Maybe I'll Get Drunk Again [Felix & Hospy]

[Raeoki]

Freedom. Hospes could see its beautiful figure silhouetted in the horizon, smiling down at him, beckoning him to come to it, as lovers come together after years apart. However, Hospes could not go to it – not completely. The tributes were gone; their tormenting claws had been ripped from his back, but he was still fettered to them by responsibility and career. As an escort, it was his duty to rope in sponsors for the little brats; as a person, Hospes was too dutiful to ever forget this, though he wished to. He wished he could just sit down at home and watch the two snips die, enjoying what little freedom the government of Panem allowed its citizens, but Hospes would feel wretched and miserable if he did that. As he was their escort, Hospes owed it to Babydoll and Jet to entice as many sponsors as possible while they were alive. He had to. It was his duty. And now that the diabolical duo were finally in the arena, he now had both the morning and the evening to go around bars and drink with the sponsors, complimenting and commenting on a pair of idiotic kids that he felt no love for; no hope for.

Perhaps it wasn’t so bad, however; Hospes didn’t mind drinking. The numbing sensation that came with drinking alcohol always brought Hospes some unease at first, but after a few moments, Hospes would find that he was glad for it. His memories and mind became blank for that instant; he forgot the horrid, terrible world around him, and then, if he continued to drink – sleep would come. Sleep. He loved sleep. Ever since Abel died, Hospes knew that he had never gotten enough of it. Sleep - such a sweet thing. Sleep was good to him; not once in his life had he ever had a nightmare. Not once. It was when he was awake did the world and his thoughts rack him; never in sleep. And alcohol always brought sleep to him, whenever he decided to bring the bottle to his lips.

However, Hospes was not much of an alcoholic. He hated awakening from a drunken stupor; the migraine that pained him and stopped him from wanting to do anything (including existing), and the memories that awakening would bring him. Strangely enough, it was always as he was recovering from a hang-over that Hospes could easily and vividly bring forth a memory – any memory – to his mind. And it was always the cruel memories that Hospes remembered, never the fond ones: his last dance at high school, where the object of his affections at that time had asked him to dance with her, but he had been too bashful around the feminine sex at that point in his life, and declined her offer in a bout of stutters - and then spent the rest of the dance watching her twirl and whip herself around and laugh at some other boy’s jokes (to this day, he wonders with a pained expression how different his life would be if he had danced with her); his first day at middle school, where a larger boy had pinned him to a table at the cafeteria, and Hospes kept crying out, flailing under the boy’s weight, but the boy refused to remove himself from atop of Hospes, and nobody came to his aid; his parents announcing their divorce, and the arguments and domestic battles that had preceded the unholy separation; his baby brother’s broken body at the bottom of a staircase, a pool of blood forming round him.

During the Games, Hospes reminded himself constantly to not go and drink too much, to avoid the cruel recollections. It was hard, though, especially at this point of time; sponsors had a habit of congregating at bars, and thus Hospes usually found himself in the midst of liquor and other alcoholic beverages; and as this was the case, the sponsors expected Hospes to drink, and to drink as much as possible. Hospes couldn’t refuse them; even if he tried, they’d go on ahead and buy him a bottle of wine, just for him. It was quite annoying, but Hospes knew he had to accept it; they’d think him rude and lose interest in District 8 if he didn’t. Hospes couldn’t let that happen. He refused to let his district fail upon his account.

That present evening, Hospes found himself at the doorway of a rather large, swanky bar that prided itself in crystal chandeliers and furniture that was supposedly based off of the long-past Victorian era. Hospes passed through the large, mahogany doors swiftly, weaving his way around tables and chairs hurriedly. The sponsors never sat at tables; it was the bar they went to, almost instinctively, and after six years of escorting tributes and victors, Hospes found that he went to the actual bar of a barroom in the same unthinking manner – during the Games and outside the Games. He didn’t fight the urge; there wasn’t any point to. In Panem, there were times when one had to realize that fighting was pointless; that no matter what was on the line, throwing oneself prostrate on the ground before a higher power was the safest way to go. The districts realized that twenty-seven years ago.

But perhaps I’m being a bit too philosophical, Hospes thought as he reached the bar. He tended to overthink things, when he was tired; and ever since sunset, a sense of weariness had befallen him, making his shoulders sag slightly, and a grayish film to coat his normally bright and quick eyes. He paused, to look around himself. All of the seats at the bar had been taken; Hospes pressed his lips together in silent frustration and disappointment, for he had been rather looking forward to sitting down and rest. His mouth twisted into a small scowl, and he begrudgingly leaned against the bar, setting one of his stick-like arms atop it.

It didn’t take long for the bartender – a chubby, balding man in his forties – to notice him. His eyes swam over in Hospes’s direction, and the escort waved at him a little, to confirm that he was in need of the bartender’s assistance. The bartender nodded, and waddled over to him obediently. “A glass of scotch, please.” Almost mechanically, the bartender nodded again. Hospes watched him toddle off, noticing how leisurely the bartender’s pace was.

Hospes turned his head away from the fat bartender, and looked around himself, his drowsy eyes rolling slowly and lazily around in their sockets as he sought for a familiar face; for it was always old sponsors that Hospes often searched for first, as they were the most reliable and the most generous.

(ooc: Hmm...Hospy is sorta subdued tonight. Sorry; this post kinda sucks. DDDx And it's not as long as I'd like. Again, sorry. x( I'm...sorta tired. D: )

[Deleted]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, padding-top:0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-right: 10px; padding-left: 10px; border-radius: 15px 0px 15px 0px; border: 5px solid #7B86E2; width: 600px; height: 400px; background-image:url(http://fotos.fotoflexer.com/68d724d63e627eacdb9e8d588f61510e.jpg) ] "Another shot please.." The barely audiable whisper squeaked from the victor in the back corner of the bar. You could tell by the dead merciful look in his eyes he had been drinking- more then he should. His dark brown orbs were so clouded and mysterious as they looked up to you in a mistified wonder. What went through his head was unidentified to anyone in the Capitol - or anyone for that matter. Not even the lover in which had been entered in the games only a matter of weeks ago, about the time he started drinking from the deadly glass with a high potiency of forgetten memories and simple mistakes. His head leaned back as his hand reached for the small clear liquid, rushing down his throat. That sour bitter taste that made you want to shake out like a horse helped him for reason only he himself could explain. Maybe it was the fact he was in another world, one of fantasy and full of his dreams. It was like the world he had pictured in his head o'so many times would come true. He'd feel that same memory rush through his head- the one of him and Gabby in the forest. They had been walking down the steep mountainous landscape when he caught her and pulled her into a kiss. The taste of strawberry lingering on his tastebuds in one simple sensations. This was obviously another thing his childish coping mechanisms couldn't understand. The world wasn't his playground. It was his battle ground. Things couldn't always make him happy or pleasurful like that night with Ryfenn. It was something different you had to face on your own in way only you could explain by living in this world. A world where crime was seen daily and whipping was a means of punishment. A time the world came unbalanced. When sinners took over the good and the lights were out- only figuratively of course. Another tip to the head and another lonely night in the bar. A time of thinking and forgetting. Nothing made sense anymore. 12 empty shot glasses lay in front of him as he laid his face into his elbows to feel safe. This would have been one of those times he was in her arms. That was the most protective place in which could make him feel like the world wasn't pecking at his neck, hounding him like dogs. When the camera lights flashed and he didn't care what he looked like or if that bright blonde hair stuck up. He would just sit there for hours looking up at her and smiling like an idiot. Yep. Another sour tasting drink. A loud laughter from the happy drunks in the middle of the large spaced room. Something Felix hated to hear when he came to the bar. They came here to enjoy themselves while he came to be bitter like his drink. His squeezed his eyes shut and leaned against the counter wall beside him once lifting his head from the dark wooden table. To his left was a male and to his right, no one. Just as he expected. No one to comfort anyone in our screwed up world. Felix quietly thought to himself before ordering one last drink. "Tonight's the night." Felix Hades District Eleven Victor & Mentor Tagged: Hospy xD • Words: 546 • Clothes: White and black plaid shirt jeans ripped with one leg part cut off

[Raeoki]

Strangely enough, Hospes didn’t notice the victor sitting beside him immediately. His eyes passed over Felix’s face, his mind processing Felix as just an ordinary young drunk, before he turned his head to examine the other faces of the bar. Hospes didn’t recognize any one of them; a slightly unnerving thing, for if Hospes wished to do his job, he’d have to go up and speak to a new bunch of sponsors he had never met before – quite a hazardous task, for one whose social skills were as rusted as Hospes’s. For you see, it was always the first impression that the sponsors went off of when speaking with escort; if the escort couldn’t even introduce himself properly, then obviously, the tributes from the district he was escorting must be faulty and weak. Hospes scowled. Oh, yes – absolutely PERFECT sense! he thought, gnashing his teeth a little.

The irritation in his countenance was swiftly drained, and weariness returned. He sucked in a deep breath through his mouth, and released it in a small sigh. “Oi,” Hospes murmured to himself, as he lifted the elbow of his other arm onto the table, and rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. Hospes lowered his hand away from his eyes, and let it flop on the table. He dipped his head, allowing himself to succumb to his drowsiness for a moment. He closed his eyes; his muscles relaxed, and if he had been sitting down, his entire body would have – by instinct – stretched itself out and become entirely limp, as a cat’s does when it suns itself. However, a portion of his mind reminded his body that he was standing, and it kept itself from going completely listless, which would have resulted in him either flopping onto the bar or collapsing to the floor.

Hospes hadn’t a clue as to why he was so weary. Perhaps it was all those scuffles he had had with Babydoll, Jet, and (though not as predominantly as the first two) Zachariah. During prep week, he had either found himself in a fit of rage or in a giddy bout of triumph and joy; not once had he found a chance to rest; a chance to close his eyes and forget. Hospes had gotten used to it over the years – that constant busyness of the body and of the emotions during a prep week – but still it taxed him; this year’s prep week, especially. After dealing with pompous, abusive tributes for a whole week, the life and vigor had been simply sapped out of him (but at least he could take solace in the fact that he could now watch them kill each other on national television). Hospes’s head sunk lower. Perhaps – perhaps I deserve a rest…

“Another shot please.."

If the whisper’s owner hadn’t been sitting directly beside Hospes, the escort might have never noticed it. At first, Hospes didn’t pay it any heed; he kept his head lowered and his eyes closed. However, it slowly occurred to his tired mind that the voice of the whisperer was vaguely familiar, somehow; he couldn’t quite remember why that was the case in his tired state, and for curiosity’s sake alone, he opened his eyes slowly and turned his head to the side. Hospes found himself looking at the young drunk he had noticed earlier; he furrowed his brow, and lifted his head up completely. Hospes squinted at him and stretched his head a tad closer to the young drunk’s, to examine him and see if he hadn’t met the drunk in some earlier point of time. The realization came to him slowly but surely, like a puzzle being completed: he was looking at Felix Hades, victor of District Eleven.

Hospes arched his eyebrows, and leaned back, his mind a little more awake than before. He was slightly surprised to find that he had only now noticed that he was in the presence of a victor; but, after a moment of thought and examination, his surprise began to fade. The young victor looked more subdued than he had the last time Hospes could remember seeing him; it hadn’t helped that there were twelve shot glasses set before him, the reasons why Hospes had immediately assumed Felix to be a drunk, and nothing more.

Unlike most victors, whom Hospes often times felt a deep disliking and absolutely no appreciation for, Hospes found within him a small sense of respect for Felix Hades. It had arisen from him during the District 11 reaping, while watching Felix’s futile attempt to rescue Gabrielle Ansel (his beloved, as well as his female tribute). Hospes knew it was a foolish and fallible move the moment he saw it, but still, he couldn’t help but respect Felix Hades – and, in some ways, empathize with the younger male. It must have been Hell, having to prep and train one’s own love for a pageant of death; and now that Gabrielle’s leg had been chopped off, the fires of Felix’s Hell must have surely become hotter. Hospes doubted that he would manage for long, sitting on the sidelines, forced to watch his lovely mate be maimed and slowly die in the throes of agony; especially after the death of Abel had so racked his mind and emotions.

That must be why he’s so… Hospes glanced at the twelve empty shot glasses. Thirsty. Admittedly, he wasn’t sure whether to condemn Felix for his drinking, or to simply ignore it. If Felix was drinking out of grief Gabrielle and not for the sake of alcoholism solely, then Hospes could sympathize with him; however, Hospes found that his heart had started to harden in indignation for Gabrielle. After all, if Felix truly loved her, then why didn’t he go around and take the opportunity to entice sponsors for her, instead of burying his anguish in liquor? Hospes knitted his brow, a scowl forming on his face again, and he looked up at Felix once more. He twisted his mouth around thoughtfully and with an air of slight irritation.

His eyes roamed down to the glasses, and then darted back to Felix’s face. Hospes lifted himself from atop the bar, keeping one hand on its counter, and looked down at Felix, his body now growing stiff. A look of decisiveness fell over his countenance, and he piped up, his voice polite: “Felix Hades?” At that moment, the bartender waddled up, Hospes’s drink in his hand fat hand; the escort paused to watch him set the glass next to Hospes’s hand, and then toddle off. He turned back to Felix, and continued, “I would just like to express my sympathies for you and Miss Ansel, and that I’m sure that those other children who are with her have enough sense to keep her alive for a little while longer.”

Hospes paused again. It occurred to him that he ought to ask if he could buy Felix a drink; after all, he had already bought himself twelve, with a thirteenth arriving shortly. Certainly the victor didn’t need any liquor from Hospes? The escort pressed his lips together. Somehow, it didn’t feel right, mentioning a man’s legless love and not offering him a drink. However, what were the chances that Felix was merely wasting his time, drinking away his woes while he could be searching for potential sponsors for Gabrielle? If that was the case, then wouldn’t Hospes be aiding Felix in completely forgetting about his love, when he should be assisting her? Hospes scowled; he dipped his head in thought, and then turned his head up, his red eyes now having hardened as he looked at Felix again. “Care if I bought you a drink, Mister Hades? Or – or are you busy finding sponsors for Miss Ansel?”

(ooc: Uuugh. Another horrid post. Dx Sorry! Ugh, I really need to get to bed...I wasn't able to proofread this completely. Sorry. DDDDx )

[Deleted]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, padding-top:0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-right: 10px; padding-left: 10px; border-radius: 15px 0px 15px 0px; border: 5px solid #7B86E2; width: 600px; height: 400px; background-image:url(http://fotos.fotoflexer.com/68d724d63e627eacdb9e8d588f61510e.jpg) ] His face was bare and emotionless, eyes dark as the night, and his disfigured body looked over to the speaking voice beside him, his bright blond hair the only thing to stand about the victor. As be spoke you could by his bitter tone that he didn't feel like being messed with. "I don't give a damn about your sympathies. I've lost her and it's as simple as that," His eyes jolted from Hospy's quickly and up at the round bartender who handed him a shot to which he quickly chugged. The cool liquid burned at his throat as it ran down it, wanting to smile even in his depressive drunk mood. "And honestly- I don't see how anyone has any respect for me whatsoever. I fucken slept with another woman the other day and she's preggo. I have no respect for so why shoul-" A large man with a beer bottle in his hand laughs, catching another in mid-arm, knocking Felix into the wall. Quietly Felix groans to himself and grits his teether in pain. "Well shit.. That hurts..." His eyes close and he leans back onto the wall to which you can see the disformed figue of his shoulder, broken and useless. His lips press together and squeezes his eyes shut, trying to block the horrible pain that spread through his whole right shoulder. He had gotten in an accident that he wouldnt discuss- ever again. Hopefully with time it would heal even though he had refused to get medical treatment from anyone. "Please ignore my shoulder it-" The happy go lucky drunk pushed him into the wall again and he cringes. You can tell by the snake-like look in his eyes he is pissed but he ignores it, looking to the bartender who has gotten him another shot which he chugs. "Just know it hurts like hell..." Felix Hades District Eleven Victor & Mentor Tagged: Hospy xD • Words: 546 • Clothes: White and black plaid shirt jeans ripped with one leg part cut off

[Raeoki]

(ooc: I'd just like to apologise for not replying to you the other night. DDDx I know how much you were looking forward to it, so I feel really bad for not replying sooner. Sorry!!!! x( )

BIC: Capitolites are stupid creatures – Hospes knew this fact all too well. They glorified everything that was useless for the sake of vanity, selfishness, and fear. Fear being the glorification of the government, in which they were all too well aware that if they rebelled or even dared to disagree with the government, then they would be sorely punished (perhaps even more so than the districts were, after the Dark Days), and all of the things that the government gave to them (which was actually really everything that any person needed to survive – for the government took great care of their Capitolites - but this also included luxuries and cosmetics) would be swiftly snatched from the common Capitolites’ grasp (in some ways the fear-induced glorification of the government could also be accounted for selfishness).

Then there were the things Capitolites enjoyed lionizing for their own selfish gain; the main one being the Hunger Games. Now, Hospes was not completely against the Hunger Games, but neither did he support it; he saw it more as just another part of life than anything else. However, there was one thing that Hospes despised: having to watch a twelve-year-old go into the Games and be slaughtered. That was the one rule that Hospes despised; how young the tributes could be. He could be completely stoic if they showed an eighteen-year-old being disemboweled; however, if the camera immediately panned over to reveal the maiming and torture of a twelve or thirteen year old, then Hospes would immediately cringe and wince, and – on some occasions – would go to another room, if the scene became too gory and the child’s screams too horrifying. But how did the other Capitolites respond, as they watched one so young be slain? Hospes knew the answer, for he had seen it himself last night, when Selkie Juniper was killed in the Bloodbath (he had been enticing sponsors at the time, and was at a bar that showed the Hunger Games on a pair of rather large television screens). When the others had realized that she was dead, they hadn’t cared – they held no sympathy within them too care; they merely shrugged their shoulders, and then grinned a little, as the Bloodbath had almost immediately began to pick up pace, once Selkie’s fate had been sealed. They were too selfish to care, whether or not a sweet-looking, twelve-year-old girl died. All they wanted was entertainment; nothing more.

And as for vanity – vanity was obvious. Not one day went by that Hospes didn’t notice a self-mutilated soul wandering around, made ugly by the very marks that had been brought on for beauty.

There were other sorts of glorifications, as well. Capitolites also suffered from the perpetual instinct to turn victors into holy deities; even more so, if a certain victor has a tendency to sleep around. Hospes wasn’t certain what compelled Capitolites to behave like this; if asked, his immediate response would be “Overall stupidity”, but he wasn’t quite certain on this theory. He was certain, however, that the very act of glorifying victors was an idiotic deed. He’d seen their Games, noting every mistake, every sin, and every human error they made. They weren’t perfect. In fact, most of them were ass-holes: Zachariah Daniels being an example of this truth; either that, or depressed, self-pitying fools who did nothing but slowly kill themselves with drugs and alcohol. And with this knowledge, Hospes had very swiftly learned to despise victors. Victors were disgusting. Victors were detestable. Victors were fools.

The moment Felix spoke, Hospes hated himself for feeling an ounce of respect for him. He rebuked himself harshly, comparing himself to the rest of the oafish Capitolites who so lionized victors. Felix Hades was obviously one that was not meant to be respected; right after Hospes had been so polite and respectable enough to offer him a drink, he became vulgar, rude, and ungrateful. Hospes stiffened, indignant and infuriated; his eyes, once so soft and kind, were now embittered, dark, and hateful. The moment I try to show a man respect and kindness…he…how dare he…That ingrate. That lowlife. But what was I expecting? What the Hell was I expecting? He should have known that Felix would react in such a way; humans were natural ingrates, and once one gained the epithet of “victor”, the instinctive ungratefulness and coarseness of humanity became redoubled.

Felix then continued, "And honestly- I don't see how anyone has any respect for me whatsoever. I fucken slept with another woman the other day and she's preggo. I have no respect for so why shoul-"

A rather large, very drunk man then, in his drunken glee, accidentally shoved Felix into the wall beside him. Hospes barely paid attention; fury, indignation, and cynicism had gripped him, making him more-or-less unaware of what was going on around him. That boy…that stupid, terrible, vice-filled, lecherous little boy… His entire body was cold and stiff; his eyes had widened and had become harsh with anger. DAMN the world! Damn humanity! We are traitors, and nothing more.

To think, Hospes had respected Felix for loving Gabrielle Ansel, as he had supposedly revealed to Panem when he had tried to rescue her from the Games – but that must have all been for the cameras; to give the Capitol a show, and make the Capitolites weep mournfully (and how the Capitolites loved to weep!) as they saw the tragic, Romeo and Juliet-esque story start to unfold before them. It was all for nothing, however. Felix Hades was a traitor; he didn’t care how Gabrielle Ansel would feel, if she should return and find that her lover had slept with another girl; he wasn’t even going to help her survive. He had already admitted that she was lost; Hell, he had even spoke of her in the past-tense! Felix Hades, in truth, cared nothing for Gabrielle. And to think, that I was going to buy that little bastard a drink.

As Hospes thought this, his attentiveness for his surroundings became sharper. He blinked at Felix, quickly spotting the distorted, mangled, broken shoulder. Hospes’s eyes brightened slightly, intrigue being added to his cocktail of emotions. Now what has happened to him? That couldn’t have been made during Felix’s Games; the Capitol would have surely healed it otherwise. An unfortunate event back at home, perhaps?

Hospes figured that Felix must have noticed that he had been looking at it, for Felix then proceeded to comment on it. "Please ignore my shoulder it-" – the drunk shoved him into the wall; Hospes couldn’t help but smirk in sadistic delight as he saw the irritation in the victor’s eyes – "Just know it hurts like hell..."

“I’m glad to hear that,” Hospes replied immediately, without thinking. It was the truth, however; Felix was now a demon-like thing in Hospes’s eyes, and the sadistic part of his personality liked to reveal itself when he was in the presence of terrible, vile, wretched, despicable, traitorous people like Felix. At least he’s admitted that he’s not a rather respectable person, Hospes thought, but the realization wasn’t enough to quell his vehement rage. The very thought of poor Gabrielle Ansel – legless, hapless, and pitiful in the eyes of any empathetic person – being betrayed and disgraced by this cruel boy was too terrible for Hospes to simply push away and ignore.

And to think, here Felix was drinking away the worries and anxieties of being the father of some little whore (He’s probably afraid that she’ll blackmail him into marrying her, Hospes reasoned), while poor Gabrielle Ansel was hobbling through the arena, with nothing but her remaining leg and some buck-toothed and brainless wallflower to aid in her survival. Hospes pulled his lips back slightly into a small snarl, his eyes dark with distaste. “So what are you going to do now, Mister Hades?” he asked, his voice slow and cold. “Let the poor girl die practically alone (because honestly, I don’t consider that pale-faced beaver great company) so you can make your new, delusional, pregnant bawd happy, or are you actually going to be a man and try to help her?”