Ɣ [muffin]

[∂αмєη]

KEEPER KIT GRESHAM

He remembered sitting alone in the office he was allowed to use during his stay in One. There wasn't a single sound apart from the quiet bass of the microphone coming through the speakers. At that very moment, the Reaping was occurring. It was Kit's first year not stationed around the Square, mostly due to his recent promotion as a full detective. For now he'd remain in the office and go through the paperwork for cases he completed.

What he never expected was to hear the name come from the mouth of the escort, seemingly pounding through his head like an echo. "Mohs Aurum!"

Truthfully, it took a short moment for everything to process. Kit knew that young man. He felt like he knew him far too well considering they had only truly met once. Yeah, you arrested him for a crime he most certainly did not commit. There was so much that reminded Kit of himself within the eyes of the young boy, Mohs. And now it was all in jeopardy as he would be facing the tragedy that was the Games.

Kit couldn't help but stand from his chair, rushing to the window that overlooked the crowd of people gathered around the stage. For One, everything was done up like a proper ceremony. Nothing like the depressing event that the Reaping resembled in the lower Districts. Even Three had a pretty bleak presentation. The Careers all treated this like the very same Game the Capitol enjoyed watching. At the end of the day, however, Kit wanted Mohs nowhere near it.

He wasn't sure why he felt a sort of responsibility for the healer. Perhaps it was because he had sent him to prison knowing full well that he was innocent. Perhaps it was because it was like looking into a mirror that brought Kit back to the days before he truly started heading down the wrong path. He's a good kid. I didn't let him be good. I just shrugged it off and acted like all the other Keepers would. I didn't use my brain. And now, here he was worrying about the name being called just outside the building. He's just a kid.

That had all been a couple of days prior to the moment where Kit stood outside of the cafe. He had inquired about where Mohs was, only to discover that he had been replaced by another Career. A more capable one. While he's fairly competent with his prosthetic, it'd never compare to a proper leg on potentially rough terrain. Nonetheless, his interest had been piqued. Kit Gresham, the Keeper, wished to find Mohs Aurum, the previously detained and previously Reaped citizen of District One. For whatever reason, he needed to make sure the young man was okay. He's a good damn kid.

Kit, out of his Keeper uniform, stepped through the door into the poorly lit room, his eyes immediately seeking out the face he wished to find.

[Muffinface]

Mohs Aurum

Love, love is a verb, Love is a doing word
Fearless on my breath, Gentle impulsion
Shakes me, makes me lighter, Fearless on my breath

Memories flash as the male stares at a scattering of empty pages, dark memories clogging the pathway from brain to hand. Why?

Charles Vivoro.

Four syllables continue to haunt his memory, a man lost to the ages. Even here, patrons shy away from the would-be murderer, giving him a protective bubble from trembling hand and clear glass coated with sweat and tears and the feeling of sticky blood. His face, thick with two-day-old growth and clothes ruffled and rumpled from twitchy naps and jarring wake-ups, points directly downward towards his mess and hurricane.

Sleepless purple butterfly bruises press into his skull, slightly sunken eyes horrified and endless, lost in corridor after corridor after corridor after-

Two fists slam onto the bartop, and his face lifts to gaze into the cracked mirror behind bottles of booze. The bar itself is relatively empty, patrons already celebrating games at higher class bars, or at home, embracing their loved ones and thanking the universe it wasn't my son, wasn't my daughter.

Still he lacked the courage to just fucking knock on their damn door, with his lightning storm hands and horrifyingly vicious knuckles.

Mohs is cracking, shattering, breaking at the seams, the void threatening to spill from gaping mouth and broken tendrils flailing, screaming to be noticed.

Fuck, even Taze and his terrible analogies haven't helped.

It's ultimately the melodic chiming of the chestnut bar door creaking open that drags him free from the trance. His eyes shift, pushing, falling lightly on the countenance of a ace he thought he'd never see again.

"K-Kit!" slack jawed, shocked, he carefully stands, swinging his leg over to push himself away from the elongated bar. Their last encounter ended in a hotel room, with Mohs extraordinarily hungover, and scarcely any words spoken between them.

This time, head clear and fingers prepared to pounce, he limps forward, as though to meet the male half-way. He looks so... Put together, even outside of his uniform. All flailing arms and hummingbird heartbeat, Mohs stops in the center of the room, hand extended for a handshake- he hadn't even brought his cane, and it remained resting against the glass bar.

"What are you doing here?" he adds, holding himself firmly tall. Surely keepers made enough money they could go anywhere, why would he just happen to come here for a drink?

[googlefont="Yellowtail:400"]

Table by Kire

[∂αмєη]

KEEPER KIT GRESHAM

Times long ago, Kit would be recognized in a place like this. While it certainly wasn't one of the lower end bars that he tended to frequent, it wasn't fantastic, and places with regulars and smoky rooms were all too familiar for the young Keeper. Back in the day. Stepping through the door, his name would be called with a few cheers and shouts. A drink would be poured quickly, ready for him to down just as fast. Just like that.

He was a different person back then: the type of person that found comfort in forgetting exactly what he had to deal with in life; the type of person that ignored responsibility in favour of delving into the darker delicacies before him. The alcohol and the drugs and the women were but a few things that he went through without a single thought, never stopping nor caring.

It felt irregular for him to walk into the bar on this evening, a goal in mind that wasn't to drink all of his thoughts and worries away. His goal was to meet with the man who had occupied his thoughts quite a bit over the past couple of weeks. There was something about him that kept Kit's thoughts occupied at all times, always going back to him with everything he did. A bond had formed, without a doubt, through what they had gone through. That man died. There was nothing we could do. No matter how hard we tried, that man was going to die.

And yet when he walked through those doors and found the face of Mohs Aurum, he felt a smile come to his face. You made it, kid. You made it out of there alive. The Detention Center was tough for just about everybody; the pain people experienced in there was far too much and Kit was completely aware of it. He knew the job he did wasn't typically good, but he did it nonetheless. I want to be the change. I want to be the difference. And yet Mohs was here, looking as strong as he always had.

Kit's hand went out to meet the young man's, grasping it firmly while his other hand clasped onto Mohs' shoulder. A smile of pearly whites crossed his face, bright eyes looking back towards Mohs. "What are you doing here?" It was a simple question and yet Kit had no proper answer for it. At the end of the day, Kit hadn't the slightest clue for why he had come to this bar to find the young citizen of One. Something had seemed to call to him the moment he heard Mohs' name called during the Reaping. Something had sparked inside of him. It was care, and I'm not sure why.

"I'm here for a drink, firstly." While he had always avoided drinking so as to not fall back into old habits, that had begun to fade as the days had gone by. He could feel old parts of himself coming back, though he did nothing to stop it. He didn't particularly care, and that hadn't begun to worry him. Not yet, it won't. "And I'm here to see you, Mohs." Yeah. That's suitable. That's okay.

His feet carried him to the bar where Mohs had been sitting, his hand raising slightly for the bartender to come his way. There was a look in the man's eyes that confirmed he knew Kit's job - do I really look that much like a Keeper? - but he moved forth nonetheless. "Something hard, aye?" He offered a grin, and the bartender nodded in return, giving forth a glass of a dark amber liquid. Kit brought it to his lips, downing the little bit rapidly before placing the glass back on the bar and looking to the bar keep for another.

The next one came his way, though he turned his attention back to Mohs. The Keeper's friend looked so incredibly worn, with dark bruises, uncut facial hair and messy clothing to complete the image. "Jeeze, Mohs. You look like shit." He cared. Far more than he likely should have cared considering that Mohs had been a punished criminal and Kit was a respectable detective. And yet here he was feeling something in the pit of his stomach that he hadn't felt in years.

And yet he also felt fear. Fear for what happened to the ones he typically cared for. Fear for the ones who cared for him. Death is all that welcomes them.

With a calm expression on his face, he spoke once more to his unlikely friend. "I needed to see you. But not while you're looking like this. What the hell is wrong?"

[Muffinface]

Mohs Aurum

Love, love is a verb, Love is a doing word
Fearless on my breath, Gentle impulsion
Shakes me, makes me lighter, Fearless on my breath

The warm flesh of the male's palm is a pleasant and well needed reprieve from the coldness of oblivion, and the male resists the urge to fall against Kit's chest. Though he stands roughly an inch or so below his looming form, Mohs feels much smaller compared to the keeper's burning light. Disjointed leg swinging as he leans against the warm hand, everything feels alright, not like teetering on the edge of a great abyss.

Mohs eases himself back into the elevated bar stool, and busies himself with the papers scattered before his place before his fingers catch against his own clear glass- nothing more than water. The fact Kit downs two shots in less than a minute does not go unnoticed, and it causes the young male's hands to twitch slightly in fear. Why the fuck would Kit want to see him? Before he even says anything, Mohs struggles to make himself more presentable, taking the condensation from his glass and running it through unruly hair, lightly patting down swollen eyes as Kit shoots.

"Yeah, I know." he responds, turning his face to flash back at the man, adjusting the baggy flannel around his shoulders. An uncomfortable thought bubbles at his throat, and he glares down at the blank papers yet again. He wonders absentmindedly what kept the keeper occupied during his days and nights in the district, what sort of company he'd begun to keep.

"Its.... I... Kit, I was reaped." he starts. "I wasn't convicted. I was released based on circumstantial evidence but fuck... Kit... I got reaped. I got reaped! I've never taken tesserae, I'm an only child I just... My name couldn't have been in there more than thirty times at the most and there's a shit ton of kids here. It's a little too coincidental for it to just be shit odds. I think the capitol wanted me gone." His face pale and cast down, his form begins to tremble.

"And this Lexig kid- he literally took my place for me. What are they going to do to him? What were they going to do to me? I feel so responsible for him, and there is nothing I can fucking do. I can't even check up on his family like he fucking asked and I'm such a damn coward Kit." Emotions spill free from his lips, what filter once kept words from flicking onto pages and pages in a binder now hung heavy and thick in the air between the two men.

"Fuck me. Why did it have to be this way?" Mohs adds, a distinct waver and tremble lacing his voice, causing the bartender to pick up a rag and move further away from the two males, antsy about their conversation and not wanting any part whatsoever.

Images of Septys' mangled and torn body continue to plague the male, until he glances back at Kit's face, and everything seems to relax to a calm, tepid state. Instead of a tornado, his form flares out to a low storm, even though his heart pounds heavy in his throat. "Sorry- it isn't what you want to hear from me, I know."

[googlefont="Yellowtail:400"]

Table by Kire

[∂αмєη]

KEEPER KIT GRESHAM

Roles being reversed was always an interesting thing to see in life. For Kit, he was the one that was used to breaking down due to a build up of fear and despair, something that was particularly common during his darkest days. He could remember doing nothing but sitting in bed, staring at nothing in particular until he had to leave it to go to work. His fingers would move about the wires he was set to work on but his brain would be elsewhere as he thought of how agonizing his life had become. Without his family, without Emi, his whole life had begun to feel hopeless.

And so he grew mad at the higher ups in the District, believing that there was some massive ploy to ruin his life for all the things he had done when he was younger. And yet he fell back into those ways effortlessly, not caring about the judgement of the few around him that still stood alive. He grew paranoid, believing that somebody must have been out to get him as nobody's luck could be that horrendously bad. There was a conspiracy of some sort that filled his thoughts every second of every day. Kit Gresham hated the world for what it had done to him and needed to find somebody to blame besides himself.

Now he sat in the worn bar with the only friend he had left, everybody else having long passed or long given up on the bipolar attitude of the young detective. Mohs had grown just as paranoid, though he had plenty of reason to do so. Kit was not aware of any additional odds for those that were arrested, though he was well aware that there had been numerous detainees reaped during their sentence. It couldn't be mere coincidence, and Mohs was no stranger to the theory. And yet Kit felt nothing but pain to see his friend so emotionally unraveled as he spoke. "I think the capitol wanted me gone."

That in itself was a whole different story. If the Capitol wanted Mohs gone, he would be gone. There wasn't much difficulty in eliminating somebody. All they'd have to do is send somebody like Kit to arrest them, then they would have a more vicious Keeper deal with them behind closed doors. And yet it wasn't completely out of the realm of possibility that they had plans for the young man. Too bad your plans were foiled. Luckily for Mohs, and for Kit in that same regard, a hero came from the crowd to volunteer. Whilst it wasn't an abnormal occurrence for District One, it was certainly a breath of fresh air that Mohs was safe - for now.

"I feel so responsible for him, and there is nothing I can fucking do." And at the end of the day, Mohs was entirely right. There was nothing he could do to make anything better for the family. There was nothing he could do to help the young man that had volunteered in his place. But at the end of the day as well, there was nothing he had to do. It was the choice of the young man to step forward for him, or the choice of some higher power. Mohs had no responsibility, even if he felt like he did. There was nothing he could have done to stop him. There was no point in worrying about it.

There was such fear and emotional derailing present in the eyes of the young man that Kit could feel it pulling at his heart strings. Kit had no explanation for the way he felt for the legless boy he had arrested not long ago. He couldn't explain why he felt as if he needed to watch out for him. He had no reasoning behind staying in District One for such an extended period of time beyond wanting to be closer in case anything happened. Mohs, for whatever reason, had grown on the Keeper. "Sorry- it isn't what you want to hear from me, I know." And yet he was wrong. What Kit wanted to hear was that Mohs was alive; that was exactly what he was hearing. Whilst there was much to fear, surely, everything was okay in this moment and that was all that mattered to the man.

"Alright, listen up because I'm not particularly into giving too many pep talks today. It's my day off." Kit had a soft smile upon his face in an attempt to soothe Mohs' nerves, bringing him down to a level that was far more appropriate for their locale and for the conversation. Mohs had nothing to fear with Kit by his side. "There is nothing you can do to change how things have transpired, Mohs. It's not your responsibility to watch out for all the young men in District One and protect them should they step up to help you." He finished his sentence and downed what was in his drink, though the bartender was at the opposite end of the room to avoid the tension that was surely rising. Their conversation wasn't exactly heated, but there was certainly a stressful tone to it.

"That young man stepped forward on his own accord, and you have no reason to feel guilty for that. No matter what happens to him, you are not responsible. He made his decision." Kit was looking straight at Mohs now, hoping that his message was getting across. There was nothing that any of them could do now for the new tribute. He had made his bed, it was time for him to sleep in it. While it was a wonderful thing he did in protecting Mohs, it was nothing Mohs needed worry about. "And as for the Capitol, I can assure you that you need not worry on that front." Kit chuckled quietly, reaching into his suit jacket and pulling out the Capitol-issued badge. "I mean, I don't want to alarm you but I am a Keeper. Chances are anything concerning you will come across my desk. Nobody will put a damn finger on you if I can help it." He returned the badge back to his jacket, his fingers brushing against the side arm that was also inside in a holster. Would I use this to protect him? It was an interesting question that should be difficult, and yet one word seemed to resonate within him. Yes.

"You're under my care now, Mohs. Like it or not, you're stuck with me. Not a single Keeper in this District will be able to go near you without knowing that I'm right behind you. I don't particularly care what anybody thinks; I'm not letting an innocent man take the fall ever again. Especially if that innocent man is you."

[Muffinface]

Mohs Aurum

I want you to know that it’s our time,
You and me bleed the same light
I want you to know that I’m all yours,
You and me run the same course

Kit preaches a gospel on well-listened ears, and Mohs' chin points down to the musty tile and he imagines hands from hundreds of children from district one rising, clawing their way against his dark pants leaving crimson soaked hand prints stained on wrinkled fabric. Dark eyes blink, and the images are gone, and the warmth from another replaces the biting, frozen air. Like a shield, his very presence warms the young male down to his core, and for the first time in roughly a week, he allows himself to breathe. Not concerned with paranoid eyes nor fingers stretching for well hidden guns. Kit himself embodies every worst fear, every enlightened nightmare, yet Mohs feels safe.

Twitching digits compromise and begin to fumble with a soaked mug of water laced with lemon slices, a luxury he wants to grant more than anything in the world. He chooses to look instead at the granite counter top, easier on the eyes than a disappointed figurehead. Kit is entirely right- Septys resigned himself to his fate the moment he made the choice to step out of line. Once upon a time Mohs Aurum could have held his own against a flurry of clashing fists and gnashing teeth, but those days are far behind him, a twisted, dark memory on an otherwise pleasant childhood.

Is Septys' Father proud of him? Or like his own, did distress fuel his being?

The shimmering silver brings Mohs' focus back to Kit, darkened, disheartened gaze resting on the face of the keeper, though not for long- that gaze quickly flickers to the dull mirror behind bottles of beer, and a stabbing breath slips down his throat.

Deep crevices form above his forehead, and the untangled jungle of hair around his jaws cause his fingers to lift to pointed cheekbones. The hallowed, sunken gaze finally takes on a spark of life, of fury. It should never have gone so far. Tributes from one have come and gone, and Septys Lexig should not, could not be any different.

"You're right." he murmurs, the sound nearly a hiss. "This isn't my fault- some other kid would have gone in if it weren't Septys, and god damnit, he's been trained by the best of us. If any of them are gonna take it home, it's going to be him. He's got the training, this is what he was born to do. I should just shut up and let him do it. That Foster girl too- I've seen her a few times. She can take care of him when he can't take care of himself. They'll both do fine."

A flurry of fingertips graces across scattered pages like a small hurricane tearing the roof from thin split supports, and words flicker flash without barely a second thought, different phrases like- "How can we expect the dawn when all we know is the night" and "Spines bent over on crooked lines limp from misuse, supported not by thick sinew and muscle but instead by stitches from paper-thin words" and lastly "Fuck this fuck you fuck everything;" A personal favorite.

There was one- written just after the first terrible night, when earthquakes pounded the calcium-deposits of his bones, when shadows followed every paled heartbeat. It reminds him desperately of Kit, and he wants to remove it from the clusterfuck of badly edited poems, from the telling lies and bleeding pages.

He tucks it away, folding, creasing the words into an unreadable mess, plunging it into the inner pocket of his flannel. "I don't wanna see it anymore." he states, casting a half-glance upwards, where a busty redhead slaughter's the kid from eight- she's younger than Fault, and that in itself nips at his heart. She volunteered- she wasn't chosen. Like some terrible replay from the seventieth, she falls, this time in slow motion as Mohs pushes himself away form the bar, sickened with the ease she collapses.

"Hey, toss this shit, alright?" he motions to the papers while the bartender, still off polishing his ever filthy mug lifts his head and watches the male rather skeptically, but he obeys the wish, and dumps the lines of red and blue and black into a hidden bucket below the bar. "And for fuck's sake, can you change it to literally anything else?" Taken aback by the abruptness, and sudden snappiness, the bartender fumbles, searching below the granite.

I should go to work tomorrow- fuck they sent the letter almost three weeks ago. His fingertips fold across his face as the sound of Paige Hope's painful last moments flicker away, dimming to white noise. "Thanks, Kit. Sometimes I guess you need a hard slap in the face." he adds, elbows lifting, perching themselves easily against the counter top- "You hungry? I could eat a damn horse. I don't think I've eaten for a week." The awkward laugh that follows causes the male to internally cringe. Do I sound fake? Shit, I think I sound fake. Am I really okay?

[googlefont="Yellowtail:400"]

Table by Kire