thearena | (no subject)

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Who| Maximus, Wyatt and Howard - CLOSED
What| Howard coming to crash the party
Where| In the trees
When| Nightfall after the Cornucopia
Warnings/Notes| Bullheadedness, teenage emotions and heart break probably

As fast as Maximus meant to move, he couldn't keep it up. Despite the leg being healed almost completely, he was still weaker than he had been, and the hours of walking saw him moving slower and slower, lagging behind Wyatt. He never said anything of course, just grit his teeth and kept moving, but there was a certain amount of relief when he saw the first red golden streaks of dusk.

"We'd best make camp."

With all of their supplies it hadn't been difficult. They'd debated camping in the trees, versus on the ground, but one of the trees was exceedingly large and had a hollowed groove between its roots which offered good cover from either side. Their waterproof ponchos provided good cover from above, and the small fire they made could only really be seen if you stood directly in front of the shelter. It wasn't necessarily ideal, but it was close enough to it.

Once he had a moment to sit down, Maximus carefully inspected the entirety of his prosthetic leg. He'd ended up with one that wasn't fashioned to look real - obviously metal and highly articulated, with no false skin. He ran his fingers along every ridge and groove, removing dust and mud and leaves, as careful with it as he was with his blade.

He cooked one potato each, for him and for Wyatt, roasting them next to the fire. He wanted their supplies to last as long as possible.

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Wyatt too was relieved to see the sun setting, rays shifting low between the sweeping branches. It had been a strange, anxious balancing act: half his attention on their surroundings, wondering where and when they'd encounter other tributes or the Gamemaker's traps and tricks; the other half on Max. He knew the other man was having an increasingly hard time of it and wanted nothing but to slow, to ease his pain, but knew just as well that he couldn't.

That Max would never forgive him for it if he dared.

So he'd pressed on, until Max finally gave in.

After they'd set the camp (it wasn't the hidden, cozy cave of the last arena, but entirely serviceable), he left Max to tending his new leg and the fire and took a quick tour through the nearby area. He returned just as the scent of roasting potato was beginning to rise and drift, his stomach clenching and gurgling in response.

"Found a stream," he said, after announcing his approach with some pointed rustle of branches, not particularly keen on catching an arrow with his neck. "Fresh, an' it seems clean enough."

He tucked under the stretched ponchos and held out one of the filled canteens as he sank down beside the flames. The other one he tied securely back to the pack.

"No signs that anybody else's been through this way."

At least, none that he could see. No prove that the nagging weight he'd felt on and off all day had any truth to it.

Edited 2013-10-23 22:59 (UTC)

Howard really hopes that ranch dressing doesn't spoil quickly, but in the event that it does, he's been chugging from the gallon he got at the Cornucopia before he starts to tuck into the cans of spam and tuna.

He stays in the trees, moving with significantly more grace than he did last Arena, or the one before that. He's managed to stay uninjured during this Cornucopia, and he's been practicing climbing in general. Since Max started slowing down, Howard's been able to go back and forth once to his hidey-hole and drink some dressing, check his net trap, and then find Max and Wyatt again, but he's been following them in the trees most of the day.

He should have known that Wyatt would have put Max before him. That doesn't make it burn any less. He watches the fire, letting it ruin his night vision as he ties himself with a cut of his net into the tree so he won't fall out.

Maximus nodded, trusting Wyatt's eyes before his own, since he had been so preoccupied with his leg he knew he wasn't entirely reliable.

He reached out, taking the water, using just a little of it to wash out some stubborn grit from the creases in his leg.

"There's beer, still," He reminded Wyatt. "If you're not convinced you can trust the water."

His head tipped, eyes drifting thoughtfully, and a bit wistfully, to the dark case.

"I ain't sure the arena's really the place to be tyin' one on," he sighed, leaning into the curve of the tree roots, boots crossing at his ankles. "'Sides, it's likely warm by now," if it had ever been cold to start with, "an' we'll have to risk the water sooner er later anyways."

The beer and drink they'd gotten from the Cornucopia wouldn't hold forever. Especially the milk.

Which, speaking of, he tugged on the zip of the pack and pulled the carton out, giving it an experimental shake (milk had come in bottles, or cans, in his day) before tearing at the top and giving it a sniff.

"We aughta start with this. This heat'll curdle it up, iffen we don't use it first."

Maximus raised an eyebrow before leaning over, reaching for the carton and sniffing it himself. "Milk?" He mused to himself. "... Smells different than I'm used to, but it doesn't smell sour."

He handed it back.

"Not big on' milk, Max?" Wyatt asked, corner of his mouth twitching.

He took it back, sniffing again, before taking a measure draw. He held it in his mouth a moment, considering, as he scanned the carton, and then nodded, swallowing.

"Tastes alright."

Pinching the tear closed, he set the carton down between them so they could share, shifting as he settled, content to rest and wait as the sun continued to sink and the shadows deepened around them.

"Still see any--"

He broke off, going still and silent.

He'd been about to say that he still hadn't seen any animals, anything to eat or be eaten by, as the case might be, but there, where his eyes were fixed, was a strange shadow, cast by the slanted sunlight filtering through the trees.

Something, or someone, above them.

His fingers twitched and began to drift toward his boot.

Maximus went still the moment that Wyatt did - watching him carefully. He didn't see, or hear, whatever Wyatt had, but he was on the alert instantly. His fingers were already on the hilt of his blade, but they paused, reaching for the bow, instead, an arrow from the quiver lying at Wyatt's side.

Slowly, carefully, he notched the arrow and moved out of the shelter, his eyes tracing up to where Wyatt had been looking.

Shit. Howard didn't realize there was a bow in the picture and, given Maximus' ability to destroy just about anything with any weapon, he's suddenly shot through with fear. Tied as he is into the tree, he can't just run, but he hurriedly starts to untie the rope.

"Don't shoot, don't shoot!" he yells, hoping that Wyatt will intervene.

Some dark part of his mind wonders if Wyatt would even care if Max did. He certainly didn't seem sorry about Max hacking Eponine up, although Howard avoiding broaching the subject in any sort of direct manner. He doesn't know if he can hold it back anymore.

Wyatt was a mere step behind, knife ready in hand, when the voice called out.

"Howard?" Relaxing immediately, he put a hand on Max's arm, urging him to lower the bow as he stepped past, peering up in the green, Howard's location clear now as he wrestled and thrashed. "It's alright, son, it's me, Wyatt. Yer safe here."

Maximus immediately lowered the bow, carefully placing the arrow upright and tip first into the ground as he glanced around them, just in case the yelling had caught the attention of anything - or anyone - else in the forest.

But it seemed they were safe for now.

Howard finishes untying himself and climbs down the tree. He figures he could run now, and neither of them would chase him. He could burn that bridge and explain himself when this Arena is over. Even having been let go when found in Maximus' closet, the idea of standing too close to the guy makes Howard's skin crawl, and the memory of Eponine screaming for mercy on the television burns at the back of his throat like bile.

He wonders where Eponine is now.

He walks towards them, pointedly keeping Wyatt between himself and Max. "Safe as anyone can get in this place, right?"

"True enough," Wyatt nodded slowly, an eyebrow twitching as the boy approached.

It wasn't so much that Howard was acting cagey, he always flighty, but more how direct it was. How unapologetic.

As if they last chat hadn't happened. As if the teary confession and familial embrace hadn't occurred.

As if he were some half-stranger, passing on the street.

"Everythin' alright, son? Are ya hurt?"

The threat of danger passed, Maximus relaxed slightly. It seemed they'd be having another for dinner, at least.

"I'll put another potato on," He murmured to Wyatt, turning his attention back to the shelter as he ducked inside.

He couldn't read Howard anywhere near as well as Wyatt could. He didn't really understand him on any level, but Wyatt cared about him, and vouched for him, and that was enough. But he knew when it was his place in a conversation and when it wasn't, so he gave them their space and went back to cooking.

His eyes follow Max, his face stays inscrutable, his fingers remain tensed and feet ready to fly.

But as soon as Max is out of sight, Howard seems to relax significantly, tension departing him so quickly his body seems to almost crumple in on itself. He covers the ground between himself and Wyatt quickly and gets close, close enough that Wyatt can see the stamp of fear that wraps around Howard like a second skin.

"Aunamee's back," he breathes.

The worried lines in Wyatt's face only deepened, canyons in his forehead, dragging at the corners of his frown as he watched Howard, watching Max. As the boy scrambled closer.

He started to reach out, an automatic gesture, reaching to take the boy's shoulders in hand. Ready to ask what was wrong, how he could help... but Howard beat him to it.

His hands hesitated, but still came down, warm and heavy on Howard's shoulders.

"I know, son," he breathed, a low, weary sound. "Max, he told me, I..." His head shook, his hands squeezed. "I'm sorry, Howard. I thought it was done. I hoped it was."

For all their sakes.

"I thought I was safe," Howard whispers. "I'm so stupid..."

He feels so much smaller now. So precariously positioned between life and death, between the hell of the outside and the hell of his mind. He shrinks under Wyatt's hand, shrinks in the light of the setting sun.

"Let's go. I got enough stashed for the two of us. Max'll be fine here."

Was that what that was about? He'd given Max the evil-eye because he thought the Roman wouldn't let him stay? Wouldn't help protect him?

"We don't have to go, Howard. Ya can stay here with the both of us." One hand lifted, gesturing lightly to the stretched ponchos, to the light flickering beneath. "He'll have a hell of a time tryin' to get us all three of us."

Arguably, Howard would likely be the safest with Max, as far as that went, considering Wyatt's track record. For all his attempts, he had yet to actually protect the boy from anything, somehow, horribly, always falling short.

Aunamee, Hyperion, the Capitol... they'd all gotten past him.

"You want me to stay with him?" Though hushed, Howard's tone careens upwards, near hysterical already. "You want me to sit around the campfire and sing Kumbayah with the guy who hacked my girlfriend up and fed her to R while she was still alive?"

The blood seems to drain from his face, coursing through swollen veins down the bones of his wrist.

"Please. Please, Wyatt, please, let's just go."

As Howard came undone, Wyatt stiffened, pulling tighter, the words hitting him like a blow.

Yes, he'd known about Eponine (it was a name he heard everywhere now - this sweet, dear angel he'd so far as he could recall had never met but that everyone loved), but even when Howard had mentioned her, he hadn't brought up the arena, hadn't followed Sigma's hissing, spitting lead.

Hell, Howard had been afraid of her, at the time.

He'd thought it was done. That Howard, at least, was willing to put it behind them, as they all did so many things that transpired in the arena.

"Howard, don't do this. I beg ya, don't."

Don't turn on him too.

Don't make him choose.

"Don't do what?" Howard's words are a sharp hiss. "Don't what, don't be unreasonable about this? Because what, because killing's just killing to people like him and I should just get over what happens in the Games, is that what you're trying to tell me?"

Should he get over the feeling of revulsion that courses in his guts when he thinks of the footage he watched? Get over the nightmares that cling to him like so many demons when he sleeps? Maybe he can just put Aunamee away in the Arena too, like a postcard in a box or a time capsule.

He'd just done this, just lived this moment days ago with Sigma, back in the Tower, the words and Howard's twisted face so similar... but it was still different.

It was worse.

Howard was one of his own, tossing in the towel on him. Someone he would have thought would have given him a chance, would have tried at least.

"It ain't that simple, Howard. Ya can't judge it all the same."

A part of him wondered why he was even trying anymore. Obviously, as with Sigma, judgement had already been reached.

They were all, unto themselves, judge, jury, and executioners.

He could only pretend not to be listening for so long. Though much of the conversation had been in hushed whispers, the rising tone had brought the end of it through the fragile poncho shelter. And he could guess at the rest.

He let out a breath and pulled the potatoes away from the fire so they wouldn't burn before pulling himself back out of the shelter.

Slowly, he wiped his hands against each other, the dirt settling into the creases of his palm. His leg creaked as he stood up straight.

"Is there a problem?" He asked, almost rhetorically.

"No? Why not? Because it sounds like you aren't judging at all-" Howard stops as Max emerges from the shelter. He straightens as if his whole spine is clicking into alignment, and takes a step back to make a void of space between him and Wyatt. In the process, he slips away from Wyatt's once-warm grip.

There's a beat. A cry, somewhere out in the darkness, human or animal, who knows.

"No. There's no problem. I think it's pretty clear when I'm not wanted somewhere."

"Howard, it ain't like that. There's always a place for you, always has been."

Wyatt's hand hung there, as if hoping the boy would come back, but the moment stretched and as it became clear that wasn't going to be the case, it sank, along with his heart. Face draining like the light from the sky.

"Stay, son, we'll talk about it, I'll try an' explain...."

"I think, perhaps, I should grant the two of you some space," Maximus said, his face unreadable and his voice like strikes of flint.

His knife was already in his belt but he leaned into the shelter to grab the bow and quiver, slinging both over a shoulder and grabbing his potato. He left the other two by the fire.

"I'll keep lookout. You can call if you need me," He added, glancing at Wyatt, but he didn't wait for permission - already heading off in the direction opposite to Howard.

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