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Capitol life is not as entertaining as one would like to think, really, it's not. When you strip away the inherent hedonism that intertwines itself into their lives and pull it far away from your own vision of it all, everything loses its color, almost metaphorically speaking.
Sometimes he even wonders why he's still there, alive.
Whatever.
Nights pass in his room, he has stopped going out long ago and soon his drawing table has ceased to be used for drawing and only to hold a pile of dirty dishes that accumulated every week. If it weren't for those Avox that came into his room every Monday at seven, it would possibly be rotting, decaying like every damn half-eaten abandoned dish that's there.
Whatever, he supposes it would make no difference in decomposing as well.
Again, the food tastes like nothing but tasteless pasta to him and his wine looks like water with a disgusting taste, he doesn't know what to do anymore. Every day since his fifteenth birthday has become frighteningly the same as the next and that has only been one of the many things he hated about staying alive.
He hasn't stopped looking at the painting in front of him either, he keeps count of all the times his eyes have rested on the half-painted canvas since he left it abandoned.
It is fifty-three.
Everything is monotonous, everything is the same, there is nothing new to see or experience, there is nothing better to do.
But it's Monday at seven o'clock and as usual, an Avox knocks on his door gently, as if afraid. Warlock sets his plate of food aside, thinking about whether he should give himself the task of opening the door for that poor bastard.
...
Fifty-four.
Maybe he should burn it, or something, let it burn to ashes.
It would be less humiliating.
He gets up from the bed he was lying on, the sheets stick to his body, he feels disgusting, he can't remember the last time he took a bath. He doesn't even have makeup on his face, he doesn't have the energy for it. He supposes the Avox doesn't care, he shouldn't, they'd probably cut out his tongue again if they hadn't already mutilated it before.
Warlock thinks he's miserable, but he can't find the strength to care.
The door creaks, maybe it's his imagination, or he really needs to have the hinges replaced. Either way, the Avox passes tiny inside, in that way that people who want to disappear do, along with a cleaning cart. Warlock sighs, leaving the room, only to let him do whatever he wants with the dishes and sheets that smell of sweat.
He's barefoot, vaguely remembering that when he stops feeling the carpet under his feet and instead finds cold ceramic. It doesn't bother him, maybe it should, but it doesn't. He doesn't know why he doesn't, it's frustrating if he thinks about it too much.
He can't complain either.
Who would he do it with, anyway? He's alone, and that's just a reminder of how boring his life is. He sighs again, before plopping down on what is the newly groomed couch, grabbing a blanket that was folded up and wrapping himself in it.
A while ago, watching the Hunger Games was like a great relief to him, mentally and artistically, he could draw, paint, do a lot of things, and maybe he still did, but mechanically and soullessly, it was the logical thing to do, right? But now, there's just not something that brings him relief from watching the current games, he supposes it's the same use of the formula that trapped everyone, everyone but him.
Unpleasant.
Lazy, he just uses the TV remote, pressing the buttons every now and then to keep watching, nothing interesting. The hunger games used to be the most exciting thing to happen to the capitol, carnage, blood, heads rolling and dismemberment. What is more passionate than brutality?
For him, it's not enough.
The minutes tick by, his fingers play with control as he ventures into past recordings. Certainly, the lack of excitement in the lives of Capitol denizens made streaming companies so popular, supplanting past recordings, interesting commentary and casts around games that were recorded online forever.
He thinks it's ridiculous, ever since he became conscious enough to be able to watch games on his own, they all follow the same pattern, they're all the same garbage.
So he does the dumbest, or maybe the smartest thing in his whole damn short life.
He tunes in the channels, before breaking into a random recording: two years since he was born, just on a sunny, hot July morning. He can't brag about remembering it, because he doesn't really remember anything until blurry memories of his teenage years, but truth be told, that's the least of it now.
Bored, he listens to the wheels of the cleaning cart crawl down the hallway once the Avox has left his room, the occasional clink of dishes lost as the poor bastard disappears through the living room door. Warlock barely pays attention to him, very distracted as he curls up on the couch.
The recording date is visible, it's the fourth of July, he advances the recording three times, overlooking the dullness of the twelfth district, the eighth maybe has some flashiness to it, but not for him and the sixth isn't even on his mind.
Eleven isn't either, or even any, but now that he's moved forward three districts, he supposes he can stay in that one.
He wraps himself in his blanket, it feels rough to the touch, possibly just his sensitive skin and finicky mind. The recording rolls on, with the annoying, sing-songy voice with a Capital accent of that flamboyantly dressed man, so strange even to his own eyes. He's stopped going out long ago, he's not as used as the rest to seeing clothes of that style, it's his fault.
"Perhaps, as a culture that has always been at war and violence. But that doesn't mean we should lash out at each other. Think about it! A perfectly controlled environment, and a wonderful prize. It doesn't matter where you come from, how you come, or why you come. You go in a man, and you come out a champion!"
Propagandist trash, but he won't open his mouth, there's no sin in thinking, but beyond that. Warlock just manages to yawn, curling up on the couch, his whole body aches from being in the same position. He feels everything heavy, and the voice of the driver of the eleventh district sounds more lulling than beckoning, he closes his eyes for a moment.
"Of all the districts, there is only one absolute champion. Oh, sure, but to rise as the winner in these games is simply something that totally changes your life as you know it. Here, you find peace after the storm."
As if that existed in the first place.
He opens his eyes lazily as the first name comes out, it's a girl with slightly golden skin, petite, with a warm smile and a straw hat, she nervously looks back. There's nothing memorable about her, at least not to him, beyond looking frighteningly young, Warlock can swear she doesn't even look old enough to be chosen, but he quickly dismisses any thoughts of sympathy for her.
But then, he blinks.
And oh .
The next to come out, he's a strapping young man, not that tall, but he has a moderately developed physique. He looks athletic, wearing a red poncho and a leather hat that covers his hair from the afternoon sun. He doesn't get a clear view of his face, but the way he jovially makes his way to the podium has him mesmerized.
As best he can, he takes control, and repeats the scene. Once, twice, three times. He can't see his face clearly and it frustrates him, but he can let it ruin the experience.
But clearly it does.
Absentmindedly, he has taken control again, fast-forwarding the scenes, bypassing the rest of the districts, at least until he gets to the other day, the parade. Impatient, he fast-forwards the first ten districts, he couldn't care less about them.
Carriage eleven catches his eye as he sees the pair of tributes standing, waving to the crowd with the best smiles they have. And, gosh, Warlock is totally captivated by the young man's smile.
He bypasses the girl's white dress, which only feeds to make her look like some kind of angelic being, and concentrates on the leather outfit of the man next to her. He's tall, he guesses he's in his seventeen, maybe eighteen years, and scrutinizes the sleek black suit he's wearing. It looks tailored, and he doesn't want to think about the poor seamstresses who had to stay up all night making it, it fits him so well. Besides, it looks like both tributes wear homage to the farm life of the eleventh district, the girl's outfit wears a straw hat adorned with white flowers, his, a simple large-brimmed black hat with gold trim.
They don't match, not enough, but the contrast invites a wave of inspiration into your mind. It's beautiful, the perfect asymmetry, the contrast of one and the other, innocence and daring, because... he swears the leather whip cinched around the man's waist has been placed there on purpose.
He looks like a drooling teenager. With distaste, he tries to push the thought out of her mind, he's too old for that.
Fast forward the recording one more time. He doesn't care about his workouts and silly games, he just wants to see him clearly again.
He swallows saliva, his throat feels dry, but he doesn't care enough, water can wait, everything can wait. Although, if he thinks about it rationally, it's not the wisest thing to make his own needs wait, but as always, he pushes it aside.
When he advances the recording to the interviews, is that he can finally see his face, Warlock can not say he is disappointed. Quite the opposite in fact, he is delighted with the fibrous consistency of the tribute's body, especially the angular, weathered way his face is built.
He has crescents of a beard, now carefully groomed and shaved for styling, plus a strong jawline, dark eyes and face paint that reminds him of something otherworldly, for some reason. He is captivating, touching, his heart beats twice in his chest before he lets out the air he was holding in from excitement.
He smiles, he looks tired, his eyes look tired as his leg moves up and down in apparent nervousness, it only makes him look more adorable. Warlock feels a need to care and protect that he's never felt before, it's... poetic.
"So, life in the country was hard?" He barely hears the interviewer's voice, doesn't remember his name, or his face and he genuinely doesn't care.
"Sure, sure, mate." The tribute's voice sounds raspy, a lot for someone his age, he vaguely remembers what he said recently, eighteen, a few months shy of nineteen. "Imagine this, waking up at five o'clock, the sun hasn't even risen, and then sweating it out at work until dark."
The young man shook his head, folding his arms in an almost defensive position, curious.
"There were those pests too, grain-stealing mice, crows attracted to the corn, it's kind of hard to keep them away all day." Between his teeth he moved the ear of corn, maybe it was a suggestion from his stylists, he was bringing another black suit that matched his body well, it was definitely their suggestion. "Mate, I don't wish such a tedious job on anyone, do you understand me?"
Then he leans back on the chair, looking surprisingly comfortable although all his body language gives away that he doesn't really feel that way.
The interviewer talks, he doesn't listen to him, and Warlock stares at the man self-absorbed for the entire span of the interview, enraptured by the way he talks, it doesn't matter, the rest doesn't matter, they can go to hell and never come back, or do it, he couldn't care less.
It's all happening so fast, the excitement is getting the better of him. And he's holding his breath as he loses himself in the recordings. Hours pass, the sun soon sets on the horizon, and after several hours, it rises again. Warlock doesn't move from his spot.
Day one ends, four tributes dead in the bloodbath and his favorite tribute has run in the opposite direction of the cornucopia. It doesn't bother him, he's prudent, and he's thankful he's still alive after so many murders in just the opening.
But the cameras don't focus on him too much, at least not like the live feeds, he finds that so annoying. He loses track of him for at least two hours, before getting a couple of minutes of him, who seems to look lost, no trace of that brave look he had on his face a few minutes before. It's okay, it's okay, no need to force a mask on himself when there's so much to process.
Just watch the time go by.
And watch.
And he loses himself.
And he falls.
By the time he realizes, it's been over a month. By the time he realizes it, he's too weak already to stand up as quickly as before from the couch. He doesn't know how to feel, but now, he's with a goofy smile on his face.
His favorite tribute has won.
And that fills him up in an incredible way, he doesn't know how to feel now, happy, inspired, deep.
Big, small.
He's happy, he's melancholy.
It's spring, the age of rebirth.
It is winter, the time of sadness.
It is autumn, the time of change.
It is summer, the absolute moment.
Shaken, he holds his face in his hands, tears stream down his cheeks. Then, he lets out a laugh, another one, and a laugh. Then, as best he can, he gets up, legs weak, and heads for his room.
It's spotless, he doesn't know when he was last there, he supposes it doesn't matter. His feet drag on the floor, unable to get up properly. Then, he arrives in front of an easel, where he stares at it, before pulling the cloth covering the canvas.
The sketches in blurs still look existing, like a reminder of something; but they no longer feel like a condemnation, they feel like a release.
He picks up the brush that rested unused on his chair.
The young man smiles.
He has work to do.
One thing that is a secret that no one tells, is that oil paint dries like a lifetime, it is slow, but that makes it wonderful. Warlock looks at his works, eight months of simply painting without rest, eight months of liberation and metamorphosis, painful change and relieving passion.
Now, he stops in a room full of paintings, more than ten, thirteen maybe. It doesn't matter, it's just a healthy demonstration of his purest love, isn't it? He refuses to let it be anything else, at least for now.
Anyway, he just knows he has to do something with these.
And he's planned it for so long, at least another two months before, he's moved sea and land for what he wanted, and he knew that only then, would he find the release he so longed for. And today was the day.
Everything was tidy, he had been careful to keep everything neat, the weekly Avox was still gone. So he had to be meticulous with his housekeeping. That doesn't stop him from pacing the place, restless, the elegant steps of his heels echoing against the floor as he repeats over and over the script he has prepared in his mind.
When the door rings, he stops abruptly. And he quickly steps up to answer it, a disgrace perhaps, he doesn't care.
He opens the door wide, seeing two well-groomed, tough-looking, military men, and in the middle, a tall, tanned-looking man with an uneasy look, chewing on an ear of wheat with disguised nervousness.
His heartbeat quickens, it's strange, he hadn't anticipated anything like this. But, it's okay, everything's fine.
"M-morning!" He welcomes. Then, he clears his throat, looking at the men. "Excuse me, you can leave it here, I'll take care of the rest."
The men look at each other, they don't seem confident in their reasoning, and Warlock knows he has to play his cards right, he can't screw up now.
"That's an order." He replies, in the most acidic tone he has, and that does the trick.
Alone now, the boy chews the inside of his cheek, trying to find the right words. But the man gives him a confused look, and he can feel his cheeks heating up.What is this feeling?
"M-mister Ayuso." He begins, the way his voice shakes is embarrassing, his knees feel like jelly. "Um, well, I'm sorry I made you come here unexpectedly."
It wasn't unannounced.
"I just want to say that your performance in your departure was impeccable and I.." He tries to say, but the man, now with a more confused look on his face, cuts his words.
"That was seventeen years ago."
God, that leaves him with his mouth hanging open, but he quickly pulls himself together.
"That doesn't take away from the truth of my words." He denies, and his hand instinctively goes to hold the man's arm. "Mr. Ayuso..."
The man doesn't move away, but gives him another look, not seeming to understand all this.
"Just Kevin, Kevin is fine." He replies. He starts to be irritable, but in the best of ways, his heart beats fast at the hint of that.
"Kevin." He repeats, savoring the name. "Kevin, I want to... show you something."
He's read about something similar, and that feels... strange.
Love at first sight, they call it.
"Please follow me."
But it's ridiculous too, isn't it?
His footsteps echo down the wide corridor of his apartment, as the boy moves forward, his hand still holding the man's arm gently, as if he fears that if he were to let go, it would disappear.
He stops in front of a half-open door, before pushing it open with his free hand, then tugs on Kevin's arm, urging him inside. The man obeys sheepishly, though he looks slightly uncomfortable, he doesn't understand why.
"Woah..." He hears him say, and feels his chest swell with pride.
It's his most prized collection so far, and he thinks he deserves to be told so.
"My hardest work." He introduces him, his hand descending, until he takes the man's gloved hand, intertwines their fingers, and Kevin lets himself do it, it's warm, it makes him happy. "You gave me back what I had lost, every action, every moment, every decision brought me here."
The man stands dumbfounded, looking around, he doesn't withdraw his hand, but feels it tighten a little, squeezing his fingers in a warm way. It warms his heart.
"I hope... you like it." He commented, at last, unsure of the silence that had formed between them. "I was thinking of sending them to you, but I think it would be best for you to choose which ones you would wish to have by your side, to have a part of me as well as you gave me a part of you."
The man looks sideways at him, before laughing, his laughter sounding like a warm breeze, bringing something fresh with it. It is... beautiful.
"Kid, you move me." And the way he says it, it's so strange, but it tugs at the pit of his stomach that he doesn't know how to interpret. "God, I thought it would have just been left to be forgotten as one of the many sixty-six games before."
His hand squeezes his, slipping in a gentle way.
"No, no, I couldn't forget a face like yours, a personality like yours." He comments, suddenly embarrassed at his own voice, at how his cheeks redden. "It was beautiful, it was artistic, inspiring."
Silence.
"It brought me out of the hole of monotony in which this thankless life had locked me." The boy scratched the back of his neck with his free hand. "I had to pay you back somehow."
The man smiles, looking touched, turns away.
"This is... impressive." The wrinkles on his face look attractive, as much as when he wasn't, but now that he sees it, he feels he prefers it that way, tired, experienced, he looks so much better than he did before, and he thought that wasn't going to be possible. "Kid, I'm impressed."
"I'm not a kid." He groans, immediately. "I'm twenty-one."
He shakes his head, not seeming self-conscious about it, then continues.
"I want to give you this, as a gift from me, as a thank you."
The man stands still.
"And I want to keep giving you everything I have." His own eyes sparkle, he looks up, he was never good at looking people in the eye, but this time it's necessary. "Everything, my soul, all of me."
The man hesitates.
"The universe put you in my path, because this tragedy was going to happen." He continued. "Because I want to give you everything, absolutely everything."
Ayuso looks back. It's all a tragedy, because things like this, they never end well.
That's something.
"If someone had told me that a kid from the capitol would have immortalized me in an art hallway, I never would have believed it." He began, with a laugh. "But, I guess things happen and things happen. Now I'm here and, really, I feel like this is all just a pleasant happenstance."
The boy looks at him, feels an uncontrollable desire to throw himself at him, kiss him, touch him.
Anything.
"This is not that." He replies. "And I'll tell you, there are no coincidences in the universe, everything happens for a reason. And something is going to happen because of this."
The boy turns around, facing the man, he looks tired, he wants him to rest, he wants to give him everything, absolutely everything, in such a beautiful way that it hurts.
"Maybe in ten years I won't change that thought, or maybe in fifteen or twenty." He puts his hand on his own chest. "But I'll always be here, waiting, painting. Because it's given me back something I thought I'd lost."
Ayuso smiles.
"That sounds like a promise."
Warlock tightens his grip slightly, lovingly, kindly, his delicate fingers pressed against the leather of those gloves.
"It is."