in another way, too - not just for the fact that it provided her with an escape. As soon as she'd reached adulthood the previous year, President Snow had begun scheming to do with her what he did with all healthy, young, coveted, and typically exceedingly attractive victors: sell her body for a hefty profit. The first time had been about a month after the fifty-eighth Games; she'd been instructed to call on a rich Capitolite who was probably in his thirties, and lived in an extravagant apartment overlooking the City Circle. Admittedly, he was pretty nice - they sat in his candlelit dining room with glasses of expensive champagne, and he'd tried to make small talk. Occasionally Topaz replied, but no matter how personable this man was, she just couldn't get over the fact that she was here because she had been sold, and before long he would take her into his bedroom and expect her to give him the most fantastic night of his life. Because she was a sexy teenage victor, after all. What more could a rich, single Capitolite ask for?

The point, though, was that the following night - after Topaz had woken up in the stranger's bed, ran back to her apartment and sobbed for a bit, then pulled herself together - she'd gone to a party, and coincidentally, the man whose prostitute she'd been the night before had been there as well. As usual, Tope had gotten piss drunk and before long, she'd been hooking up with a different random Capitolite in a not-so-private place. She didn't know how the first man had found out - maybe he'd seen, or more likely her latest suitor had gone and bragged to the rest of the party how he'd just slept with Topaz Ross and he'd heard - but he got pretty angry. And rightfully so - he'd had to pay for an escapade with her, while this idiot had gotten it for free! Needless to say, rumors had spread regarding the victor's willingness to open her legs, and before Snow knew it, no one was bidding on nights with her anymore; anyone who knew anything knew you could get her for free. She was just that easy.

Topaz preferred to give her body away on her own terms, thank you very much - she wasn't about to tolerate being sold by the president of Panem. So if she kept drinking and partying and whoring around, no one would bother to bid on her, when if they were lucky enough to catch her while she was drunk - which really wasn't hard - they could have her for free. This had already been irritating Snow to no end, but there really wasn't anything he could do about it. Yes, sometimes being the slutty socialite of a victor had its benefits.

She sipped her screwdriver and allowed her eyes to travel over to the television set, where a recap of the 59th finale was playing. She really hadn't paid much attention following the death of her sister, which meant she'd been oblivious for pretty much the entire Games, but she knew enough to know that Mace Emberstatt had emerged victorious. Another face to add to the lovely collection of victors. And a very pretty one, at that. "Don't know much about him," she admitted, in response to Arbor's question. "And yeah, adding another guy to the bunch will definitely make things more interesting." As Arbor called Mace pretty, the exact adjective Tope had dubbed him with in her head a few minutes previous, she snickered. "Getting ideas, are you, Halt?" she laughed, taking another sip of her drink as the familiar buzzing sensation that accompanied alcohol began. "Well, don't get too hopeful, I bet I could get him before you could," she taunted jokingly. "After all, I've never been turned down. And I've been around, my friend." Perhaps her promiscuity was not something to joke about in a normal situation. But when she was drunk, why not?

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i'm always dragging that horse around
our love is pastured such a mournful sound
tonight i'm gonna bury that horse in the ground
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[aya]

I feel like I've been living in
A city with no children in it
A garden left for ruin by and by
As I hide inside
Of my private prison

Arbor Halt—

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As they got to talking, as opposed to just sitting, Arbor began to feel almost immediately better. Maybe that was the problem — he couldn't be left alone in his own thoughts for too long. Well, he certainly wasn't going to keep dwelling if he didn't have it. Keep the conversation moving. Wasn't that the key to keeping entertained, to keeping from getting stuck in some miserable past? It didn't matter if what he'd said was true or not, as it turned out — the comment he'd made about liquor still managed to draw a snicker out of the other victor, which pleased Arbor; it was always nice to know that his dry wit was appreciated.

Feeling a bit more lighthearted — or, at least, less dour — Arbor's appetite for the whiskey in the tumbler before him resurfaced. He took a few small sips, then went to set his glass back down before changing his mind and gulping down the whole thing. As always, it burned, but that didn't stop him from motioning to the bartender to bring him another. The man might not always care for him — or for the victor to his left, for that matter, considering the hell the two had occasionally raised when drunk — but he had to be used to people as unruly as they were. Because although the others from the recent crop of victors, from his understanding, were a good deal more mellow than Topaz was — and Arbor himself did not generally get unruly except in the company of the Ross girl — he could count the few calm Capitolites he'd come to know on one hand, and he'd been visiting the opulent city for half a decade.

Though it was hard to judge a victor's social behavior based on their actions in the Arena, Arbor though of it as unlikely that Mace Emberstatt would attain quite the reputation that Topaz had, at least not for a few years. From his experience with victors, they generally spent the first few years wallowing, and most of them seemed to avoid people to cope. Maybe none of them ended up alright, but most came around eventually, ended up a little less pitiful, their demons managed. Kept in check enough to mingle, at least.

He snorted at Topaz's teasing. Yes, in fact, he was getting ideas, and who could blame him, really? He sincerely doubted he would ever get anywhere with Mace, but it wasn't exactly as if Arbor was looking for an actual relationship — he sort of detested the idea of them, anyhow, and who could blame him? It was easiest for the District Twelve to keep everyone at arm's length; that was just the way he operated, and it wasn't going to change, not ever and he knew it. Nobody who hadn't won the Hunger Games understood the fear of attachment that came with it. So what if Arbor only wanted a hook-up; hell, a slice like Mace was pretty enough that it would be nice to have him around just to look at.

"So what if I am?" he countered, sitting up straight and raising his eyebrows in a display of pseudo-snobbery. He sipped at his new whiskey, attempting to maintain the guise, but was forced to drop the façade as soon as he started snickering, a mischievous grin overtaking his features. It was a little ridiculous, of course, that the newest victor would be remotely interested in the somewhat unkempt District 12, but Topaz's snickering made him want to try harder. Really, he was always looking for an excuse to prove himself somehow, and he jumped on every opportunity to do so.

So when Topaz so much as dropped the expression "I bet," Arbor launched himself at the chance. "Oh, believe me," he teased back, "everyone knows you've been around. I'm sure they stopped keeping a record of it — not even District Seven has enough paper for all of those tally marks." He'd meant it in jest, but he thought it might've come out a little harsh, so he snickered, pushing her shoulder a bit. "And just because you're easy it doesn't mean that he will be — you see, I've got the same selling point you do."

He swirled the whiskey around in his tumbler a bit, one eyebrow raised, watching the ice cubes clack against the glass, before looking up again and adding in an overly dramatic voice: "And besides —" he made a show of tousling his hair with his fingers "— I am quite a classy and dashing gentleman, am I not?" Buzzed and with a good mood surfacing, Arbor couldn't help but crack up at his own ridiculous behavior. It took a minute for him to compose himself before announcing "So you're on, Ross." The victor set his glass down and reached for the redhead's hand to shake. The gesture reminded him of their first night out drinking — the one that had ended with the two victors mashing elevator buttons for what felt like hours in the training center until they were discovered by Topaz's rather irate stylist. The memory made him smile pleasantly for just a moment, before he remembered he was in the process of initiating a competition, which obviously demanded a different sort of composure.

With a smirk of over-the-top arrogance, he suggested the stakes. "I'll take that bet. As for the stakes… how about a Games worth of drinks and your firstborn child?" Of course, he didn't actually want her kid; the thought of either of them as parents was so laughable anyhow that his competitiveness soon gave way to another bout of snickering — he somehow knew they'd both be rotten at it. Plenty of other victors were off having children and going about their lives as normally as possible, but he and his friend were not exactly epitomes of parental responsibility — or responsibility of any sort, for that matter. Maybe there was a victor out there who would be a good fit for parenthood, but it certainly wasn't either of them. He cleared his throat, as if that would push back the chuckling, and ended his spiel in a final, friendly "Sound alright, then? Or are you too afraid you'll lose?"

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