slate skylar

I don’t know. She’d barely been able to process the circumstances of the Arena, so far too fixated on the outcome of the Bloodbath to give it any thought. Slate, of course, thought about everything, though, and it was enough to make her pause. I suppose it’s possible. But I very much doubt it. I don’t think it would make much sense, do you? The Capitol was wealthy, very much so, but space-launch wealthy when they had to negotiate with Thirteen for manpower to keep its own districts under control? It was enough cause for doubt.

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Well I hope for once they’re lying to us, he scoffed. He glanced at her phone, the tribute tracking. He did want to be sure Cecil was okay, even if he wasn’t quite sure where they stood after the interview. Cecil had been lying for the cameras, right? He leaned his head back. Do you think this one will last longer? Because... space? They want us to marvel at the amazing thing they’ve done? He hoped not.

Selene furrowed her brow when the screen was shut off. It was one of the most impressive arenas she had seen in her lifetime and now she couldn’t watch it. Despite the fact that her both of her tributes were now dead and she had no reason to pay attention, she still wanted to see what the Gamemakers had created and practically died for. At least Lysander knew how to go out with a bang, so to speak. “Oh, please, like you aren’t entertained. It’s incredible what they’ve done. It’s quite a shame that it’s for the Games, but impressive nonetheless.”

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"I mean, it’s — I guess it’s impressive,” he said, not really impressed, but admittedly a bit in awe that something like this was possible. “But don’t you think those resources could have gone somewhere else? I mean, you’re a philanthropist at heart, aren’t you Selene?” She certainly wasn’t. And if she was she’d probably choose a cause like saving narwhals.

Hestia pursed her lips, finding the remote but not turning it back on just yet. She needed to keep an eye on Cecil and Mariana, but Slate deserved her attention too. She opened her phone tribute tracker and propped it up on the table instead to keep an eye on. “It’s not great,” she agreed, though she knew it was deeper than that. The Capitol could feed every citizen for a decade with this budget, but it wasn’t anything new.

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It’s bullshit. He threw himself into the chair next to her, his signing a bit wild, angry. Are they really in space? Is that even possible? Slate had hardly given space a second thought, so busy was he always in the dirt and mud of living.

He had known his whole life that the government was fucking the Districts, over and over again, and that there were more resources just for the Capitol than were needed. But to see it all on this scale was sickening. He had no idea how much a fucking space launch would cost, but some quick mental math led him to the conclusion that, calculating in the test launches, the trip to the space station, and the space station itself, it was a metric fuck ton of money. It was spending on a scale that hadn’t been seen since before the Dark Days, surely.

"Well fuck all of that,” he said, his voice heated as he walked up to the screen and found the power button, turning it off.

TASK 012 // SUPPORT PLANS

With enough karma dished out for the day, Benny shoveled loose meat back onto the boy’s tray. “I mean, I would, but I’m also not the best judge of character for that kind of thing.” For a brief moment, all the years of eating in the woods of District Seven flashed through Albany’s mind; how many bugs had he accidentally eaten after dropping sandwiches on the forest floor? 

Benny stood to his full height, cradling the tea in his hands. “What’s with the kingly meal? Gearing up for something?” He couldn’t quite place this young man’s face. He could be a Tribute from another district, so he felt wary. It was always iffy speaking across Districts; you never knew where the other sides’ heads were.

Originally posted by sarcastic-coffeedrinker

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“Hey, your standards can’t possibly be lower than mine,” Slate said. He eyed him for a second, pausing in his cleanup efforts. “If you’re asking whether I’m a tribute, the answer’s no. Only thing I’m gearing up for is a long few fucking days — or weeks, who knows? — of watching the Games.” With Cecil in them. Shit. What was he doing?

It only seemed right that he go and get himself into trouble on one of his last days of freedom. If the victor from Six could go and murder a Capitolite, then what did he really have to lose? Cecil didn’t care—if they were going to kill him, a little keepsake for the road was the least they could have given him. That and a night out with a cute guy. Maybe now he actually had something to come back to that didn’t involve shoving his victory in everyone’s faces back in Twelve.

Cecil locked the chain around his neck, careful to tuck it into his shirt. With everything taken away from him (especially considering that he didn’t have much to begin with), he couldn’t help but cherish it that much more. Cecil looked at Slate just then, staring into his eyes before lingering down at his lips. Before he knew it, he pressed Slate against the alley wall and leaned into an all-too desperate kiss.

The kiss did not take him by surprise; the tension between them had been growing, he’d only hoped that Cecil felt it too, and so he did not hesitate to seize the opportunity when it came, back pressed against the wall. He pulled Cecil in closer, clutching at his shirt to do so, then sliding his hands up beneath the shirt, the kiss just as deep and desperate from him as it was from Cecil. The tribute—

—but don’t think like that.

“And there’s starving kids in Seven,” Hazel said with a shrug. She understood what he was saying though, her family was more familiar to food inequality than she would’ve liked. If anything that was the entire reason she had ever set foot in the Capitol. “And, like, as fucked up as that is, you should still, like, get the sandwich,” Hazel spoke seriously, “I mean I keep seeing how much of this stuff they throw away in a day, it’s not like it’d ever end up in another district anyway, fuckin’ selfish assholes.”

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“That’s true,” he allowed. They didn’t exactly ship off the excess food so that everyone could have a seat at the table. “Just makes me feel like part of the fuckin’ establishment, you know? It’s the guilt.” When you grow up with nothing and suddenly find yourself with something, it’s hard to know how to enjoy it or what to even do with it.

“Good. I thought I felt you drift away,” Carol retorted in the same lowered voice, pretending to be perfectly focused on the target, instead. Prompting the other boy gently towards one of the targets, he used his free hand to adjust Slate’s posture one more, palm spread on his trapezius and then he drew closer, for better aim. This was not for one second about unnecessary touch, though. 

Pointing the knife in both their hands (no, it was in Slate’s hand which was in Carol’s hand), Carol gently shook the object of his grip. “Hold very gently so that when I move your hand, you just let go of it, yes? It’s a particular gesture. Pay attention.”

“Can’t say I have,” Hazel answered with a laugh. She understood it though, the entire concept of hoarding food when it was something you really delighted in; back in Seven Hazel had spent countless nights attempting to keep the tiniest of treats a secret from her little brothers, even if it did make her selfish.

“We could always go back, get more?” Hazel offered tearing her gaze from the mess on the ground, “And I’ll even help you carry ‘em back so you don’t, like, have to deal with this again.”

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“Yeah I mean, if I dropped them a second time it’d just be funny at that point,” he said. “But I don’t want to take more, I already took too many. You know, there’s starving kids in Twelve and all that.” A saying he’d heard since coming to the Capitol, said to children who weren’t interested in eating their food. It was ironic since now he’d ruined seven whole sandwiches which he’d planned on saving and eating himself over the course of several days. Not exactly starving anymore, but maybe that was where the impulse to hoard food came from.”

His touches were simple even if curled, softer at the edges. They lingered, but not for a second too much to make training into something it wasn’t (yet). “I have an outstanding posture,” he muttered, in between gentle offense and focus on something else entirely. It was true, though less true these days, when he was hardly ever fighting, when everything was bleak and his shoulders gathered to his chest as a bulletproof vest. 

With that, without moving from behind Slate, he took his clenched fist into his palm, and he arranged, doll-like, the entirety of his right arm: spreading the elbow behind, shoulder back, knife on ear level (where Carol’s lips went to whisper instructions too, without meaning to). He did not let go of the hand holding the knife (it’s unlike him to). 

After pointing each of these out, to make Slate aware of the position itself, he moved closer to his back, breathing directly into his neck. Carol did not shy away from closeness, but he didn’t quite glue himself to the other, either, maintaining some impression of professionalism. “And now, if you’re still hearing me beneath all that red in your cheeks, are you ready for the throw itself?” He swallowed dryly. To be entirely honest, the part about blushing was mere speculation, a bluff, as he only saw the back of Slate.

He wished Carol would close the distance he seemed to insist upon holding between them, though he didn’t exactly want to be ravaged right here on the training mat, either. Nor did he want to fuck Carol — all too complicated, too raw and confusing... and he didn’t want to hear fucking Rio’s name coming out of Carol’s mouth as he came.

“Fuck,” Hazel echoed as her line of sight traced the carnage she had attempted to catch. Remnants of the sandwiches left a line to the open elevator she had been making a beeline for all the way back toward Slate.

She bent down and began to pick what she concievably could up with her hands. “I like, don’t wanna judge or comment too hard this, dude, but like, why did you have so many?” Hazel asked, voice thick with wonderment.

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“I mean, have you had one?” he asked. “Because if you had one you’d know why I have so many.” He paused, then corrected: “Had so many. These are the best the cafeteria serves, for sure. I’d offer one but now they’re seasoned with muddy bootprints.”

It was truly difficult to find anyone to serve caffeine in this building. ​In the staff’s defense, Albany’s closely monitored health vitals showed he shouldn’t be allowed much more than what naturally occurred in his daily meals. Even still, it was a bit infuriating to see others be allowed anything they wanted, when all he desired was a triple shot of espresso to calm his nerves.

Serving as a prime example was this… this child who had an extraordinary number of roast beef sandwiches piled high on a tray. Was Albany to believe that this kid could eat more than his weight in meat but he, a full grown man, couldn’t be afforded a coffee? What a smug little -

Splat.

Well. At least there was some justice in the world. 

Benny approached, a to-go cup of golden rosehip tea (the closest thing he could get to comfort today) in his hand. He glanced down, and with a sigh, felt the wave of schadenfreude pass. In its place was empathy. He squatted down, pushing sandwiches into a small pile for easy pickup.

“Rough day?” 

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“Now it is,” Slate grumbled, kneeling down and starting to scoop the sandwiches back onto the tray. “On an unrelated note, would you eat something that had touched this floor, yes or no?” He eyed the floor, then the man, who he recognized now as Albany.

“Not like this,” Carol clicked his tongue and pulled his best trainer behavior, pushing back a smirk, and all thoughts, and the satisfaction that came from tutoring Slate. Fucking finally it was no longer about books. His gesture was incisive, but not harsh, sneaking his hand in between Slate’s ear and shoulder and separating the two. His hand was still cupping the other’s cheek. It moved down to the chin, which he prompted up slightly. “Please fucking straighten your back,” he commanded in a lowered voice, pushing two fingers onto where his spine curled. 

Splat.

The tray tipped, and all seven roast beef sandwiches fell on the ground. “Fuck!”