For one confusing moment, Hawkeye wasn't sure if he should pity or envy the guy. He only knows for certain that his own lopsided grin is in place, sharper, more weary, and that he's felt a pang of cold- call it self-awareness- and that he cocks his hips like a showgirl would before he lets go of the robe and snorts at the chummy insult. "I am tall enough," he agrees. And there it is, the first jab. He doesn't miss Kili's hands nearing his weapons and feels a spike in his heart rate, but he's calming in a second. Nothing new, only being terrified of his own shadow, just another day. And Hawkeye still sometimes wondered why there was gray in his hair. "A majestic birch, lone and wild. And unmoving. Unattractive. Unseemingly pale. --think I could pull it off?" But his question might as well fall on deaf ears, as far as Hawkeye was concerned, and he didn't mind one bit.

He followed Kili's strange little gaze all around. Personally, he didn't see the point of it. The hall might look pretty, but it'd be his grave. Forgive him for not thinking it was beautiful.

Maybe he should join the Korean family of wax. Surely he'd been among the living long enough to be able to just blend in.

"It's really something," Hawkeye ventures, quieter, hearing a touch of fondness and wondering at what, exactly, that was directed to. "Last Arena was just grass. There weren't any little knives around for you to stuff in your boots." Two. "Gamemakers were short on ideas and decided to put us in a history book." Three. "It's as lifeless and boring as one around here right now, at least. Not that I personally mind." How many had died in other floors, though? How many were dying below them? And damn Holiday, you know. Damn her to hell and back.